They told him that Erestor would be strong.
They told him he'd be dangerous.
They told him that he would be strict, and cruel, and wise.
But they never said, when Glorfindel moved to Imladris from Mirkwood, that he would be beautiful.
They never told him so, but he is.
The first time he meets Erestor the warrior smiles down at him, a dark thing that's all teeth and no joy, and fear rises in the pit of Glorfindel's stomach; he was not prepared for this.
How could he have been? Nobody had ever bothered to tell him, after all, that he'd fall like a stone in water for Erestor of the Golden Flower, and he had never been warned away from that smile. There was nothing in his books or his papers about a legend who walks the Earth.
Glorfindel smiles back, shy and golden, and shrinks away.
He wishes someone had warned him.
Another thing nobody warned him is that in Imladris everybody, even the scribes, has to visit the training yard.
And if he wasn't prepared for how beautiful Erestor was at first, in his everyday outfit - well, that's nothing compared to Erestor covered in sweat, fighting hard against some young soldier-in-training whose name Glorfindel has heard but can't remember, teeth bared and clothes clinging to his skin.
Erestor fights like a wild thing, all glinting knives and quick motions that come almost too fast to see. The Balrog never stood a chance against him, Glorfindel thinks, and it sends a shiver down his spine despite the heat, because it'll be his turn next.
The soldier's rhythm stutters, his sword falls to the ground. In two more of the snake-strike movements Erestor has him pinned to the wall and a knife at his throat. "Dead," Erestor says, and he doesn't even sound out of breath.
Oh sweet Valar. This will not be good.
"Next," Erestor says, voice clipped. Glorfindel swallows, hard, and steps out onto the training field with a practice sword in hand.
This will not be even a little bit good.
Erestor smiles again, even more terrifying than before, readies his knives, and moves, slashing and nearly spitting. Glorfindel's glad he grew up in Mirkwood, because the amount of training everybody in the forest gets is just enough to ensure that he doesn't trip over his own feet and look like more of an idiot than he has to.
That's what Erestor seems to be trying to make him do, though, his every step calculated to confuse and distract and Glorfindel hates that it's working - not that it would be necessary; just the proximity is distracting enough.
Because fighting as if for his life, Erestor is everything Glorfindel was warned about and more, and Glorfindel can feel his fall start to pick up speed.
Afterwards, Glorfindel avoids the training yard whenever at all possible. He may be "adequate, if barely," but that doesn't mean he wants to fight Erestor again. Nobody would want to fight Erestor, not after that.
Not that Glorfindel ever did.
He stays in the library, mostly, teaching himself about Imladrian history and politics, making sure his work is good enough. He's here for a reason: to improve. And he's more than prepared for that.
What he wasn't prepared for was how much Erestor visits the library. Because he does, more than any other warrior in the valley, and he looks at something different every time he comes: botany one day, mathematics the next, Valinorean poetry the third, and something equally obscure after that.
Every single time, it's Glorfindel he asks for help. Glorfindel isn't sure whether this is a compliment or an attempt to throw him off, because Erestor's expression never changes, and he never once says anything that might indicate one way or the other.
If Erestor is trying to catch him unguarded, though, he's failing. Because Glorfindel knows that Erestor shows up every day, usually ridiculously early in the morning, and he can prepare. It's not a warning, but it's just as good, and Glorfindel would be stupid not to be thankful for it.
Even if he doesn't really understand what's happening between them, or why.
Erestor doesn't really understand what's happening either, because the only real answer is something he didn't even think possible.
It hasn't been possible - or at least, Erestor never thought so - in over an Age, not since erestor was a young warrior in Gondolin. Not since the Burning.
But. Above all else, Erestor believe in reason. He trusts his own mind, and his mind observes that he hasn't felt this way about anybody but Ecthelion, ever.
And he observes that he feels it now, for the shy young scholar from Mirkwood with hair golden as Erestor's house sigil: that same impulse to protect, to hold Glorfindel close and never let him go.
If he were anyone but who he is, the intensity of it would frighten him. As it is, though, that's the one part of this he does understand - Erestor never was one to do things by halves, and he is much the same in love as on the battlefield.
That's what Thel always said, at least, and even now Erestor finds himself inclined to believe him.
(But he was never warned, that a scholar with a sweet smile and joy in his eyes could enchant him just as easily as a quick-fingered warrior with strong hands and a silver tongue.)