Chapter Text
T.A. 1350
Glorfindel was an enigma. Erestor, who prided himself in his ability to judge character, found him frighteningly difficult to place. Easy to talk to, always polite, but - somehow - always distant, always a little apart.
It had been so from the day he had come to Lindon. Tall and straight, his hair as an aureole of gold, shining around his lovely face. Erestor remembered that day like it was yesterday. All of Imladris had come to see the Balrog-slayer revived from the dead. It was whispered that he had come back a Maia (he had not, but Erestor sometimes noticed something “other” about him, as if he was not truly an Elf - as if he was something more).
Erestor had hung back a little that day. He had little love for crowds or conversation and a reborn Balrog slayer to his practical mind, hardened by war and strife, constituted merely the confirmation of more trouble. As Gil-galad and Elrond went to welcome him, Erestor gazed at him critically. His worth to Gil-galad lay in his ability to read people as they were, strip them of pretension and lies through careful words and searching gazes that cut through quick. Later, Erestor would interrogate Glorfindel, now he merely looked.
His beauty seemed to shine from inside of him, as if some inner lamp lit the perfect beauty of his features. Erestor had seen Glorfindel only once before, an age past, when he had been a youth in Hithlum, short years before Turgon’s host had migrated to the Hidden City. Striking even then, Glorfindel’s beauty seemed to have been refined by death. Before, his beauty had been the loud and boisterous kind, a thing immediately obvious and very aware, marked by rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, merry smiles, and a voice that laughed even as it spoke. And of course his golden hair, which he had kept free then, immediately marking him among the sable haired, grey eyed Noldor.
Now, his smile was more wistful and gentle rather than merry, and his voice, though still with an undercurrent of joy within it, was serious and sweet. The sparkle in his eyes had been tamed and there was now a great wisdom in them, and with it, a great sorrow. In Glorfindel’s eyes, Erestor would later realize, the tale of his years was written. Only his hair had stayed the same, tumbling golden and defiant down his back.
His raiment was fine, but simple, made in muted colors that somehow yet suited him. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a fine sword, almost hidden by his robe. Although his posture was easy and his voice steady and measured, the hand sometimes trembled a little and fidgeted, as if it was not used to being needed. At the last minute, after Gil-galad welcomed him, Glorfindel glanced up and his eyes met Erestor’s.
Erestor’s heart felt as if it had been pierced and his hand flew up to touch his chest gently, marveling at the wholly alien sensation. For that one long moment, the world narrowed to him and Glorfindel, to those blue eyes which had been so merry, but now held such grief and such wisdom. The moment broke as Gil-galad touched Glorfindel on the arm and led him forward. The crowd moved with him, leaving Erestor alone on the dais, his heart hammering in his chest and blood rushing in his ears.
In later years, Erestor would look back on that moment and marvel at himself at not recognizing what had happened. But then, he chose to deny it and forget, and imagine that he had imagined it. Erestor, cool and steady as he had been all his life, had never liked fire and shied away from it even as he just barely felt its heat. He kept his interactions with Glorfindel professional and polite, as indeed it seemed Glorfindel preferred, besieged as he was with admirers and would-be lovers. But still, Erestor’s eyes often wandered to Glorfindel before he could catch himself.
And so the years slipped by, as easily and relentlessly as water. Gil-galad’s suspicions in Ost-in-Edhil were true and the destruction of that fair city marked the beginning of the open evil that spread through Middle Earth like a disease. Numenor fell and Erestor comforted Elrond, whose grief exacerbated a wound that would never truly heal. The Last Alliance was created and ended with glory and tragedy, for the evil was defeated at the cost of thousands of lives, not least that of the wise and true Elven King who would be the last in Middle Earth.
And through it all, Erestor persisted, though sometimes, he felt as if he would rather die. And through it all, Glorfindel was there, lending his strength and light to whoever came near… and Erestor often found himself near, desperately needing that golden light for succor during the darkest of times, though he never came near enough for Glorfindel to notice. Sometimes, he wondered who succored Glorfindel as the evil encroached and Erestor wondered at how easily Glorfindel gave himself to others, while never asking anything for himself.
In Imladris and the beginning of peace in the Third Age, Erestor could no longer find distractions in strife. He often found himself watching Glorfindel… at his long, tapered fingers that were just as home on a harp as on a knife (once on a blue moon, Glorfindel was persuaded to play long forgotten tunes from the First Age and the entirety of Imladris would listen spellbound)... at his dreamy, shadowy blue eyes that had seen so much and yet preserved their wonder.... Listened to his soft voice with its timbre of strength.
