Author's Note

This story is slightly AU because when I wrote it, I didn't realize that Glorfindel was supposed to have arrived before Rivendell was founded. At the time of this story, Erestor is one of the younger, lower-ranked advisors.

My language source (other than Tolkien) is realelvish . net. In this story, Vanyarin Quenya (the version spoken before the Exile) is not widely spoken in Middle-earth. Translations are at the end of the story. (V. Q. is Vanyarin Quenya; E. S. is Exilic Sindarin)

Herenya: *clears throat* Once upon a time...

Erestor: Hey, you forgot about the disclaimer.

Glorfindel: Does she really need one? It's pretty obvious that she isn't Tolkien...

Erestor: I wouldn't have interrupted if she didn't need a disclaimer.

Herenya: Alright, alright. I'm not Tolkien and I don't own his stuff. Will that do?

Erestor: Yes; thank you.

Glorfindel: On with the story!

The Book Incident

Glorfindel strode confidently down the corridor, in spite of the fact that he was completely lost. Elrond's home deserved its title of the Last Homely House – it was impossible to be here and not feel relaxed and welcome – but many of its elegantly decorated hallways appeared identical, to someone who had only recently arrived. Yesterday had been so completely packed with introductions and impromptu celebrations that Glorfindel hadn't had a chance to pay much attention to his surroundings. He peeked inside a random room and saw a cluttered desk next to a tall cabinet containing books and papers. An office… he was probably on the right track. He was looking for Elrond's office. The next two rooms were similarly unoccupied, but down at the end Glorfindel saw a door standing ajar. He nudged it open, heard the sound of a quill scratching on paper, and stepped inside.

This tiny room contained more books and scrolls than Glorfindel had ever seen outside of a library. The walls in front of him and to his left were almost completely covered by two large bookcases, both filled to overflowing. Additional books were stacked on the floor, carefully placed next to walls or furniture where they wouldn't be stepped on. Aside from the stacks of books, the room was almost painfully neat. A fire burned in the stone fireplace in the wall to his right; the lone armchair next to it looked comfortable enough to sleep in but took up most of the room's floor space. Beyond the fireplace was a narrow door which probably led to a storage closet. Immediately to Glorfindel's left, a polished wooden desk stood angled so its occupant was facing the room's entrance.

The dark-haired elf working at the desk showed no indication that he had heard Glorfindel enter. After a few moments of waiting, Glorfindel cleared his throat awkwardly. Still no reaction. "Um… I'm sorry to disturb you…" The elf didn't look up or stop writing, but he gave a quiet, noncommittal grunt which Glorfindel took as a good sign. "I was wondering if you could direct me to Lord Elrond's office. I'm supposed to meet him there… you probably heard, but I just arrived yesterday… anyway, we need to discuss my role in Imladris."

"Just a second," the elf murmured distractedly, continuing to write. He chewed absently at his lower lip as he hunched over his work; from his careful, precise lettering, Glorfindel guessed it was the final version of something important. He stepped forward and leaned over the desk for a closer look.

The writing wasn't Sindarin, but it looked oddly familiar. Glorfindel gasped and thrust his hand out, pointing at the paper. "That's –"

Glorfindel happened to gesture precisely when the dark-haired elf moved to dip his pen in ink. Their hands collided, overturning the inkpot, and a puddle of black ink spilled onto a tall stack of meticulously written pages. The writer's mouth dropped open; his horrified expression would have been funny if not for the huge amount of painstaking work Glorfindel had inadvertently ruined. Glorfindel lunged for the stack, hoping to rescue at least some of the sheets from the spilled ink, but once again they both moved at the wrong moment and knocked the whole stack of papers to the floor.

Something hard and flat struck Glorfindel across the side of his face. The dark-haired elf was standing, leaning toward him over the desk, eyes blazing with fury and a thick, heavy book held threateningly in his hands. "Do. Not. Touch. Anything. Else."

"I'm so sorry." Glorfindel stepped back and made a nonthreatening gesture, palms out. This was not how he'd wanted to introduce himself to the elves of Imladris. "But why were the finished pages stacked next to the ink? It seems like it would make more sense to keep them someplace safer…"

It was the wrong thing to say. Glorfindel realized it almost before the words were out of his mouth. The writer's expression had begun to show a hint of uncertainty as he seemed to realize he had just attacked a random stranger with a book, but now it hardened into pure rage. "Are you suggesting this was my fault?" His voice rose. "The pages were perfectly safe until you came blundering in here and destroyed them!"

"Look… I know Vanyarin Quenya, and I have decent handwriting." Glorfindel shrugged apologetically. "Maybe I could help you redo them."

