Author's Notes: Written for Glorfindel. Many, many thanks to Larien Elengasse who was willing to scour this behemoth for me.

Chapter One: The King is Dead, Long Live the King

Erestor stepped into the ringing cold, feeling out the steps with his stick before setting his bad leg down, the shoulderbag bumping at his shoulder. He would not send the scullery maids into this sort of weather.

The fire in the great Hall had been burning high since October, and the worst winter anyone could remember (and some of them remembered the Helcaraxë) had locked Imladris in. Even the Bruinen, which never froze, had frozen even north of the ford.

He stacked several logs and lugged it over one shoulder. It wouldn't be enough. But it was more than they could keep up with, managing all the fires. The bedrooms would be cold until supper at this rate.

A clatter of hooves on cobbles assailed his ears as he reached the uppermost step. What madman was out riding in this weather?

He shielded a hand as a gaunt roan cantered, skidded alarmingly on a glaze of ice and reined up at last mere paces from the foot of the steps, steaming and panting.

Its rider had fared no better.

Pale with cold and shivering from more than, the boy clutched with one, blackened hand the hilt of a sword sagging oddly in its sheath as if there was no weight beneath to hold it in place.

The rider had to use his left hand to pry the other off, and the sword hit the cobbles with a knell, its blade broken a foot beneath the crossguard.

"He is dead."


The King of Arnor, hero of the Last Alliance, Isildur firstborn son of Elendil, was slain. Along with three of his four sons.

The tale fell with terrible finality into the silence of Lord Elrond's cabinet as the rider, who only named himself Ohtar, confirmed what many had long believed but had refused to admit.

After facing fire and war and the deaths of his father and brother, only to be ambushed by Orcs at the very Pass that would lead him home proved Fate a feckless mistress, indeed.

Behind his lord's chair, Erestor, for his part, held the composure required of his station.

Grave-faced, Elrond laid a hand on the hilt shard of the sword-that-had-once-been-Narsil. "Valandil stands to inherit."

Glorfindel stirred from his place by the bay window. "Others may not have it so, my lord. There have been… murmurings among certain members of the ruling family — even before we knew for certain Isildur was lost — who would not see Valandil inherit, or my ears are wood."

"Why?" asked a junior councilman, a Sinda, who had few dealings with the remaining royal family and even fewer years on the cabinet. "He is in direct line a descendant of Isildur himself. Surely, they could wish the order of succession no plainer?"

No one answered.

Erestor knew or guessed the rumors of which Glorfindel spoke—and who spoke them. But his own place among this assembly was as tenuous as Valandil's amongst his kin—though he was, at least where Elrond was concerned, one of them.

Some habits never broke even when the reason for them did.

Glorfindel's gaze found his across the room. Unerring as always, the Golden Flower. "That may be, but his mother's brother, for one, will press a claim through marriage. At least for regent. And that… I do not think any here want."

"And at any rate, Valandil is not yet of an age to rule," seconded another. "Someone must be appointed regent in his stead."

An air of expectation thickened in the room.

Alone of any, Elrond himself could press a claim for regent and, indeed, for kingship—of Elves and Men both—if Valandil proved unfit — a fact Elrond well knew and chose to ignore much to the dismay of his handlers and those hungry among the Noldor for their former glory.

"Heir and regent must be named. And soonest." Elrond brushed a finger across his lips.

Erestor stirred. "My lord—"

"Delay is most prudent, my lord," interrupted Trastion. The senior councilor smoothed a beringed hand over his richly brocaded vest. "Men are fickle creatures, and too oft their reach overextends their grasp."

"They fought beside us on the Dagorlad. They were not fickle then," Erestor said.

"Given the opportunity, they will quibble over inheritance and bloodline until the Valar decide to flood the rest of their kingdoms," Trastion insisted. "There is nothing to trust in Men anymore. Their fruit and flower wither with each passing year."

"To delay is to do nothing, and we have done that for too long while we waited for this news. Annúminas needs a leader, a strong one. And the more we put off our duty, the worse it will seem to Men, and the alliance we worked so hard for will crumble more than it already has."

Glorfindel's eyes flicked between one and the other the way a swordmaster attends a bout, waiting to see who would draw blood first.

"Since when have you ever been Men's champion, Erestor?" Though too much of a politician to show open disdain, Trastion couldn't quite conceal the curl of his lip.

Elrond held up a hand to forestall further speech. "Your points both have merit. I will have to think further on the matter. Very well. That is enough grave news for one day. Thank you, all, for your attendance."

Erestor waited for the more senior members to pass before he slipped out, conscious of the tap that followed his every other step.

He had taken barely two steps into the corridor when a voice assailed him.

