…His hands in Triw's hair, holding it back from his face, trying to be efficient, business-like, trying not to show how his heart fluttered and danced as he held the damp tresses and carefully braided them up, binding them into a short, practical queue that wouldn't slip and fall around Triwathon's neck…
…Triwathon's neck, exposed to Parvon's gaze, a pulse beating there, the skin so soft and fresh, fragranced with his own washing mixture, the trust implicit in this, in being allowed to stand behind him and touch his hair…
…the sight of rough, ugly, hard hands around Triwathon's throat, his eyes glazed with pain, how dare anyone do this! Parvon reaching, grabbing, pulling the assailant away and delivering a neat punch with all his anger and fear behind it…
…Triwathon's hands so cold as he sat near the table where Glorfindel had lain in state, don't fade, do not you dare fade…!
Parvon shuddered and gasped himself awake.
He didn't often dream of Triwathon, and when he did, it was never usually like this, so close to a remembering of events. It was disturbing and uncomfortable and there was something more to it than just the dream, just the memory; there had been another level to his reverie, a sensual, sweet sense to start but which had dissipated as soon as the first image changed… but the sensuality was back now, lingering in Parvon's fëa and he knew, he knew what had happened…
Triwathon had found another love.
There was no more sleep in Parvon.
Instead, he found himself staring up at the rough rock ceiling, recalling something Triwathon had said back at the New Palace; at the time, it had seemed like a threat, or a promise…
'…I think I was so dazzled by Glorfindel that I cannot love again…'
But now it seemed to Parvon that Triwathon was no longer so blinded by the glory of the Hero of Gondolin that he could not find comfort in another elf's arms…
He sighed. Triwathon had always been out of his reach, Parvon knew that, in love with his poacher, and then with Glorfindel, to whom he had been constant during their long, long separation – and even after it had ended for them, Triwathon had never really stopped caring; Parvon had come to accept that while Glorfindel of Gondolin was in the world, Triwathon would not look at him. Which was something he had grown used to, as it had also meant Triwathon was not looking at anyone else…
And then Glorfindel had died, heroically, in Triwathon's arms…
… and then for Triw to have said that, to admit to being still so blinded by the glory of Gondolin that he was certain he would not find love elsewhere… while Parvon had felt pity for Triwathon, still he had drawn some comfort from it, that his own peace would not be shattered by seeing his most beloved friend with one, and then another…
But now that was ended.
There would be no peace for Parvon now.
It wasn't that he minded, not really, not if Triwathon could be happy; why should he object if the dearest person of his heart was content and at peace? It would be selfish to wish Triw's happiness depended solely on himself…! But Triwathon might make a mistake, fall for someone who would treat him badly, or leave him heartbroken, or not respect him and…
And even if he had no right to be hurt by Triw's actions, still, he lay in a misery of despair as he contemplated an eternity of worrying about Triwathon's safety with only the most meagre crumbs of friendship to sustain him through the pain…
Who might it be, though?
No, that was not a thought he wanted to pursue, but he could not help himself…
Most of the garrison were too far beneath Triwathon's rank for his sense of rightness; having been himself seduced by a commander when he was grieving his first love may have been the reason for it, but Triw had always frowned on relationships with too big a disparity of rank; much too easy for a captain to over-impress a new recruit… and then some were just not interested in ellyn, even though Triwathon was beautiful, strong and lithe with such wonderful hair and beautifully expressive eyes…
But the only elves close enough in rank to make an encounter acceptable for Triwathon were the captains; and two of those were elleth, and Narunir had not declared for male or female yet, but it seemed unlikely to be him… which really left the elves of the New Palace and its satellite villages, or the visiting warrior elves from Ithilien and the Old Palace… but many had husbands or wives already, and when Parvon thought of whom there was, he did not find anyone he thought likely to appeal to someone as discerning as Triwathon…
Well.
Triwathon was in the New Palace and Parvon was trammelled in the Old, with no hope of leaving… he would have to wait for the next convoy, and see what news that brought.
For once he was not entirely looking forward to the letter from Triwathon, who was not one to hide what was in his heart. No doubt, Parvon would soon have all the information he could wish for, and probably far too many details…
Parvon rose from the bed and went to shower; his hair felt inexplicably dirty… impossible, of course, but… anything to distract him from his current emotional confusion…
Still he couldn't settle. The night was getting old, but he had nothing to do towards his day's preparations – Melion had said for him to take the morning off and, really, while he wanted to be busy he did not want to be seen like this, not when he felt that his heart was on the point of breaking all over again…
How many more times could he patch himself up and keep going?