The dark-haired elf seemed to regain control of his rage, and stood glaring at Glorfindel coldly. "If you want to help, then leave."

"Are you sure there isn't –"

He tilted his head meaningfully toward the door.

"Right." Glorfindel started to leave. He hesitated at the doorway, and opened his mouth as if to speak.

The elf's expression was unreadable.

Glorfindel sighed and walked away.

Erestor flopped back in his seat and dragged a hand roughly through his hair. That had been Glorfindel – the Glorfindel, the First Age hero of Gondolin. As far as Erestor knew, Glorfindel was one of only two elves ever to have slain a Balrog. He had grown up speaking Vanyarin Quenya, the language Erestor had spent years trying to decipher based on ancient scholarly writings. The Valar themselves had sent Glorfindel back to Middle-earth to help maintain Imladris as a bastion against evil. "In my defense," Erestor mumbled to the empty room, "I didn't realize who you were until after…" He groaned and smacked his forehead with the heels of his hands. He was such an idiot. At least Glorfindel was a warrior; he probably wouldn't be spending much time at the library or the advisors' offices. Avoiding him shouldn't be too hard.

Flames twisted and leaped through the air, dancing to the elf maiden's song. She was skilled, this minstrel. Nearly every elf in Imladris had crowded into the Hall of Fire when it was rumored she would be singing. Her voice was so beautiful the fire itself was compelled to respond. It moved as if it were alive.

Glorfindel closed his eyes in an effort to focus on the song instead of the flames. He unconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

At the beginning of the next song, Glorfindel tensed in surprise. He knew this tune – from the First Age, not from the whirlwind instruction in Third Age culture he had received at the Grey Havens before coming here. The song's light, ethereal notes were perfectly suited for its intended instrument: a solo flute. Ecthelion had loved this piece, had played it so often Glorfindel had teasingly threatened to steal his flute if he didn't play something else. He'd modified the song too, adding an extra trill right after this next high note –

The music trilled.

Glorfindel's eyes snapped open, and he rose halfway out of his seat. The musician stood with his back toward Glorfindel. He had black hair, and his clothes were blue and silver. Then he turned slightly, and Glorfindel caught a glimpse of his face.

It wasn't Ecthelion… of course it wasn't Ecthelion. Glorfindel was in Middle-earth, and his otorno (1) was a long way away, in the Halls of Mandos or re-embodied in Valinor. He would not see Ecthelion again until he died or sailed away from Middle-earth for the last time.

Glorfindel stood and slipped quietly out of the room. No one paid much attention; in the Hall of Fire, elves were free to come and go as they pleased. His vision blurred as the flute's music chased him into the hallway.

At this hour of the evening, with everyone in the Hall of Fire, the library was dark and apparently deserted. Glorfindel wandered among the shelves until he found a shadowed nook, on the far side of the room from the door and well-hidden from casual observers. He curled up on the comfortable window seat and stared out into the night.

To most of Imladris, he was Glorfindel Balrog-slayer, the legendary hero returned to Middle-earth with the blessings of the Valar. They saw him as invincible. He'd seen it in their eyes - his presence alone was enough to convince them of Imladris' continued strength in the midst of a world growing dark with evil once more. But to Ecthelion, he had just been Glory, a loyal friend with ridiculously long golden hair and a sense of humor that was probably inappropriate for a lord of Gondolin. Now he was lost, adrift in a new era filled with strangers who looked to him for hope.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window pane. "Ai, Ecthelion," he murmured, "Tenn'oio nát nildenyá." (2) Raindrops trickled down the glass, as if reflecting the tears on Glorfindel's face. "Nainan qualmelyá." (3)

Across the room, the door opened and shut as someone came in. "Councilor Erestor! Please pardon the interruption…" The newcomer's voice sounded too loud in the stillness of the library. "I have a message for Lord Glorfindel. Have you seen him?"

Glorfindel leaned to the side until he could see the messenger and a short dark-haired elf, both standing by the door. Erestor (whoever he was) must have been in the library this whole time, without Glorfindel noticing his presence. The councilor most certainly would have heard Glorfindel talking. He took a deep breath, quickly dried his face with the edge of his cloak, and tried to compose himself.

"I have been here all evening," came the cool reply. "Try his rooms, if he is not in the Hall of Fire." That voice… the book wielder?

"I see. Thank you anyway."

