Disclaimer: I disclaim in this disclaimer any claim owing to the work of Tolkien's fabulous declamations. La voilà.
After the war, Glorfindel finds himself owner of a lad of Minas Tirith, life and soul. The Balrog-slayer is cold, calculated, and hasn't been possessed of emotion for many years. But even he cannot predict the consequences of looking after an adolescent human... NOT slash.
Chapter One
The Golden Age.
Glorfindel suppressed a snort at the irony of it all, that it would be because of man, and a small hobbit, that the name would come about. His eyes dimmed with a sudden glimmer of pain at the memories of glorious aeons gone by, when each act was done with purpose, and not the laughable aimlessness of men. But there was nothing to be gained, reminiscing. The elf lord strode from the small tanners' shop where he had just made his purchase, ignoring the conspicuous glances from these ignorant tradesmen, and kept to the shadows.
More than one shopkeeper would return to his wife that evening and whisper that the Lord Glorfindel had been seen abroad.
It was odd, perhaps, that he was startled when a small figure collided blindly with his person. He abandoned any self-admonitory remarks to study the pale, frightened face that was lifted to his own, and to observe bluntly, "Surely you don't seek to rob me, fool?" The lad, for so he was, stared at the arms of steel which prevented him from moving, and then glanced back at his captor's visage, having recovered his speech.
"If y' please, maister! Lemme go! I've gotta get awa' afore 'e gets me!" Glorfindel blinked. The boy's accent was an odd mixture, influenced not only with the common slum speech of Minas Tirith's streets, but with another element, one that he couldn't yet identify. He shook the gibbering child sharply.
"Who? Who is coming to get you?"
His question was answered by the hasty arrival of a rather dirty person, whose grim face and rather blockish stature gave testament to an unintelligent nature, and rather low aspirations. His facial expressions scrolled through an amusing state of reactions - his initial shock being replaced by an unattractive sleazy grin, masking imperfectly a sudden greediness.
"If that young fool has tried to tell you a fib about me, sir, 'tis no such thing! He's a troublesome piece of work that's ungrateful for the very clothes I've put upon his back!"
Glorfindel's impassive gaze flicked over to peruse the dirty rags the man had the effrontery to call clothes, and his adversary's face flushed to a mottled red. "Indeed?" the elf enquired politely, raising a quizzical eyebrow. The lad's pursuer, who could now see that the striking figure in front of him was not just one of nobility but an elven lord, blustered,
"But of course, sire, 'tis as I say! I'm an honest man, so I am, and I won't be cowed into hiding by a lad who's nothing but trouble. Indeed, I curse the day that I took him in under my roof, so I do!" Glorfindel directed a penetrating look at the youth, and then decision flickered in his blank eyes.
"Let us suppose that I give you better memories of that day," he said smoothly, and as the man faltered, "Sire?", he reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew four pieces of the currency. He let them catch the faint light of the moon, and then said slowly, as though reflecting: "Four Ministirrin marks, stamped by the mint, and worth a great deal more in common currency." There was a dull sense of distaste in his eyes as he caught the man's greedy look.
The man faltered but an instant, his decision made by the gleaming coins held in the graceful fingers. As soon as his meaty hands closed over them, he darted a look at the elf, and disappeared promptly into the shadows from whence he came. Glorfindel, who stood looking down the alleyway with a contemptuous sneer in his eyes, recollected himself, and shot a penetrating glance at the youth by his side. The young lad was looking upon his rescuer with eyes of awe, and suddenly clutched the elf lord's arm.
"That 'un's gone," he said half to himself, his words wondering in the cool night air. He turned to his rescuer. "An' I'll do anyfin', maister, anyfin' at all. Yore too good."
Glorfindel's spare glance of amusement at the boy was intriguing, but even more so was the short bark of sardonic laughter, so uncharacteristic of his people. "I'm no saint, boy," he said softly. "You will find that, all too soon." The lad shook his head fiercely.
"Yore wrong," he replied. "There's gotta be some good in a man - even an elf - 'oo would do that fer a stranger." Glorfindel would have admonished his charge for the contradiction, had he not realised an extraordinary thing.
He had been speaking his mother tongue, and the boy had understood.
Jareth, an honourable manservant who had been in the King's employ for more than twenty years, did not even raise his greying eyebrows at the sight of a bedraggled lad walking silently behind the esteemed elf lord whom it pleased the High King to call friend. He didn't utter any comments such as would be common with persons of a less exalted status than he, when commanded to bring hot water and told to burn the rags in which the lad was adorned. He made no sound when called back from the doorway by a stipulation from Glorfindel.
"His hair is, perhaps, too bedraggled to rescue. I would ask you to find something to put it into order as to one befitting my protégée, perhaps. I cannot mentor a ragamuffin."
The lad involuntarily articulated, and was moved to beg, "Please, maister, don't touch m' hair. I'd - prefer to 'ave it kep' long, if't pleases you."
"It does not, child," came the short reply, but upon seeing the fright in the boy's wide eyes, he relented. "Very well. Jareth, I would like you to - try and rescue it, please." Jareth hid a smile.
"Yes, my lord."
"He will need new clothes."
