Chapter Text
An air of bustling excitement hangs over the Hidden Valley, even this early in the day. Dawn has only just begun, but Elves are already stirring and beginning their preparations.
Erestor has bathed and washed his hair and moisturised his skin, and now stands before his wardrobe eyeing his options. In the end he dons a cream-coloured under-layer with a dark red robe of lightweight velvet, embroidered with flowering vines in cream silk thread; a slightly more festive choice than his usual plain work robes, though nearly all his clothing is made of rich, comfortable fabrics regardless.
Even as he chides himself for his own silliness, he takes a little more care with his hair than usual, with more elaborate braids holding his hair back from his face and meeting in a knot at the back. He would normally wear a circlet, but he leaves it off today, knowing that Glorfindel has other plans for such adornment; the idea sends a little frisson of anticipation curling through his stomach.
You are older than the Sun and Moon, he reminds himself sternly. You are enjoying the festival with a friend.
But his cheeks are still flushed with excitement as he puts on his usual rings and a pair of ruby drop earrings, and fastens his money pouch to his belt.
The sturdy file and stylus he finally picks up are perhaps not usual festive accoutrements, but the denizens of Imladris would be surprised to see him without it at a celebration.
He leaves to begin his rounds; first he heads down to the kitchens to look in on the preparation. Loaves of bread, made with the winter barley harvest, and various savoury pasties are being cooled. Potatoes and beets and carrots are being peeled, eggs being boiled and dyed, early apples being baked with cinnamon and honey, and preparations being made to roast game and descale bream and trout ahead of the feast. The trade shipment bearing sugar had arrived in time, and - he checks with Thorndûr—the marchpane, a favourite festive treat amongst Elves, has already been prepared.
Satisfied, he moves to the festival fields, where the newly repaired and refreshed pavilions and bunting had been erected a couple of days prior. Tables had been brought out and game areas and tournament fields marked out the previous day, and now the various artisans and games-masters are setting up. Erestor moves among them, glancing through his lists and keeping his ears pricked for any issues.
He corrals and sends a runner to collect more hanging hooks for a panicked artisan trying to set up her display, and helps others shift the markers for a game area to avoid a tree root that had gone unnoticed the previous evening. He has strong words with an Elf who had forgotten to keep an emergency bucket of water by their brazier. He has already ensured that the traders have all been well-billeted, and now he checks that the market area is to everyone's liking, and flags down a guard and sends him back to the House to collect some spare tablecloths for a merchant whose display cloths have been soiled by travel.
This is how festivals usually start for Erestor, and he prefers it this way.
By the time Elrond comes to join him and declare the festival officially open, he is resting briefly by the main pavilions and finishing a goblet of cool cordial.
*
Glorfindel wipes the sweat from his brow as he bids the farmers farewell, having helped them unload the last of the crates for one of the market stalls lining the main street.
There has not been a shortage of work in the days leading up to the festival. It is always this way, of course; no matter how well one plans for things, always there are some unaccounted, sometimes impressively creative problems the residents and visitors of Imladris find themselves having.
Glorfindel makes himself and the guards available for such occasions, as extra hands for whatever needs to get done. They do it gladly, but even so, it is a relief to finally see the festival announced open, with the people as ready as they can be for the beginning of the festivities.
Glorfindel makes his way to one of the smaller pavilions across the field, where the guards stay to rest in between shifts. It is where Glorfindel left his things, outer robe chosen for the occasion included; there had just been too much work and the sun too high up in the sky for him to wear it. He is left in his cooler white inner tunic, which even eventually found its ties loosened to cool off Glorfindel's neck and chest, and with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
On the way, Glorfindel spots a figure by the main pavilions that makes him stop in his tracks. Conscious though he is with the state of his attire, hair even still tied low and haphazardly with a ribbon behind his head, Glorfindel nevertheless finds his feet taking him to the other Elf.
