Notes: I am sorry this lingered so long. This is why I should only post completed works! I promise you I didn't have the intention of abandoning this, but life, other fandoms, and inattention got in the way. I meant to update this a while ago, but I can't find my old story notes, so I had to re-plot it and figure out the timeline all over again. Also, I did a shoddy job editing. I'll probably come back and spruce up this chapter and the previous one.
To anyone who is curious, this is set in the middle of the third age, somewhere in the years preceding III 1432. I'm probably screwing with canon here, but from what I can find and what I remember, Gondor previously conquered Harad, and at some point loses it again. In my haphazard flipping through EOA's timeline, the civil war in III 1432 seems to be a good time for this breaking away to begin. Also, given that, Greenwood has already become Mirkwood, and the Witch King is causing all sorts of trouble in the north at the same time, it seems like a pretty convenient spot to resurrect heroic elf lords of yore.
When Erestor finally woke, it was with a faint sense of surprise and not a little bit of suspicion. He was in his favorite guest room: the one with the silver filigree on the white ceiling, with leaves and swirls bursting out from the fixture in the center and crawling down to crown the walls. More importantly, the sun had risen. He had collapsed, fully clothed, on top of the bed, in the early hours of the morning, but had nevertheless fully expected to wake in darkness.
How long had it been since he had slept unaided for more than an hour or two at a time? Erestor thought about it, counting days back and outlining his activities, but couldn't immediately remember. Certainly not the night before last, when he had, on his lord's order, returned home shortly after the sun set. Then, he had lain awake, staring at the shattered moonlight dancing across his cottage ceiling, counting the stars he could see outside his window, and imagining all the things he could have done differently that day. When Anor finally dragged herself over the horizon, he had allowed himself to dress and freshen up before walking to the Last Homely House under the deep pink and orange sky and the stars that survived the early daylight.
It also had not been the day before that, when, in his restlessness, he had managed to reorganize the entire filing system in both his and his lord's offices. Nor could it have been the day before that, when he had spent until dawn making notes and extracts out of the single text he could find anywhere about the language and linguistics of the Tawa people other than what the Tawa had given him themselves.
He did remember about a month ago, waking up in this very bed, with Lord Elrond hovering anxiously--angrily--over him, eyebrows creased and a glass vial clutched tightly in one hand. Erestor had apparently missed their scheduled meeting, and Lord Elrond had come looking for him. Elrond had found him--allegedly--collapsed over his desk with his eyes closed, dead to the world.
For the following week, Elrond had forced him to down a vial of sedative every night by midnight at the absolute latest, and would glare at him if he saw his face before seven o'clock the following morning. Of course, the moment Elrond ceased watching him swallow it, Erestor began dumping the medication into the potted plants until it stopped coming altogether.
Erestor stood carefully. His legs felt giddy, unready to fully support his weight, but he managed to walk slowly across the room without any mishaps. Once in front of the mirror, he tugged his robe into place, smoothing out the wrinkles as he did so. Then he undid his half-braid, which had come partially undone and had begun to tangle visibly, and brushed it out between long fingers. The smaller, beaded braids, he was glad to see, had survived the night.
Still, Erestor couldn't help but wonder, how could he have slept this late? The bedroom was full of clear, white light, not rosy or golden like the sunrise, and the lingering sensation of dew in the air was rapidly evaporating in the sun, and the cool, fresh sensation of early morning was quickly receding. The sky--he glanced outside--was grey, but did little to dampen the bright morning atmosphere. Really, it should have been more than enough to wake an almost debilitatingly light sleeper like himself. The last time he had woken this late, his lord had forcibly drugged him.
At least, he admitted to himself as he stared into the mirror, he dark smudges under his eyes had finally vanished; that was good. Also, after working through the knots with his fingers, he finally had his hair mostly under control. Most of the knots had come free, and yesterday's braid hadn't kinked his hair noticeably. Erestor gave his reflection a once-over, and then gathered his long, heavy hair into one section and flipped it over his shoulder.
Erestor glanced at the door to the hall, but trepadation curled in his gut, and he took a few quick steps out onto the balcony in the opposite direction. There was so much to do! The fact that he had already wasted so many hours of the day made his nerves quake. In only a few short months, he would begin a very long journey, and the nature of the work that had to be done was impossible in the wild. And Lord Elrond had the nerve to drug him anyway? That had to have been what happened. He recognized the disorganization of his thoughts, the weakness of his limbs, the heaviness of his body as he awoke. If anything, his lord should have been supplying a steady stream of stimulants in order for him to stay awake and finish it all!
No. Erestor took a deep, slow breath, in and out, and leaned forward against the railing. There was no use, he told himself, in obsessing over something that had already happened. Blaming and worrying would only impede his progress today. He had to re-balance himself, to put it out of his mind, and find his calm place. The grey sky was so bright that it could almost have been called white. The greens and browns of the earth looked deep and moist today, but not vibrant, not exactly. The air was cool; it cut through fabric, but was not biting or uncomfortable.
Also, on the balcony next door, a blonde Elf had just appeared: Glorfindel. He had arrived in the post-dawn hours exactly six days ago, on a beautiful gray dapple mare with dark eyes and a docile temperament, who looked like the sky before a snowfall. He had said that her name was River, and that she liked to eat buttercups. He, evidently, also liked buttercups, because during the ride he had braided a few into his hair, and three more poked gaily out of a tear in his tunic.
