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The paperwork in Erestor’s office is piling ever higher, but he has no time to attend to it—King Thranduil’s delegation has given him nearly no time at all. In just two days, a host of twenty will invade their quiet home, and he’ll be expected to have feasts and entertainment and endless wine all at the ready. Poor Lindir likely hasn’t slept since the news arrived, and Erestor’s at the same point. Frazzled and perpetually frustrated, he stands amidst a pile of chairs in the garden just outside the supply shed, trying to decipher which will best suit the occasion. They must match the décor of whatever dining hall Erestor sets—otherwise King Thranduil will be sure to make note of it, and Lord Elrond will bear his displeasure. Furthermore, the furniture must be able to withstand several wine spills, as they’ve lost more than one set to that in the past.
No sooner has he made his choice than Elladan’s come to him, asking, “Should we withdraw some of the guard? Our current numbers are too few to manage if the Woodland party should bring a trail of orcs and wargs from the East...”
“Yes,” Erestor mutters, waving a dismissive hand in irritation—the guard is something he’s never been comfortable managing, but they haven’t yet found anyone else capable of overseeing it at his level. He can only make his best judgment based on his limited military experience, and he suggests, “Have two-thirds of the current patrols pulled back to guard our borders, particularly the Eastern gate.”
Elladan nods and retreats, grinning in wry amusement—he’s often said Erestor works too hard. But he and Elrohir are, to some extent, quite pampered, and don’t understand the true weight that sits on Erestor’s shoulders. Their father’s reputation comes down to him: he must represent their entire kingdom. And orchestrate it all. That reminds him; he’ll need to consult the minstrels. It’s challenge enough to find ones that know any Woodland songs, much less those that can play them under the duress of general Woodland ruckus.
With a shake of his head at the mere memory of King Thranduil’s last visit, Erestor begins packing the chairs that won’t do back into the dark confines of the shed.
He’s interrupted two chairs later by someone clearing their throat. Setting his current load back onto the grass, he turns to eye the culprit—which proves to be neither of the guard nor his own staff. For a moment, Erestor simply stares at the newcomer, partially because the face is the only new Elven one Erestor’s seen in two decades, and partially because it’s so blaringly beautiful.
His heart skips a measurable beat, and Erestor hurriedly schools himself back into place. It just goes to show how far his control has slipped during the chaos of this preparation—normally, none come through their gate that Erestor doesn’t know of. But he’s never seen this elf before, and he’s quite sure he would remember—even in the ideal land of Imladris, figures this gorgeous are rare to see.
Tall and broad-shouldered with a shock of golden hair brighter than any gem, the elf offers Erestor a smile. It lights his handsome face to impossible heights, touching his deep blue eyes. He wears simple riding gear, but his tunic’s parted down the front, exposing his sun-kissed chest right down past his stomach, where the taupe folds are tucked into his belt. His chiseled muscles gleam in the warm sun, and that state of undress, even more so than the magnitude of the look itself, is what tells Erestor this elf’s occupation. There’s no other explanation. He should’ve known King Thranduil would pull this trick. It isn’t the first time a Woodland elf has come early to their halls, slipping right over to Lord Elrond’s side and simpering lewd whispers in his ear. Too many hear of the noble lord of their peaceful lands and come for an easy ride, hoping to earn their riches merely by warming his bed. Erestor will admit, of all the many bawdy options that have come Lord Elrond’s way, this one, at least, is the most tempting.
But it’s no more appropriate, and Erestor’s gaze, fixed on the elf’s toned abs and pecs, fills with disapproval. He forces himself back up to the elf’s face, and he coldly announces, “Lord Elrond is not interested.”
The elf quirks a brow, expression dawning light-hearted puzzlement. In a melodic voice like deep honey and song, the elf asks, “Excuse me?”
“He is not interested,” Erestor repeats, not amused by the coy grin he’s given. “You are not the first barely dressed, useless trinket that has come to woo him, and though you will not be the last, neither will you be one that lasts. Our lord does not invite random floozies into his bed, so if you wish to make your new home in Imladris, traveler, you will have to pull your weight with a more productive occupation.”
Despite Erestor’s snapping—something he probably wouldn’t have leapt straight to if not for the strenuous circumstances—the elf looks contrastingly amused. He gives Erestor a subtle sweep of his eyes, causing Erestor to fight a blush and flurry of annoyance—he is no trifling fool to be admired for his looks. Then the elf bows his head and offers, “I apologize. I did not mean to offend you with my... floozy-ness. How may I be of ‘productive’ service to you?”