“I see you finally,” he tells Erestor as a way of greeting, once he's near enough to where the other Elf is standing. “I was afraid we would keep missing each other with the way the day is going.”
Erestor looks up at the familiar voice, and his face suddenly feels very warm.
Glorfindel appears to have lost half his clothes somewhere, with his collarbones and the top of his chest peeking out most distractingly from soft white linen. Strong forearms, too, are on display, making Erestor feel like a callow youth in his first flush of spring. He is by no means inexperienced, and yet he is reduced to taking another quick sip of his drink to hide the faint flush to his cheeks brought about by mere forearms. How utterly embarrassing.
Worst of all is that, despite his casual hairstyle and general state of déshabillé, Glorfindel still looks like a regal Lord of old. No clothing could detract from his height or broad shoulders, and nothing could draw the eye more than the golden shine of his hair and the general bearing of one who has seen the Trees.
“I see you have been kept even busier than myself,” he manages to say evenly. “Perhaps you should rest and get a drink before you chase down whomever has stolen your clothes.”
Despite being in conversation with a visiting Laurelindórenan scholar nearby, Elrond keeps half an eye on this interaction with no small amount of amusement. Erestor might seem unruffled to most, but Elrond has known him enough to know otherwise.
Glorfindel laughs at Erestor's comment, though his cheeks flush now from more than just the sun. “Oh, you know how it is,” he says, throwing in even a conspiratorial wink. “This time of year especially, they cannot get enough of us.”
He looks outside to where members of the guard are still scattered. One passes by carrying sacks over his shoulder; a few others gather around one of the long tables laden with food, while another is hammering away beside the tents. There are still quite a few things to do, although soon Glorfindel expects he would see more of them going around in leisure.
Glorfindel is likely joking—now that Erestor has had time to get used to the other’s state of dress, he knows it must just have been from the various fetch-and-carry tasks he generally entrusts the off-duty soldiers with—but he has hit on one of the other reasons Erestor has not wanted to make any sort of move.
Glorfindel could have anyone. Certainly there is no shortage of Elves vying for his affections. Erestor knows they are good friends, and at times he even suspects a hint of something more from the other Elf, but even if Glorfindel were at leisure to pursue such things Erestor would not risk their friendship over something so uncertain.
For a brief moment he regrets having given in to foolishness and spent so much time on his hair. Then he forcefully banishes the maudlin thoughts as Glorfindel turns back to him, and his shoulders relax as he focuses on enjoying the present. At the very least, he will spend a pleasant time with his friend.
This close, Glorfindel indulges in a moment to look at Erestor properly. The gentle breeze plays with locks of hair not caught in his lovely braids, framing a face that is more relaxed outside the walls of the main house. Erestor has also chosen a beautiful robe for the occasion, the red becoming, with intricate designs clinging and curling around slender curves, tempting the eyes to stray.
Glorfindel valiantly keeps himself in check. He bites his tongue, too, to keep from saying anything that sounds as besotted as he feels.
“As for whether we are busier than you—” He clears his throat and sees the bottle of cordial and a few goblets on the table behind Erestor “—that, I highly doubt. In places, I see your handiwork, so I thought surely Imladris has kept you occupied since dawn.”
He pours himself a drink, glad for the fortification.
“I have indeed been up since dawn,” Erestor agrees, joining Glorfindel in pouring himself another drink, “but it looks as though you have been just as busy.”
One of the younger kitchen assistants is approaching, bearing a platter of marchpane shaped like flowers and leaves; he swerves to offer Erestor and Glorfindel some before placing it on the table alongside the drinks.
“Thank you, Bergedil,” Erestor murmurs, helping himself to a couple of flowers. He pops one into his mouth, enjoying the lovely flavours of sugar and rosewater and finely ground almond as the delicate blossom, painted pale purplish red with the faintest coat of cherry jam, melts on his tongue.