Once the messenger was gone, Erestor turned deliberately and met Glorfindel's surprised gaze from across the room. He dipped his head in a short bow – of apology, acknowledgement of Glorfindel's grief, and… understanding? Then he too left the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The next morning found Glorfindel once again in Elrond's office, this time at his own request. There was one particular councilor to whom he had not yet been formally introduced. He leaned back in his seat across from Elrond's desk and resisted the urge to put his feet up on the intricately carved wood.

Elrond glanced up from his work as Erestor swept briskly into the room. "Good morning, Councilor. Thank you for coming… I hope I did not take you away from your linguistic studies."

"Good morning, my lord. It was –" Erestor's gaze happened to land on Glorfindel as he spoke. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he choked on his words. He looked like a young soldier surprised by a too-powerful enemy – but then, like a soldier, he firmly wiped the fear from his expression and drew himself up to his full height as he faced Lord Elrond. "No trouble," he finished quietly. Glorfindel carefully hid a smirk, although he couldn't help feeling a little guilty. Erestor obviously thought he was about to be punished for the incident with the book.

If Elrond noticed Erestor's reaction, he gave no sign. "Please, my friend, we have talked about this," he said with a wry look. "Elrond will do."

"Of course, my lord." The deadpan reply was spoken so quickly that Glorfindel suspected it was a running joke. He smiled and stood up – and fought the urge to laugh when he realized the top of Erestor's head didn't quite reach his shoulder. Erestor didn't seem to enjoy standing nose-to-elbow with the Balrog-slayer and took a step back.

"It has come to my attention that the two of you have not officially met," Elrond said casually. "Erestor, formerly of Eregion, is a member of my council and curator of Imladris' library. He is also quite knowledgeable regarding languages; his first role here was that of interpreter." He raised an eyebrow at the uncomfortably stoic councilor. "And of course, you have heard of Glorfindel of Gondolin, who will be lending his military expertise to the council. Since you are both my advisors, you will likely be working together occasionally."

Glorfindel spoke up quickly before Elrond had a chance to wonder too long about Erestor's obvious unease. "Erestor, mae govannen." (4)

"Mae govannen," Erestor replied stiffly, without making eye contact.

Elrond's eyebrow crept higher, and he seemed about to say something, so Glorfindel jumped in. Turning to Erestor, he asked, "I was thinking… since you're a councilor and I'm new to the role, could you explain some of what I'll be doing? I've taken a look at Imladris' military status, but I know little of the responsibilities of an advisor outside of meetings."

Erestor shot him a surprised, suspicious glance. Glorfindel just smiled cheerfully.

"I think that's an excellent idea," Elrond remarked.

"Good!" Glorfindel strode for the door. "Let's go outside. It's much too beautiful a day to spend chained to a desk." He smirked. "Unless you're the lord of Imladris."

Elrond laughed and waved them out. "Go on, Erestor. I'm sure Glorfindel could greatly benefit from your help, and the break from work and study might do you good."

A few yards' walk down the hallway put them out of Elrond's earshot. "You didn't tell Lord Elrond about the book," Erestor stated skeptically.

"I didn't tell him."

A pause. "Why?"

Glorfindel grinned. "I thought it was funny."

Erestor's stride faltered as he narrowly avoided tripping on the hem of his long black robe. He jogged a couple of steps to catch up to Glorfindel and then narrowed his eyes at the golden-haired elf. "It was completely inappropriate."

"Most funny things are." Glorfindel shrugged carelessly. "Anyway, I'm not the type to get someone in trouble when it's not really necessary."

"But you would have them called in by their lord for a completely unrelated reason, and enjoy watching them squirm."

The elf-lord burst out laughing. "Guilty as charged," he admitted. "But to be fair, you handled that surprisingly well for a hraiaquen." (5)

Erestor stopped and stared at him.

"Er… I mean… an intellectual," Glorfindel quickly amended. "You know… a quiet, studious type." He couldn't tell whether the inscrutable councilor was offended. "Which isn't to say that studious people can't show courage…" He inwardly groaned. "That wasn't at all what I meant to say."

There was no response except for the continued stare.

Glorfindel sighed and collected his thoughts. "What I was trying to say is that you reacted the way I would expect a soldier to react when being confronted by a commanding officer, and it took me by surprise. That's all."

The corner of Erestor's mouth twitched ever so slightly. The sly look in his eyes told Glorfindel that the dark-haired elf had known full well what he'd meant the entire time. Glorfindel chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder companionably.

Erestor froze, surprised. A few awkward seconds passed. "You had questions about the responsibilities of a councilor?" he finally asked.

"Nah. That was just to get us out of Elrond's office so you could ask about the book incident." Glorfindel hesitated. "I would like to talk with you, though."

