Chapter Twelve

A laugh, now that is a rare thing. Hesten's words ran through his head for the rest of the day, and the night that followed as he sat on his windowsill watching the waterfall. Erestor's laughs were rare, that saddened him somewhat. Erestor had had some time to grieve, and the loss of Gondolin would be understandably always present, yet to have become so grave that a laugh was considered a rare thing... Glorfindel wondered if he was affected someone, by what had happened to him, to be able to laugh and smile with Hesten and the others. Yet Isowen was not grave, and she had lost as much as Erestor had.

"We shall see to it, Thel," he murmured to his absent friend. Ecthelion would have tried to cheer his cousin up, but perhaps not as subtly or in the same manner as Glorfindel hoped to. Imladris was beautiful and Glorfindel knew he had a choice between taking his second chance at living or giving in to the nightmares. He glanced at the bed and sighed, tired after the patrol he knew he ought to try.

It did some good, he woke before dawn having had a little more rest than he was used to. He still retained some hope that the terrors would fade in time, although he would prefer to see time as Tuor had, day by day and with the passing of seasons erasing wounds rather than the passing of centuries dulling their pain. As he stared at the words on his ceiling, Glorfindel began to feel an idea forming. Ecthelion would have mocked him, he could almost feel the elbow in his ribs.

He went in search of Erestor once his morning duties in the stables and armoury were complete, hoping that nothing important would occupy the advisor that afternoon. It appeared that Erestor also played the role of librarian, caring for the large collection he and Elrond had amassed. Glorfindel stared at the long narrow room as he stepped into it for what he realised was the first time since his arrival. The high arches ceiling and half-hidden balconies stretched the length of the room, running above the long rows of shelves, each carved with trailing vines or waves. It was a breath-taking room, delicately crafted and as silent as a haven within the refuge of the valley. Glorfindel recognised it, despite never having been there. It was Pengolodh's library, built into a smaller space but as exact as any memory could be.

"Lost?" a murmur asked him, Erestor coming out from between the shelves with a pile of books in his hands.

"In time, perhaps," he answered. "It is remarkable." Erestor gave a quiet sigh.

"I could not resist taking a hand in this one room. Nothing else is replicated." Glorfindel followed him to the large table where another pile of books had been set.

"What became of him?"

"Pengolodh? He departed once Eregion fell. He never saw Imladris built, or agreed with my decision to come here." Glorfindel vaguely remembered Erestor being one of the Loremaster's numerous apprentices, there had been many young scribes such as him following Pengolodh around.

"Why was that?"

"A request from the Lady Galadriel is not lightly declined." Erestor had begun to sort through the books, handing the occasional one to Glorfindel who found himself a living shelf. "Was there something you needed?" Suddenly he remembered his idea.

"There was. The tongue of the Sindar is spoken here, which despite my best efforts I cannot speak as well as I should. Would there be some text here that I can borrow to help with that?" Erestor raised one eyebrow and shook his head.

"You cannot read Sindarin, unless your guards have taught you in the last few months. You can barely speak without swallowing your vowels. There is no book that will help with that." Glorfindel had known quite well that there would not be.

"Then perhaps you can point me in the direction of someone who would not mind taking the time to point out every fault I make."

"You know where to find your sister." That was where his plan faltered slightly. Isowen could teach him easily enough, and indeed she did. Yet that was not his goal.

"Can Isowen also speak Westron? I cannot see her taking the time to learn the language of orcs." He elicited a smirk from Erestor.

"Westron is the tongue of Men. It is called common, although it is not common to you. No, Isowen cannot." There was a pause as he leafed through the book in his hands before adding it to the ever growing pile Glorfindel was holding. "You are as transparent as glass. Come then, if you have naught else to do." Still carrying the pile of books, Glorfindel followed to the alcove containing two large armchairs and a low table. Erestor took the books, setting them back on shelves as they passed, knowing where each belonged without having to check.

"I do not want to be an annoyance," he said quickly.

"No, I have seen you and Ecthelion trying to be annoyances." They were almost there, so close to how they had been before, then Erestor's mouth set into a little hard line and it was lost. "You are not disturbing me."

"I am glad." Erestor sat down and Glorfindel tried to find a way to put him at ease again.

"Who taught you Sindarin in the first place? You came here knowing more than I would have expected."

"Artanis. She made me learn when we first reached the Sindar. She excelled, I did not."

"Clearly." Erestor had switched to Sindarin and Glorfindel was forced to follow it, although he noted that the pace slowed considerably. Hesten spoke more slowly to him, as did a few others. Maethor did not curb his quick tongue around him however. "I would leave Westron for a while."

"My tiny mind cannot handle two languages at once?"

"I have every confidence in your ability to grasp them. I do not think I could keep a straight face however. Westron has the unfortunate habit of using the same words as us to mean different things. Were you to try and ask about a gift, you would be talking about ants." It seemed a strange thing, that the Edain would use a language other than that of the Quendi, whose name meant speech after all.

"I have seen you keep a straight face, it is a gift of yours." Erestor smiled, only a tiny one but it was one small victory. Even Ecthelion could not make his cousin laugh, he had tried to during a lecture Pengolodh was giving, to no avail.

"Stop drawing out your i's, the Sindar are curt and brief."

"Is this more satisfactory?" Glorfindel asked. Erestor's bottom lip almost disappeared as he tried to keep quiet, despite the over-emphasised curt vowels.

"You sound ridiculous," he answered in Quenya.

"Sindarin sounds no better."

"Then you should hear Khuzdul. The dwarrow, they sound as if they are attempting to eat their teeth." It was a true smile that graced the thin lips that time.

"Whereas the Sindar settle for merely chewing their lips." Finally he received his wish and the quiet chuckle came.

"What makes you smile so?" asked Erestor. "You have not learnt any more than when you came."

"I did not come to learn, although you cannot seem to help but impart things. I came to make you laugh again, it has come to my attention that it is a rarity." Erestor stared at him blankly for a moment.

"You came to waste an afternoon simply to make me laugh?" Dumbly, Glorfindel nodded. Then, quietly, he heard the laugh again. "You- I have truly missed you, Fin."