“I shall have to resume my rounds soon and check in with the kitchens and the games-masters, but you are welcome to join me. Will you be fighting in any of the tournaments?”
“Galadir signed me up for them,” answers Glorfindel with a slight chuckle, speaking of his second in command, “says he needs the competition. I gave him my condolences, for winning each year must truly be such a chore, and vowed to rid him of his burden as quickly as I can manage.”
He shakes his head at the memory, but not without fondness. The guards of Imladris share a level of camaraderie that is perhaps the most familiar with one another than any in Glorfindel's experience, brought about perhaps by the size of the valley. Nearly all of them used to belong to Lindon’s army, and while technically they still do, over the years, Imladris has grown into its own self and character.
Erestor huffs in amusement. “That is one thing I admire about our warriors—you are all so very humble.”
Still, he remembers that sort of easy camaraderie. In Himring there had been no such delineation of professions; every Elf had to train regularly to keep their skills up, and everyone did a turn on patrol and served in the army.
As far as Erestor is concerned, Imladris’ army performs all the better for having been given a choice. He does not blame his former lords—those had been hard times—but he is ever thankful for the relative peace Imladris now enjoys.
Glorfindel smiles at Bergedil when the Elf bids them farewell, thanking him for the treats. The festival is never short of things like this, good food and new recipes that Elves are only too happy to introduce during the festive occasion. It doesn't escape Glorfindel that Erestor is fond of such simple decadence, and it is in fact thanks to him that Glorfindel has become acquainted with the more novel fare in the new age.
“If you are already doing your rounds, then I am happy to join you,” Glorfindel says to him. “I was just on my way to retrieve my things. Can we pass by the guards’ station on the way?”
“Of course. Let me just finish this and we can go to the guards’ station.” Erestor drains his goblet and leaves it in the lined basket for dirty cups, and then eyes it consideringly—it is already nearly full—and then tucks his file into his sash and hefts the basket. “I need to go to the kitchens anyway; this will save them a trip.”
Glorfindel leads them to one of the smaller pavilions, a little off to the side past some stalls and where archers have set up for an event later in the day. They greet friends and acquaintances along the way, which, as it turns out, is practically everyone between the two of them. With the day, the fair weather, everyone is in good cheer, so that Glorfindel already knows to recognise the sidelong looks and the air of impending mischief on a few faces upon seeing the two of them side by side.
He makes sure to steer Erestor away from those people, just to be sure. Erestor has not missed the looks of mischief either, and is grateful for Glorfindel's ability to avoid them.
“Here we are!” Glorfindel announces once they have reached the guards’ station. He quickly reaches over for the basket Erestor is holding. “Come, give it here. Take a seat and I will just be a moment.”
He places the basket on a table to the side. There is only but one other Elf there, a young recruit, who appears to be busy fixing the straps on his shoes. That at least affords them a bit of peace, and Glorfindel nods to him in greeting before making his way to where he left his things. Meanwhile, Erestor seats himself gracefully and waits, although a small part of him cannot help but mourn the loss as Glorfindel ties his tunic shut.
He chose for the occasion a robe of light blue. He quickly ties his inner tunic before shrugging on the outer robe, pulling at the high collars so they fit properly around his neck. He makes his way down the buttons along the front, adjusting where the robe is fitted along the chest and waist before it flows more freely down and over his trousers. Next goes the tie on his hair so that it now falls back down his back and shoulder. Glorfindel rakes his fingers through to get it to some semblance of order, though there is only so much he can do not being in his rooms.
There are unfortunately no mirrors in the pavilion, and so he turns—a little self-consciously—to Erestor. “I’m afraid you're going to have to tell me if I still look terrible, or at least fine enough for the festival, my friend,” he tells him.
Annoyingly, in Erestor’s opinion, the blue robe suits Glorfindel just as well as his half-open tunic had; the colour complements his eyes and the fabric fits his broad chest in a most distracting manner, golden embroidery glinting as he moves, nearly as bright as his hair.