"About what?"

"I don't know… anything." Glorfindel shrugged. "I want us to be friends."

"Friends." Erestor blinked a couple of times. The Balrog-slayer was clearly out of his mind. "Oh, of course, that makes perfect sense," he retorted sarcastically. "A big loud fighter who probably can't go for five minutes without talking, and a reserved, cynical scholar who prefers the company of books to that of people. We have so much in common."

"You might be surprised," Glorfindel replied with a wink. "Ma istalye quet' eldalambé?" (6)

Vanyarin Quenya. Unlocking the secrets of that ancient language had been one of Erestor's main goals ever since he'd begun studying linguistics. He was so close to being fluent. And now, in spite of his monumentally embarrassing first impression, Glorfindel – an actual native speaker – wanted to speak the language with him. It was every linguist's dream.

Keeping a careful rein on his enthusiasm – so he didn't make a fool of himself by dissolving into an incoherent mess of happiness and technical talk – Erestor lifted his chin, looked Glorfindel in the eye, and said confidently, "I lambe sirya lambanyallo." (7)

Epilogue

It was odd, really. Had Glorfindel not been on the receiving end of Erestor's fury that first day, he might never have looked twice at the strange, silent advisor. Erestor was certainly nothing like Ecthelion. In fact, his reclusive personality often reminded Glorfindel uncomfortably of Maeglin, the young lord who had betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth. However, despite the opinions of many in Imladris, Erestor was not arrogant or hateful, nor did he spend his days lurking in the shadows (except when he became so caught up in a book that he forgot to light a lamp). He was not put off by Glorfindel's grief at being separated from Ecthelion because he understood it. Glorfindel never regretted his choice of Erestor as a friend, and although Erestor loathed any mention of the book incident, it remained one of Glorfindel's fondest (and funniest) memories.

End Credits Scene

Glorfindel strolled down the corridor to Erestor's office and knocked lightly on the closed door. "Erestor? You in there?" It was much too early for any of the other advisors to be working, but, well… this was Erestor. He heard a thump and a muffled curse from the other side of the door and knocked again. "It's nearly time for breakfast; are you coming?"

"Is that you, Glorfindel?" Erestor called from inside the room. "Could you come in here, please? And close the door?"

He couldn't resist a bit of teasing first. "Why? What's going on?" he asked innocently.

"Will you just get in here, you overgrown blond –" Erestor paused abruptly, as if trying to contain the fury in his voice. "My lord."

"All right, I'm coming. No need to get formal." Glorfindel walked in, pushed the door shut behind him… and burst out laughing.

The door to the storage closet was open. Erestor, barefoot and dressed in nightclothes, was standing on his tiptoes and reaching as high as he could possibly stretch. A large wooden box tilted precariously off the closet's top shelf, held in place only by Erestor's straining fingertips.

Glorfindel doubled over, clutching his sides. "You… I… I swear you're part mortal!"

"Would you please stop laughing and come take this from me before I drop it," the advisor growled.

The tall Balrog-slayer stepped up beside Erestor and put a hand on the box, taking its weight. "Why in Arda were you trying to do this without a ladder or something?"

"I wasn't trying to get the box. I was trying to get my cloak, which was underneath the box." Erestor picked up the dark brown robe, which had fallen to the floor, and tossed it onto the back of the armchair.

Glorfindel carefully hid a laugh as he pushed the box back onto the shelf. The closet was packed with books (of course), more clothing, an extra pair of boots, random odds and ends… was that a knife-throwing target? He glanced back at Erestor, who looked like he had just gotten out of bed. A blanket lay crumpled on the armchair. "You sleep in your office?"

"Imladris is crowded, and only those of higher rank have private bedchambers." Erestor shrugged. "My roommate was too nosy. Kept trying to 'draw me out of my shell' or something."

"So you moved into your office."

Erestor gave him a thank-you-for-stating-the-obvious look and started folding up the blanket.

"It's unhealthy for an elf to hide away in a dark little room all the time. There's not even a window in here!"

"Actually, there is." Erestor pointed to the bookshelf behind his desk. "I had to cover it up because there was no other place to put the bookshelf."

Glorfindel groaned and hid his face in his hand. "You need help."

Translations

1 V. Q. "sworn brother"

2 V. Q. "Forever you [informal] are my friend."

3 V. Q. "I lament your [formal] painful death."

4 E. S. "Well met"

5 V. Q. name, lit. "awkward person". In this story, it's First Age slang for "nerd".

6 V. Q. "Can you [formal] speak elvish?"

7 V. Q. "The language flows from my tongue."