"Your lordship over kitchen and scullery maids has given you far too high an opinion of yourself. But believe you me, Erestor, speak before me in chambers again, and I will have words with Lord Elrond."

Erestor stopped as Trastion pushed himself away from the mullioned window. "I must speak as I see fit."

"You, varlet, ought to speak only when spoken to, or to ask his lordship if he requires another cup of tea."

Varlet. Knave. Serving man… And worse.

Erestor had heard it before. It irked some of the more traditional-minded Noldor that a man of no great social standing or birth was included—and, indeed, consulted—in matters reserved for those of purportedly greater knowledge.

But to introduce his detractor to the butt of his stick would give more credence to their claims than silence them. He had not displayed a shred of ill temper since the night of the accident, and no slandering nobleman would tip his hand.

But Trastion was determined to push. "So, will you be sitting at the evening meal tonight? Or serving it?"

"I shall do whatever my lord requires of me."

"Of that, I am sure. One does wonder what manner of favors you ply him with that he holds you so high in esteem."

Determined to push, indeed.

Erestor opened his mouth to reply, but another beat him to it.

"Surely, I must have misheard." Deceptively soft. Steel beneath. "It sounded as though you were disparaging the character of a man who served his king and country, Trastion."

Glorfindel had stepped into the corridor after them. "As I'm sure you remember, Erestor served as Elrond's adjutant in the thick of the Dagorlad. Three years in the thick of it. He stood by Anárion, the King's son, defending him even after he was killed. Decorated more than once. Where were you, might I ask, Councilman? Sitting on a bridge somewhere? Or behind the lines with the rest of the rear echelon swarn."

He stalked closer, a wolf to a lamb. "Last I looked, there was no shame in noble service. Whatever one's duties. In particular, I have the greatest sympathy and honor for the valet who must deal with you." The stinging sweep of his gaze took the councilman in from circlet to fringed boots and declared him wanting.

Trastion bristled but dared not answer back to one who had faced a Balrog and lived (mostly) to tell of it. Only the brashly drunk or the very foolish did so—and never with impunity.

Glorfindel all but openly smirked as the councilman gave some feeble excuse that required his immediate attention and whirled on his heel in utter route.

Erestor tapped his stick against the floor, beating out the retreat until the councilman rounded the corner. "You enjoyed yourself entirely too much. Might I remind you, I am not some swooning maiden in need of rescue. You spoiled my fun. I was about to introduce him to Bess."

"Somehow, I doubt he would have appreciated that as much as others. Although…" Glorfindel glanced down the corridor speculatively. "That would explain a few things."

Erestor limped towards the arcade that led to the kitchens. This was an old argument, much thrashed over, but that after all this time, Glorfindel still thought him helpless… Or worse, pitiful…

"Oh, did I hurt the old serjeant major's vaunted pride? If it helps, I didn't do it for you. After all the hot-winded palaver in there, I miss an afternoon's entertainment without the opportunity to put such caitiffs in their place." Glorfindel deftly sidestepped to Erestor's unencumbered side. "Besides, it irks me to hear you so besmirched."

Erestor fluttered his eyelashes at him. "La, my knight in golden armor. Trastion is the least of my concerns at the moment." He negotiated the wide steps one at a time, conscious of Glorfindel restraining himself from offering an arm.

Glorfindel's shoulder nudged his playfully, almost knocking him off his feet. "You may repay me by doing what you do best and wheedling a spare bottle of fine red from that stingy gremlin of the cellars."

"Gwîndir is a gentleman and a scholar. Bite your tongue. And he will have to provide for perhaps a hundred people, so you will have to wait."

A clatter of footsteps made them both pause for the puffing pageboy who came racing down the corridor to catch them up. He bowed to Glorfindel and thrust a very pale and sharply folded parchment at Erestor.

"Sir. A message for you, sir."

Erestor returned his smile only politely as he scanned the message. "I fear your merriment will be short-lived," he said to Glorfindel, dismissing the pageboy with a nod.

Glorfindel craned over his shoulder. "What does it say?"

"I am to set another place at the board tonight. His lordship will arrive this eve from Annúminas, and he would see his nephew."

"That's uncannily timely."

"Ill news flies on swift wings," Erestor said, tucking the parchment into his belt. "I fear I have quite lost my appetite."

"Elrond will have to tell him of Isildur's death. And open all manner of hell in doing so. I think I rather prefer to face the Balrog again."

"And leave our lord to face the beast alone? No such luck, my friend." Erestor clapped him on the shoulder and steered him towards the cellars. "At the very least, let us see what Gwîndir can spare to fortify ourselves for the evening."

"Gentleman and a scholar! Lead on!"