Perhaps it is not quite as grand as what one might expect of a former Lord of Ondolindë. But then, there is little point in gilding a lily. Or a celandine.
Mentally scolding himself for his fanciful thoughts, Erestor rises and approaches. "I do not think you would want my opinion on your appearance; I have very high standards," he says teasingly. He slants a quick look towards the young recruit—who still appears to be occupied—and reaches up and adjusts the collar a little. Then he nods towards that golden mane. "May I?"
It takes much from Glorfindel to stay still when Erestor steps into his space, the light brush of his fingers against Glorfindel's neck even pulling a shiver that he has to fight to hide. He had not expected Erestor to fix him himself, although Glorfindel supposes that he ought not be surprised, for it is the more practical and efficient approach.
Most days Glorfindel thinks he does well, navigating through a friendship with Erestor without betraying any desire for more. Times like this, however, he fears of faltering.
He ducks obediently when Erestor gestures to his hair. By this point, Erestor can move him whichever way he wants, and Glorfindel will just let him. “I do wonder what it takes to meet your standards,” Glorfindel murmurs thoughtfully, fighting to keep still when he has Erestor's fingers in his hair. “I find myself profoundly curious, and yet also nervous. Perhaps you are right and it is best I do not know.”
"I think it would be a very long list, were I to write it down," Erestor replies distractedly, entranced by the soft golden strands slipping through his fingers. "It is best I keep it to myself."
He realises rapidly that facing Glorfindel with his hands in the other's hair is perhaps a bad idea, and slips around to stand behind him, quietly taking a deep breath to calm himself. From this angle he can finger-comb that lovely hair and re-tie it a little more neatly.
Not that it had been particularly badly askew the first time.
"There," he murmurs. "Much neater. And that reminds me, I believe I was promised a flower crown?"
Glorfindel may have been too quick to jump at that excuse, for there is no way that the flush on his skin isn't showing. He turns to where his robe earlier was, though notes briefly that they are alone now in the pavilion, the young guard likely already done with his business and slipped away.
On the bench sits a large basket, inside of which rest the crowns he and his fellows at the flower gardens have worked on since the day prior. There are a variety of flowers, so that each participant can come to pick based on their preference. One in particular, however, sits on top of the pile.
“These came from my personal gardens,” he tells Erestor, holding up a crown of bluebells set against a frame of fresh leaves and delicate baby’s breath. “There is no other crown like it, for they are new at least to the valley. A few years back, I found a small bed of them growing west of the Mitheithel during one of our patrols. I brought back a few and have been doing my best to grow them here in Imladris. It took some years, but I managed, and this year they finally flowered.”
What he doesn't say is that he recognised the flowers from a book sold to him long ago by a visiting merchant from Númenor, and that was where his interest in the rare flowers began. There were many plants that were new to him upon his return to Middle-earth, and this fascinated him, as had been learning that the Secondborn associated meaning to them. Giving them as gifts, therefore, often bring with them special sentiments, from the giver to the receiver.
Constancy. Gratitude. Glorfindel ticks the meaning of the blue blossoms in his head. They are perfect for what Erestor is to him, a dependable, necessary presence in a world whose burdens Glorfindel has long ago taken as his own.
Humility…. and everlasting love. Erestor is an indulgence, Glorfindel knows, and each moment spent with him is reprieve Glorfindel prays could at least be allowed to him. Perhaps if the Valar had been more merciful, they would have taken away the part of him that could fall in love. But as it stands, Glorfindel remains in their service even as his heart seeks to thrive elsewhere, to set its roots there and never leave, if only it were up to him.
“May I?” It is Glorfindel's turn this time to ask, holding the flowers up over Erestor's head. “When you said I could pick for you, they were immediately what I thought about.”
“They are lovely,” Erestor manages to say, swallowing before bowing his head slightly, eyes half-closed and heart thudding as the flowers settle gently on his head.