The rooms gifted to him seemed as alien and unwelcoming now as they had at first; he had tried hard not to remember, not to notice how close they were to the guest quarters Glorfindel had used and where Triwathon had visited him, but tonight he could not help but dwell on the fact that Triwathon had walked these corridors with Glorfindel's arm around his shoulders, and suddenly he couldn't stay there, couldn't bear this new life, and so he grabbed one or two essentials and left the rooms assigned to him with a particular place in mind.
He knew the way still, of course; had even been along these corridors once or twice, detouring from the shortest way so that he could walk past the door… it had always been shut, there were never any signs of activity, and so even though he knew there would be disapproval if he were discovered, still, he saw no harm in what he was about to do…
His old chambers. He went back to them now; his old key he had, of course, kept, and he used it now on locks that had never been changed; why would they, when all that lay within was a store of spare linens?
Closing the door softly behind him he placed his lantern in the niche just inside the room in the right-hand wall, as he had always used to do. The familiarity of the simple act calmed him, made him feel safe; this was his place, his sanctuary; his home ever since he had apprenticed himself to Lord Arveldir and the King's Office, even though he could have stayed in the family rooms; to him it was an important way of signalling his life was elsewhere, in service of the king, not his mother's early-expressed hopes that he would marry well.
This had been his place of privacy, his own, personal environment which he had shaped to suit himself; as he had matured, so had his chambers evolved to reflect his character; simple and clean, almost austere to the casual eye, but actually holding surprising notes if one looked hard enough; there was one large room which he had furnished with a writing desk which had been crafted from soft, shimmering beech (much to the consternation of the artificer he had approached with the request) but which had been a place of light and inspiration to work at; he regretted now the decision not to take it to the New Palace with him, but it had seemed needless to do so when the intention was for a fresh start.
Still, he wondered where his desk might be, if it still existed; two decades was not so long, after all.
The narrow sleeping alcove, separated off from the main room by a natural wall of rock which ran almost the length of the chamber, had been barely wide enough for a bed big only for one, but that suited Parvon's purpose in his early life as it had later; as a young apprentice, he had wanted no distractions, and once his fëa had reached out to Triwathon's, he wanted no other company, so the restricted space was consoling rather than confining. But on the ceiling above the narrow cot, the rock had been enhanced and decorated with chips of quartz or amethyst or citrine which had come into Parvon's possession; it was not quite a starscape, but it was close enough for him as he had lain in bed at night and pondered his future.
Now Parvon sighed as he looked around. No longer a place of calm, the alcove wall could not be seen for the trunks and bales of bedding piled against it. Similarly, the wall where his desk had been was filled with various stacks of boxes and linens, and where he had kept two chairs for sitting – not that he ever expected company, but two chairs balanced the room and to have just one would have perhaps engendered needless pity in his rare visitors or in the cleaning crew – that space was currently occupied by two vast coffers.
Yet there was something about the disarray that spoke to the turmoil in his heart, and the sense of calm he had felt when he'd set his lantern in place had not entirely escaped him. It was obvious from the labels on some of the boxes that these items had been stored for five years or more without being needed and so he began to explore the contents, to consolidate and rearrange and move items out into the corridor, leaving them neatly and compactly stacked in what had once been a utility alcove when the corridor had been inhabited by elves rather than by linens, and by doing so, by reordering his surroundings, he slowly, unconsciously, reordered his emotions.
Yes, Triwathon had found solace amongst the elves of the New Palace… but how much more painful would it have been had Parvon been there to see it happen? He had been spared that, at least! And it was just Triwathon's way; he was still, in many ways, the same insecure elf he had always been; it was just that he hid it well. As Commander of the Garrison, he was confident and a strong leader, but as Triw, the private person Parvon had come to know, he was less certain of himself… Glorfindel's death had hit him hard, but so, too, was the fact that it had been Glorfindel and his Rivendell friends who had seen off most of the dragons; that would have rankled, once Triwathon had time to notice it, and so perhaps this was his way of distracting himself…
Soon, tired and dusty, Parvon had the way to the sleeping alcove cleared; a swing of his lamp showed him it, too, was full of unwanted linens, but his starscape was still there, glittering overhead. The sight giving him new energy, he plunged in and dragged out case after case of fabric which made him sneeze and his hands itch, but he pressed on, tugging out at last the edges of a dust sheet under which, wedged in sideways, was his beloved desk.
Seeing it took him back twenty years, back before this current anguish, back when he was used to longing for Triwathon but not seeing him often, back when he knew who he was and where he was and what his days would hold, back when his service seemed to matter…
Back when he still had a sort of hope for his future and he maintained an equilibrium that allowed him to function in peace.
Perhaps, if he were resolute, he might regain that equilibrium again.
But he doubted he would be able to find the same sort of peace.