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Chapter 4

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Glorfindel leaves Erestor's robes on a chair in the advisor's rooms, then makes a strategic retreat to his own. There he goes about getting dressed, acting as if nothing is wrong, though he keeps a wary eye on the door. Erestor's tongue is sharp but his knives are sharper and Glorfindel begins to worry that he might have gone a little too far with this prank. Erestor's dignity is a difficult terrain to traverse and Glorfindel sometimes sticks his foot where it doesn't belong. Erestor is not above sneaking up on him to knock some sense into his thick skull.

His watch of the door is in vain, for as he begins to brush his hair a wet towel collides with the back of his head. Glorfindel spins around, accidentally yanking a few golden strands out with his brush. Erestor is perched on his balcony rail, arms crossed and dressed in his favorite blue robes.

"You are a menace," Erestor growls, but the humor lighting his dark eyes eases the threat.

Glorfindel grins tentatively. "But I'm your menace," he says hopefully, not wanting to sleep alone tonight.

Erestor arches an eyebrow and takes his time answering. "Indeed," he finally says, then swings his feet over the rail so he's facing the gardens beyond. For a second Glorfindel is sure that Erestor is leaving but the dark haired elf keeps his perch and tosses a sly look over his shoulder. "Brush my hair," he commands.

Glorfindel laughs, now knowing that he is forgiven.

Erestor's hair is heavy and thick, usually hanging down his back in rich waves that catch fingers that attempt to run through it. Most of the time Erestor can manage it quite well, but after a wash his hair takes on a life of it's own, curling and frizzing into a mess that's a chore to brush out.

It is a chore that Glorfindel has made his own. He smiles as he lifts the brush, recalling the first day he touched Erestor's hair.

Their early acquaintance had been bitter and filled with rivalry; both blinded by preconceptions of the other. Glorfindel had seen Erestor as an upstart youth, while Erestor had labeled him a washed out warrior seeking to reclaim glory at Elrond's side.

Suffice it to say they fought constantly.

Then one summer day, many centuries ago, one of their infamous arguments had erupted during lunch and led to a food fight. Glorfindel had passed Erestor the sugar, foolishly saying, "Erestor, make sure you add an extra helping to your tea; it might sweeten your disposition." For a moment Erestor had gapped at him in disbelief, unable to come up with a retort. Then his mouth had hardened into a thin, flat line and he flung his spoonful of sugar at Glorfindel, who quickly retaliated by dumping a pot of honey on the advisor's head.

It had not taken Glorfindel long to figure out why Elrond had thought it a fitting punishment for him to remove the mess from Erestor's hair. Who knew honey could cause so many knots?

Yet somewhere that day - between the threats, snide remarks and bitchy complaints - they began to talk. Something tentative began to form, and on the following evening, it was really no surprise to either when Glorfindel sat behind Erestor, asked how his day had gone, and began combing his hair.

There's a certain pattern to combing long hair and Glorfindel follows it without thought. One must begin at the bottom and work their way up, otherwise tangles tighten into knots. And pulled knots lead to sarcastic comments from sharp-tongued advisors.

Glorfindel's hands are large and trained for battle but in this task they know how to be gentle. He works silently, enjoying being near his beloved.

Erestor sighs, a gut deep sound. "The past hangs heavy on him this morning," he states sadly, looking at someone down below.

Glorfindel pauses in his brushing and peers over Erestor's shoulder to see whom the elf is talking about. Elrond slowly makes his way through the gardens, head bowed. His shoulders are slightly hunched and Glorfindel can tell that his friend is paying no heed to the snow covered landscape around him.

It is a sorrowful sight. Glorfindel buries his face in the crook of Erestor's shoulder, trying to block out the lost expression on Elrond's face. "It hurts me to see him thus," he whispers. "The Valar ask too much of him."

Erestor's wisdom runs deep and he spends a moment contemplating what Glorfindel has said. Never has Elrond's life been called ordinary, marked as it is with things both glad and sorrowful.

He reaches up and gently cups the back of Glorfindel's neck. "I know," he says gently, " but who are we to question the ways of the Valar?"

For a moment Glorfindel is silent, but when he speaks, his voice is both bitter and determined. "We are his friends."

tbc