There are many who would assume that the Chief Counsellor’s extensive knowledge of Númenor and its customs is simply a diplomat doing his due diligence, or Erestor’s usual curiosity about the world.
But Erestor had accompanied his liege-lords to Sirion. He had helped raise Elros and Elrond, and loved them as his own. And Elros had been fond of flowers.
Over the generations the fondness for flowers amongst Númenorean nobles had been codified into a flower language, of sorts, and Erestor was familiar with it. It would not do, after all, to have a bouquet with an offensive meaning placed in the room of a Númenorean ambassador. But more than that, he thinks Elros would have been amused by it.
There is a nondescript book on the subject on the bookshelves in his personal rooms, and in his mind’s eye he can already see the entry for bluebells, the lovingly rendered ink drawing of it and the neat text.
The bluebell signifies humility, constancy, gratitude, and everlasting love.
He would not apply that label to himself, but Glorfindel is certainly humble. He has been a constant presence in Erestor’s life ever since his return, and Erestor finds himself grateful for it.
Everlasting love. Erestor thinks it is perhaps too soon to claim such a thing, no matter how much his foolish heart yearns, or clings to the silly hope that Glorfindel had given him bluebells on purpose in full knowledge of their meaning. Elves, after all, do not bother with such things; to the Firstborn all flowers are a gift from Yavanna, and herald the coming of spring and another year and nothing more.
His eyes blink open, green gaze settling on Glorfindel. “You did well growing them,” he compliments, although from his black-thumbed perspective, growing anything at all is an achievement. “And what of your own crown?”
Glorfindel brightens at the compliment, as at the sight of the bluebells on Erestor's precious head. He then bends down to take the basket again in his arms, and this time, he presents the pile of blooms to Erestor.
“Seeing as you have so graciously allowed me to select your crown for today, I thought I might return the favour and have you pick for me.”
There are plenty of options in the basket, all of which Glorfindel himself is quite fond of. They come from their gardens, after all, which brings Glorfindel not just a small amount of pride.
And even if he were to pick a crown for friendship when he wears one for love, thinks Glorfindel, noting what meaning each flower carries, it would still be dear to me.
"You and your fellow gardeners have certainly been busy," Erestor observes. "They are all lovely."
His gaze flicks through the basket, searching for daffodils; there are two wreaths woven in with daffodils near the top, and he picks them out to weigh one in each hand and consider his choice. They are a bright, cheerful flower and one he is fond of.
To mortals they symbolise rebirth and new beginnings, as well as hope, joy and luck. It privately amuses Erestor to give a symbol of rebirth to an Elf who has been reborn to live his second life on Arda.
Of course, to anyone else it might simply seem as though Erestor has merely gone with an obvious choice for the former Lord of the Golden Flower, and he is happy to let Glorfindel have that misconception.
The first daffodil wreath is interwoven with equally bright, cheerful daisies; they are popular with Elven children. To humans, though, they mean innocence and motherhood.
Perhaps not the best choice.
The other has little red aster blossoms interspersed amongst the daffodils. Undying love.
Erestor is still hesitant to make such a declaration—it feels bold and as though he is getting ahead of himself.
But then, aside from possibly Elrond, who else would know? And Elrond would likely only tease him in private later. Besides, with the aster blossoms' tiny yellow centres, the overall effect with the daffodils is pleasing.
Erestor lets the other wreath drop back into the basket and holds his chosen circlet up, motioning for Glorfindel to bend slightly. "This one."
Glorfindel knows it’s silly, but he watched with bated breath when Erestor was picking between the two wreaths. It cannot mean anything, he tells himself, even as Erestor picks the one with red aster.
Daffodils. Aster. Glorfindel has always had a fondness for daffodils, and in this new life especially, they are quite apt. But the asters are flowers for love, which he, too, would wear, just as Erestor wears the crown Glorfindel picked for him.
