Chapter Seventeen

The ground was wet, almost marshy around the river. The flood had receded without leaving a trace of the orcs, only the sodden earth hinted at what had happened.

Glorfindel sat on the river bank, having found the line where the water had come to and managing to stay dry. Elrond was staring upstream with a frown, Maethor standing guard as if expecting more orcs to come. Only Erestor seemed unsurprised, something akin to amusement hiding just out of sight.

"I did not explain that particularly well, did I?" Glorfindel asked him quietly. His talk of sensing the water and the orcs stepping into it contained little logic.

"Elrond understands enough." At least someone did. "Is there anything else we ought to know? You come here glowing and with the ability to raise a flood at will, may we expect the sun to suddenly be eclipsed or summer snow?" Erestor perched on the ground beside him.

"I do not glow," Glorfindel said defensively. "That is beyond ridiculous." Nonetheless he looked down at his hands to assure himself of the fact. There did not appear to be any unnatural light radiating from them yet Erestor's barely concealed smirk made him doubt his eyes on that account. Elrond returned to them slowly, examining the ground.

"My thanks, Glorfindel. You appear to have just handed us a protective barrier as if from Ulmo himself." Elrond smiled and nodded to Maethor.

"That does not deserve a frown," murmured Erestor. Their eyes met for the longest of moments before his ebony ones widened. "Oh." Gondolin had been protected by Ulmo, or so they thought, the hidden valley revealed to Turgon in a dream.

"Come," Glorfindel said quietly. They followed Elrond back towards Imladris. Gently Erestor took his arm and they both did their best to push Gondolin from their thoughts.

"Come and listen?" Erestor murmured as they entered the courtyard. "It is time you listened to them." Glorfindel's curiosity had been piqued, yet he had not gone and listened to the lays of Gondolin. Perhaps, he thought sadly, it was out of fear that they would confirm that his home was indeed gone. He gave a shallow nod, for it was Erestor asking him now and he felt obliged. If Erestor could bear to hear them then he could listen too.

For the first time since his arrival in Imladris Erestor sat with him at one of the lower tables. The rules of place which had once seemed to rigid he was beginning to notice did not really apply to anyone except Elrond whose place was set. The high table was more for those who wished to speak to him than a place of honour on most days. Whilst Maethor watched with an almost steely gaze from across the room, Erestor joined the table primarily made up of his guards without comment.

"How are the primroses?" he asked one of the archers.

"If anyone can remind them they are supposed to grow, I would be very much obliged." No guard was simply a guard, they were also gardeners, cooks, artists, each one doubling up as the number of people needed to run the household exceeded those living there.

"I will write them a memorandum," Hesten murmured dryly.

"Was the cloak salvageable?" the archer asked and the table broke out into quiet laughter at a story Glorfindel had missed.

"If by salvageable you mean repairable then yes, I would hardly say returned to its former condition." Erestor's smile came through in his voice even if his expression remained the same.

"Some wounds cannot be healed." Another round of laughter erupted as the archer shrugged. "It was superficial."

Maethor's dislike of Erestor was not reciprocated in his guards. Glorfindel found himself watching his companion carefully, waiting for a laugh. It did not come, only a thin smile could be extracted and he remembered Hesten's words. It seemed that any real emotion was reserved and he could not help but smile himself at that, feeling privileged.

Elrond led them out as always, the household spilling into the Hall of the Fire in a buzz of conversation. Second thoughts plagued Glorfindel. To hear the sagas of his friends' deeds seemed at once too moving and verging on the disrespectful. A light weight knocked his side as Erestor passed, pulling him back into the present. They both put on a smile for the other and he followed to the side of a circle that had gathered around a minstrel. Glorfindel pulled a chair into place and offered it to Erestor.

"Do not distress yourself," he murmured as he sat down. "I would not want to force you to hear something upsetting." Erestor sighed quietly, appearing to be having second thoughts on asking him to listen. "It lays them to rest, somehow." Glorfindel merely nodded and placed his hands either side of Erestor's neck on the back of the chair, not quite touching his shoulders.

It was melancholy, the song to Ecthelion, and far too mournful for him. The bard had neglected to mention the bright, mischievous life that had been extinguished in the fountain, focussing instead on the irony of it and the heroism of such an act. It seemed as if that was not what Erestor had had in mind to begin with either, it was no great saga but rather a slow lament. Then the minstrel caught Glorfindel's eye and smiled. He looked away quickly, uncomfortable at being noticed. His embarrassment faded when the music began.

"Fin?" It was the cool hand on his wrist that broke him from his thoughts.

"My breastplate was red," he said with a half frown, smiling lightly. "And the first wound was not as bad as it looked." Erestor's breath hitched for a moment uncertainly before he sighed.

"I shall have to be careful and not develop your ego," he murmured and Glorfindel laughed, feeling a weight lift from him. It hurt, to hear the songs as if his friends' deaths and their suffering were nothing more than tales, but it sanitised it somehow and cleaned the wound.