"Yes, my lord."
"Very plain, please, Jareth."
"Understood, my lord."
"I leave the colours up to you, but I trust they will be befitting to a boy as my ward. He will need to be fed."
"Of course, my lord." Glorfindel raised an eyebrow.
"That will do, thank you, Jareth."
"Yes, my -. Yes, sir. Shall I bring the lad back here afterwards?"
"Not tonight. I will assess your work tomorrow morning, Jareth." He ignored the laughter lurking in the manservant's eyes, and majestically walked from the room to find the King and Queen.
"If you would be so good as to close your mouth, Estel, I imagine that the servants would not find it necessary to stare at their King every time they come to serve you."
"Didn't have my mouth open," the King replied, a little petulantly, if truth be told. "I had merely closed my eyes for a few minutes. Don't ever have children, Glorfindel. They're exhausting." He clamped his mouth shut at his careless statement, and winced.
"I will endeavour not to do so in future, Aragorn," Glorfindel said, albeit a little tightly.
"I'm sorry, Glorfindel, I wasn't thinking..."
"You humans never do," the elf lord muttered, but he was himself again, his emotions hidden by a calm façade. His lips twitched. "Do not be so anxious, Estel. You have not irreparably damaged our friendship." The light in his eyes showed that he was teasing the younger man.
"It is good that we elves are so forgiving," came a new voice, speaking from the doorway as the Queen entered the room. "Or you would not have many friends left, my love."
Aragorn passed a hand over his eyes. "Why did I have to wake up?" he grumbled. Arwen, her face still lovely even though there were streaks of grey in her hair, uttered a low, thrilling laugh, and slipped her hand into her husband's outstretched one.
"- Trying to make me believe that you didn't love me -" his wife began thoughtfully.
"- That time you offended the entire Mirkwood nobility with one sentence -" came Glorfindel's impassive rejoinder.
"- His awkward questions to Thranduil when he was just a child -"
"Not to mention the first time he met Legolas -" Glorfindel finished. Arwen's head turned gracefully to her friend.
"I wouldn't mind hearing about that occasion," she remarked interestedly. "I've heard only the outline from my brothers."
Glorfindel bowed with promptness. "Well, milady, Estel was twelve years old at the time, and he had just -"
"ENOUGH!" the tortured monarch shouted. His voice showed signs of strain as he passed a weary hand over his eyes once more. "Glorfindel, please, that is enough."
"As you wish," the elf lord replied, but there was a softening in the steely look of his gaze as he looked upon the only friends he had left in Middle Earth. So many had gone - so many had sailed. They called this time the Golden Age, when he could see that the land was simply experiencing the rosy bloom a blossom enjoys before fading to dust. Glorfindel laid a graceful hand upon the money pouch at his belt, and was reminded of his intentions to speak about the lad.
When he spoke, his voice was impassive once more, but the transition to the high tongue was not lost on his companions. "I have just - adopted, I believe - an urchin from the alleyways of your city, Aragorn." The King was quick to cut off his initial shock when Arwen gently closed his gaping mouth.
"What for?" he stammered. His face relaxed. "You must feel lonely, after -"
His sentence was rudely broken off with a sharp gesture of Glorfindel's hand. "I would be - much obliged," he sneered, "if you would spare me your philosophising over my reasons." The elf's gaze unfocussed for a few moments, as though his eyes saw not the cheerful fire or rich furnishings of the room. Abruptly, he said, "I do not know why I did it."
"Surely there are better -" Aragorn corrected himself hastily, "other people who might look after the boy, Glorfindel."
"Your faith in me is astounding."
Arwen smiled softly. As a mother, though, she was puzzled as to why Glorfindel, a celibate elf of some twelve millennia, would take the boy into his charge. "I could give him a position as one of my pageboys, mellon-nín," she offered quietly. Glorfindel's lips quirked into a semblance of a smile, but his eyes remained, as ever, cold and uninviting.
"I thank you, Arwen," he replied courteously. "But I will keep the boy, if only for my own motives."
"No doubt not to be revealed to us mere mortals?"
"You have my congratulations, Aragorn, those are my feelings exactly."
"So you're not going to tell us?" the King exclaimed, his amused expression bordering on indignation. "Why did you prompt our curiosity then, with your cryptic remarks? Have you no sense of honour?"
"Ah, it is not his sense of honour I question, my love," Arwen said gently. She regarded her elven friend from amused grey eyes. "I wonder whether Mandos forgot to return his soul, along with his body."
Glorfindel smirked. "You wound me, milady. Such harsh words from a queen." He stood gracefully from the couch he had been reclining on, and walked to the door. Just before he left, he turned thoughtfully.
"I believe I do have a soul. It has just been fed, and is currently having a bath."
"Erendil help it!" Arwen remarked gravely.
Glorfindel's eyes mocked from the doorway. "I am not certain of my cue. Should I say amen, or retire cursing?" There was the softest of clicks as the door shut in his wake.
Author's note: I hope you enjoyed this! I must confess, though, that Glorfindel's last words are amended from the work of Georgette Heyer, an authoress of Regency period books whom I admire greatly. Sighs. I wanted to take all the credit, but it wouldn't be right...