His cheeks flush with approval as Erestor places the crown of flowers over his head. His smile might have been too pleased as he leans back up again, but that cannot be helped. In any case, they have errands to do—Erestor to the kitchens, and Glorfindel himself with a basket of flowers to give away.
The flowers are perhaps the finishing touch to the whole picture Glorfindel makes, in Erestor’s opinion. The daffodils suit him well, the aster bright little points of contrast against his hair. He looks inordinately pleased with the selection, too.
Erestor quietly files this picture away in his mind, to admire much later in the quiet of his rooms, as he turns back to his basket. Glorfindel is just about to invite Erestor to leave when a voice calls behind them, breaking the quiet spell in the pavilion.
“I see now why young Laeros came out the field running,” says Galadir as he steps inside the pavilion. He straightens there at the entrance, arms akimbo as he grins at the two of them; Glorfindel throws him a warning look, which he takes in stride, glancing up at their flower crowns. “Nice day for the festival, huh? Good morning, Captain, Chief Counsellor.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Erestor says evenly, picking up his basket. “We were just on our way out. Would you like a wreath?”
Galadir grins at him, eyes flicking between their crowns again. Erestor senses mischief in that grin. “I would love one, Chief Counsellor. You two seem to have coordinated yours so well; perhaps I might trouble you to choose for me?”
The words are innocuous enough, but there is enough insinuation in the tone that Erestor’s lips curl down faintly at the corners. The other Elf has a point, he realises; though perhaps done unconsciously, each of them now wears a flower wreath coordinating with the other’s outfit. Erestor’s bluebells complement Glorfindel’s blue attire, and the other’s red aster matches his own deep red robes. It is the sort of thing a couple might do intentionally, and now all who see them will draw certain conclusions.
It would be easier to ignore, if only those conclusions were not something he wanted.
Had they truly been courting, such a gesture - subtle but unmistakable—is exactly the sort of public statement Erestor would be comfortable with. He would have shared his knowledge of mortal flower customs, and they might have reveled in the extra layer of meaning to their chosen adornments, a private message only for them.
Now, however, it only leaves his chest feeling hollow.
He tips his head towards Glorfindel a little stiffly. “He is the expert, and can find you a wreath. But I really should be on my way. Good day. I shall see you later, Captain.”
The panic at Erestor’s departure is immediate, both from Glorfindel and their uninvited third wheel.
“Uh…” starts Galadir, looking like he is about to go after Erestor himself, but at the last minute turns wide, questioning eyes at Glorfindel. “Uhm—”
“Later.” Glorfindel pushes the basket of flowers to him; he trusts the man is smart enough to know what to do with them at a spring festival.
He sprints out to catch Erestor, just making out the mouthed ‘Sorry!’ from Galadir. He’ll deal with his second later—Galadir knows about Glorfindel’s regard for Erestor, for he has hinted at it many times before. Glorfindel admits it’s perhaps a poorly kept secret at this point, and while he is still torn between duty and desire, he knows that his friends mean well when they push him to pursue Erestor.
It is just unfortunate that things are not always so easy.
“Erestor!” He catches up to the other, overtaking him at least to slow him down. “Wait, Erestor. Here, please let me take that.”
Although there is a bit of a fight, he manages to wrest the basket Erestor is carrying and holds it against his side.
“I’m sorry about Galadir,” he says to Erestor. He does not know what excuse to make, or what exactly ticked Erestor off. But somehow he also knows, somewhat guiltily, that Galadir had seen something back at the pavilion enough to quip about, and Glorfindel had a hand in it. He would deeply regret it though if he might have indulged too much and misstepped enough to upset Erestor.
“Come now, please,” he coaxes, hoping to lighten the mood. “Did we not promise to spend the day together? Do not leave me with Galadir, he is terrible company.”
Erestor sighs, conscious of other Elves around them. “I did warn you I would be busy.”