Next door, Glorfindel was looking at the courtyard as if, the day he arrived, he had not received a tour of all of Imladris, and had not personally requested his guest room in just that location. While the Elda was not paying attention, Erestor studied him. His expression, quite frankly, was confusing. His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly from one emotion to the next: confusion, awe, tranquility, sadness, terror, confusion, awe, all in rapid succession. At some moments, it appeared that he had slid out of the here and now, only to drag himself back again with great effort.
After a moment, Glorfindel seemed to have snapped away from whatever internal demons held his consciousness at bay. He then grasped the railing with both hands, and poised to vault over it, only to freeze at the last second. The ground below him, he must have noticed, was home to six growing things. The elf's young brow scrunched in distaste as he stared at the offending plants.
"They're sunflowers," Erestor volunteered. He schooled his expression, and tried--and probably failed--to look open and friendly. Glorfindel, however, must not have noticed him: the Elf spun around rapidly, complexion draining slightly, mouth open, eyes wide. Erestor ignored this. "Sunflowers. The seeds were a gift from the Tawa when they visited this winter," he explained. Glorfindel looked taken aback rather than interested in this volunteered information. Oh well, Erestor sighed privately. He had started now; he might as well finish the explanation. "Supposedly, the flower is large and yellow, and always stares reverently up to Anor. Or, at least, that was how they explained it to me when I asked. The fruit it bears is also edible, and travels well. A true gift from the sun god, he said."
A long, awkward silence followed.
Erestor shifted. He suddenly felt the need to flee, and made excuses. "I'll take my leave now. I'm sure you have plans, and I have quite a bit of work left over from last night." He pulled his hair back tightly, leaving only the small braids loose, attempted a smile, spun on his heel, and returned inside without another word.
He crossed the room on quick, wide strides, refusing to look at the mirrors or the sunlight playing across the walls, or back at the wide windows and their billowing curtains. Some mornings, coming to work was like setting a bone: best done as quickly as possible before you have time to think about it.
He shrugged his nerves away, reminding himself that once he got started, everything would be fine, and if worse came to worst, he could always delegate tasks. It was not as if he ever did; some of his assistants were such in name only, and had long since found other activities to occupy their time when Erestor displayed no sign of sharing his work load with anyone.
The fact that he even had this much to do made him faintly angry. None of the other Elven realms had to deal with this; his lord was the only one who made the world of Men his business, and only then for his brother's lineage in Gondor: an indirect line that no longer held power. All the same, the political tension in the south and Gondor's shaky hold on their "annexed" states somehow, at the end of the day, ended up in his office, on his desk, and if Erestor were truly honest with himself, he would admit that he didn't know what he would do with his long nights if this were not the case.
Everywhere the windows were open; he could feel the long, spidery fingers of the cool morning breeze running across his scalp and up his sleeves, billowing in his clothing as he walked: out the door, down the hall, around a sharp corner, behind the tapestry, up the winding servants' staircase and straight into the offices adjacent to the library. The route, after many hundreds of years, was familiar. But this time, rather than moving across the room and settling to work at his own desk, he turned through one more doorway into his Liege's office, shutting the heavy door loudly and firmly behind him.
He didn't bother with formalities. "I know what you did," he announced sharply, looking pointedly at Lord Elrond, whose first strategy was, in turn, to focus on his menial paperwork and grant Erestor only half of his attention.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, "unless you mean that I ate oatmeal this morning, with honey, at the breakfast you failed to attend." Lord Elrond met his eyes then. "I am correct in my assumption that you also did not eat privately?" The glance became a glare, and Elrond's knuckles whitened a little around his quill.
"I ate," Erestor defended weakly. He set his jaw stubbornly and crossed his arms in front of himself.
"Oh really?" his lord questioned, eyebrows raising doubtfully. "And who delivered this to you?"
"Um... a servant?"
"And what did you eat?" The corner of his lord's mouth was twitching, but with amusement or irritation, Erestor could not tell.
"Uh," Erestor fumbled, ending an awkward, telling pause with the first thing that came to his mind, "scones?"
"What kind of scones?" Elrond had, by now, given up all pretense of working. He climbed to his feet and came out from behind the desk, mirroring Erestor's pose, albeit with straighter, more confident shoulders.
"Um," he managed, and tried not to shrink any further.
"And why is it that whenever you lie about your well being, you cross your arms and hunch your shoulders?" Elrond stepped closer, until they were almost nose to nose, his liege towering over Erestor's small frame.
"I don't know?"
Elrond let out a great sigh, and then stepped away from Erestor. "There is fruit and cheese on your desk. Eat it."
Erestor forcibly straightened his posture, and stared down his nose at the floor. "Yes, my lord."
"And I did not drug you. I should have drugged you. I will drug you, tonight, but last night, my son found you at your desk. Again."
"I'm sorry, my lord," he tried, "it won't happen again."
Lord Elrond rolled his eyes, then turned and waved one hand dismissively. The morning sun was blinding in the window behind them, and lit up a few of his stray hairs like fire. "Just go eat," he said resignedly, without turning to look at his chief counselor. He kept his back to Erestor until he left.
Back in his own office, sat on a tray right on top of all his other papers, he found a plate of various cheeses and fruit, and a kettle of plain black tea, which, by now, was stone cold. He picked up one slice of cheddar distastefully and put it in his mouth. As usual, it tasted like nothing. He sighed, and pushed the whole setting away, sending his desk into disarray with the motion. A book and a few stray quills clattered to the floor, but for once, he didn't bother to pick them up.
Just another beautiful morning, he thought, and then took a long swig of cold tea. He wouldn't get much done that day.
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