It’s, without a doubt, the easiest any passing harlot has ever taken Erestor’s harsh rejection. That puts him off balance for a moment, and he looks at the tall beauty, wholly disgruntled.
The elf glances idly at the chairs sitting around them, and that brings Erestor back to life. He points at one of the dark wooden set he’s chosen, then gestures up towards the platform beyond the rose bushes. “Take these chairs up to the stone balcony there. They must be set around the table.”
The elf nods his unreasonably attractive face and promises, “Consider it done.” Then he gathers the nearest two chairs up in his arms, carrying them each as though they weigh nothing at all, and he strolls off the way he came. Eyeing the taut muscles of his back, Erestor supposes at least there are some uses to this one—he’s certainly strong.
But Erestor has no time for ogling such nonsense, and he returns himself swiftly to his task—returning all the reject chairs. He needed them out to examine them properly in the light, but now he’s decided he shouldn’t need at least six of them. So he takes them back one by one, while the blond elf swiftly ferries the other twelve towards the balcony. He’s fetched his seventh and eighth when Erestor returns the final rejected chair, reemerging only to run into Lord Elrond, who’s stopped to examine the remaining furniture.
As soon as Erestor’s approached him, he greets, “Good morning, Erestor. I must thank you again for your efficient work—it seems there is no part of Imladris that is not in preparation for Thranduil’s arrival.”
Erestor dons his first smile in several days, returning, “Thank you.” Lord Elrond, at least, is a very appreciative lord, one Erestor’s never minded working studiously for.
Elrond then asks, “I suppose in all the commotion the letter may not have made it yet into your hands, but I have had word from Círdan that Lord Glorfindel should be arriving any day now. I realize our sentries by the Western bridge are somewhat scattered in all this commotion, so I do not suppose you have had word of him slipping through...?”
At first, Erestor doesn’t understand what he’s heard. He merely blinks and clarifies, “Lord... Lord Glorfindel...? As in the fabled Balrog slayer? The one of song and legend...?”
“Yes, that one. I do not claim to know the workings of the Valar, but I trust Círdan when he accounts that it is indeed Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin that sailed out of the West and has ridden for Imladris. I am told he is unmistakable to see—tall, strong, blond, and said to be exceedingly handsome. Have you met anyone of this description?”
Erestor’s mouth falls open. He closes it too indelicately, horribly aware that he’s paling.
Of course, the elf from earlier—Lord Glorfindel, apparently, it must be—chooses then to return. Before he can collect his ninth and tenth chairs, Elrond turns to him, greeting, “Ah, so the legends have perfect timing, too. Lord Glorfindel, I take it? It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Spotting the circlet around Lord Elrond’s forehead, Lord Glorfindel dips into a bow, only to straighten and announce, “No, the pleasure is all mine. And you must be Lord Elrond. I must say, you have a lovely home here, and—” he pauses to glance at Erestor, grinning broadly, “—very efficient staff.”
Lord Elrond offers him a mirrored smile. “Oh, you have met Erestor, then? Good. I had meant to introduce you, for he is my chief advisor, and he will undoubtedly make himself available to you for whatever you should need while you are here. Normally, he keeps my home running very smoothly. You must forgive the mess now; I am afraid we have a rather large delegation arriving shortly.”
“So I imagined,” Lord Glorfindel chuckles. “I would have been quite distraught if all this pomp and circumstance were for me. I had meant to arrive humbly, for I have not yet earned my title in this Age, but it seems Círdan has seen to it that my reputation follows me. But please, know that I am at your disposal as well; I did not come to be a useless trinket for your halls.”
A touch of confusion enters Elrond’s face at the wording, while Erestor’s cheeks heat against all his efforts. Lord Elrond suggests, “Perhaps we should have a walk and discuss your stay here. I am sure Erestor will appreciate the peace; he has much to do.”
“He does,” Lord Glorfindel agrees. “But he is rather charming, so I am sure he will get it done—one so beautiful should have no trouble motivating their staff.”
If Erestor could melt through the ground, he would. Lord Elrond only smiles indulgently and nods, gesturing forward. Lord Glorfindel moves to follow, but he pauses first to smoothly inform Erestor, “Please, forgive my rude departure—I promise, I will return as soon as I may to finish the task you set me.” And before Erestor can do anything about it, Lord Glorfindel has reached out and taken hold of his hand, then lifted it to kiss.
As Lord Glorfindel and Lord Elrond then depart, Erestor stays rigidly where he stands. When they turn the corner, he slumps down into one of the chairs.
It seems King Thranduil will no longer be the biggest blond complication in his life.
It’s some time before he recovers himself, and then he hurriedly moves to finish with the chairs before Lord Glorfindel can return and give him his dues.