It is not even Galadir’s fault that he reminded Erestor of things out of reach; the other Elf was only commenting on what he observed.
He resumes walking, trusting that Glorfindel will follow. “I believe it is considered poor manners to publicly badmouth one’s officers, no matter how true it may be.”
Melpomaen jogs up then, looking rather harried. To his credit, he only spares Glorfindel a quick glance. “Erestor! That new group of Dwarven merchants only applied for a license to sell metalwork, but they have brought some kegs of beer and are offering draughts to any who can beat them in impromptu wrestling contests, and now that whole corner of the market is getting chaotic. Should I stop them or move them?”
With a sigh, Erestor stops walking and pulls the file out of his sash, flipping to maps of the festival grounds.
“Tell them they may continue if they move to the north tournament field. It will not be used until late afternoon, so they have until then.”
Melpomaen nods. “Thank you. I like the flowers!” he adds before dashing off.
Erestor gazes after him, shaking his head, before continuing towards the House. “Will you be dropping by? I seem to recall you have a taste for beer.” He pronounces ‘beer’ rather distastefully.
Glorfindel watches Melpomaen leave before turning back to Erestor. “I suppose I do well enough,” he says with a chuckle, “but not so much that I would wrestle a Dwarf for it. We can pass by later to see how they are faring, if you like, although I trust Melpomaen and the guards watching the market should be able to take care of things.”
Glorfindel can only imagine the scene. Imladris already takes in quite a few interesting characters on its regular days, but on festivals like this when the valley especially welcomes visitors, it can indeed get truly rowdy. It is expected of such events, and so the guards are scattered in every area to help out in case of any great disturbances. The market in particular is a focus for their rounds given the heavy crowd it pulls, and with the addition of Melpomaen, a young administrator who nonetheless seems keen to follow in Erestor's footsteps, things ought to be under control.
“And as for Galadir,” he says, turning them so they are headed towards the direction of the kitchens once again, “he has heard far worse from me. Sometimes I even think it amuses him.”
"Yes, I suppose if I took that many knocks to the head, I too would confuse insults for compliments," Erestor said dryly. "An occupational hazard of longtime warriors, I suppose."
Glorfindel laughs and shakes his head at Erestor's remark, long used to the other Elf’s quips about warriors. They enter the cool shade of the house, though it is much less serene than usual; a troop of children dash past on some sort of dyed egg scavenger hunt the schoolmistress has organised, and a trainee minstrel is sitting in the hallway frantically fitting a new string to her instrument.
They reach the kitchens soon enough, and Glorfindel places the basket of used cups on a table on the side with similar items waiting for a wash.
“Oh, this is a pleasant surprise." It is Thorndûr, the head cook, who approaches upon seeing them. He nods to Erestor in greeting before fixing his eyes at Glorfindel. “I was expecting Erestor, at least, but not you.”
“Just tagging along,” Glorfindel says with a smile.
"Yes, he has to earn his keep somehow.” Self-conscious about the image they make once again, Erestor moves forward to speak with Thorndûr. “How are things going? And is all good for the luncheon in two days or should I send out a hunting party?”
Various ambassadors and scholars are visiting Imladris for the festival, and he and Elrond are hosting them for lunch in two days.
They spend a few minutes talking of menus and supplies, while Elves bustle around them and another kitchen hand offers Glorfindel a chicken and mushroom pasty.
Glorfindel hangs around for the most part while Erestor works with the head cook. He accepts the treats the others give him, doing odd jobs in exchange—carrying crates of supplies still coming in, washing vegetables, handing over dishes for the kitchen assistants to give away at the festival—that the cooks and kitchen hands are only too happy to make him do. It is not so bad as far as spending his free time goes; certainly one cannot complain having first taste of what would soon be their festival spread.