Perhaps then Erestor would have recognized his feelings. But everyone watched Glorfindel and it was counted no strange thing to have one’s breath stolen by him and it was a rare Elf who was not attracted to him. So Erestor ignored his feelings and they settled into an undercurrent that became a part of his being, rarely acknowledged but always present.
Glorfindel himself remained a mystery. Many in Imladris prided themselves on being close friends with the Balrog slayer, but none, Erestor noticed, could even tell without doubt what his favorite color was (it was black and white, Erestor found out one day. He had lived and died in brightness and now took comfort in empty shades). Erestor discovered it one day when a trader from Harad brought fine, foreign fabrics to choose from. Glorfindel’s hand hesitated a little too long over a cloth of deepest black before resignedly moving to one of silky green. The pause lasted less than a second, but Erestor, who noticed everything, did not fail to notice this.
Erestor spoke but little to him, for words had never been his strength and it was only rarely that they met outside of work hours, for their lives and friends were different. Erestor was of the quiet of the libraries and conversations over dinner and sweet wine, and the smell of parchment and old books. Glorfindel was of the heat of the battle, the camaraderie of brothers in arms, the sheen of frost-bright steel, the bitter beer and hard mortal liquors of soldiers. (Although, Erestor had to notice, Glorfindel was never truly at ease in these situations, though he partook of them willingly).
It was long indeed before they would meet as anything other than colleagues, and strangely enough, it was Glorfindel who changed their interaction.
For years, Erestor had been aware of some encroaching evil after a long millennium of peace. But now that evil had been given a name and a face in the form of the Witch King of Angmar. Angmar had become a cruel and strange place, built as it was on the ruins of a Numenorean kingdom. The ghosts of the past infiltrated it and mixed with the evil of the present. It was whispered that twisted creatures and demons lived within its crumbling walls and black sorcery infused the air. The only men that lived in Angmar were deformed and monstrous… save its King.
It was with this in mind that Elrond called a private council with his two most trusted advisors. His eyes were troubled as he gazed at the window, to the East where Angmar stood. “You know why I have called you here then?” he murmured, letting his gaze drift back to where Glorfindel and Erestor sat, Erestor with his back ramrod straight and looking intently at Elrond, Glorfindel slouching a little with his eyes half closed and his head cocked.
“Angmar,” Erestor said softly.
Elrond moved away from the window and shut the curtains. His face was shadowed when he looked back at them and his face was weary and lined with echoes of long suppressed grief. His hand moved to touch his Ring, as if to draw strength from it. This troubled Erestor for he had little trust in magic and less with that touched by the sorcery of Sauron.
“Its power grows by the day,” Elrond said. “The Witch-King’s sorcery already blights the land around it and the last messengers from Arthedain bring word that beasts flee from Angmar’s plains. I can no longer ignore it, for even now, I feel its eye turning to the remnants of Arnor… perhaps even to Rivendell.”
“The strike may come afore even we suspect,” Glorfindel said suddenly, his eyes distant. “The Witch-King has lived - and hated - for long and his arm grows mighty.”
Elrond’s face was drained of color, but he his voice did not waver. “It is a hard thing that I must ask you to do, my dear dear friends. There are few Elves and fewer Men who can stand against the evil pervading that realm and danger haunts every footstep. You are free to refuse this task, for only a madman would do it willingly.”
“Then we are madmen, Elrond, for we would follow you unto death,” Erestor said, though a frisson of fear moved down his spine.
Elrond closed his eyes as if in pain. “Then I would ask you to go to Angmar secretly and probe its secrets, for we know little to nothing of it and danger looms nearer by the day. I do not dare send others.”
Erestor stared unseeingly at the wall for a long moment, traced the fine woodwork with his eyes. He had expected this, but was still unprepared for what he would face.
“I shall go,” Glorfindel said, voice soft but strong. “I should be honored if Master Erestor would accompany me, though I understand if I must go alone.”
This snapped Erestor out of his daze. “Certainly I will go,” he said, sharper than he intended. “It is my duty, both to Middle Earth and to you, my Lord.”
Elrond passed his hand over his face, grey with worry and exhaustion and nodded.