Soon, Erestor's work is done and they are bidding the kitchen staff farewell. Glorfindel, ever conscious of Erestor's moods, glances at his companion as they make their way out into the fields again. He can sense that the tension in Erestor from earlier exchanges with the people they met has not yet quite passed, and he wonders how to ease his friend from it.
“How about we take a detour here?” he suggests, pointing to a path that led a little further away from where most of the activities are. At the end of it, they will eventually return to where the games and the crowds are, but at least in the meantime, they can afford to slow down a little.
Erestor follows his companion into the market, glancing around curiously. Aside from minor hiccups like the Dwarf beer incident, the day is running smoothly thanks to all the preparation, and by now Erestor has trained his assistants well enough to have things in hand.
Down the path are still lines of merchant stalls, mostly from further places east and south and with wares that are less familiar this side of the Misty Mountains. The area is therefore still quite slow, just a few adventurous visitors keen on new discoveries.
Erestor always makes a point to come down to this end of the market during festivals, soothing his curiosity about the world beyond the Misty Mountains; he has not been further than Eregion. It is still relatively quiet and peaceful, and he takes a deep breath, grateful to Glorfindel for knowing to bring him here for a moment.
They pass a pleasantly smelling stall where a lady watches the front. Her head is streaked with grays, but she has a pleasant smile that comes to the Secondborn in their later years. Off to the side in an open area beside her stall, she has a large pot on top of an earthen brazier filled with embers, while in front of her stall are bags of dried things—leaves, flowers and spices, all interesting blends for tea.
“Would you like to try?” she asks, gesturing to the side where a few charming tea cups are displayed.
The air grows more fragrant as Erestor approaches the stall and his eyes light up, glancing curiously at the various blends. “I would love to try some,” he answers warmly, before glancing back at Glorfindel. His excitement over the tea has him reaching to wrap a hand around Glorfindel’s forearm, gently tugging the taller Elf forward to join him; Glorfindel nearly stumbles when Erestor pulls him, careful as he had been trying to be to give the other Elf some breathing space after where they have been. “And you? I know you do not care quite as much for tea, but there may be some sweetened children’s blend that appeals to you.”
He breathes in the fragrance of the different blends, hands hovering between a fruity black tea—likely oolong, though he cannot quite identify the fruit—and an interesting, smoky-smelling tea.
“Hey now,” Glorfindel says, though the admonishment comes weak when the corners of his lips are tugging into a smile given the warm, distracting weight of Erestor’s hand against his arm. “I like it well enough. I just may not drink it with the same kind of reverence and euphoria you and Elrond strangely get when you do—” conscious of their present company though, he turns to the merchant “—but I do like it, truly. Please do not listen to him.”
The merchant laughs. "Tea can be enjoyed with or without ceremony! Just make sure you brew it properly."
Glorfindel peers down at the options and chooses a cup filled with a light-coloured tea, just with a touch of green. The smell is surprising—something roasted mixed with the leaves—and he takes a sip.
Erestor lets go of his companion and selects a cup with a much darker brew; it is the smoky, interesting scent he had been drawn to before. He inhales deeply and then takes a sip, and lets out a little surprised, pleased sound before he can stop himself. The flavour is lovely, with a rich, smoky, deep flavour lending complexity to the tea.
The lingering tension in his shoulders and around his eyes is smoothed out as he drains the cup. "Oh, that is lovely. A sort of smoky, woodsy flavour. What is it?"
The merchant grins, already picking up a little bag in readiness. "It is called lapsang souchong. It is dried and smoked in baskets above pinewood fires. Would you like a bag?"
Erestor eyes the empty cup with a trace of disappointment. "I think I might indulge and get a box, actually, if you wouldn't mind."
The woman's eyebrows raise, though she looks pleased as she rummages in a crate. She pulls out a pretty, beautifully painted tin and begins to carefully scoop tea into it from one of the jars on a side table. Erestor looks over the other samples and sniffs the other bags.
"You have a much bigger selection than when you last came, two years ago. What fruit is in this one?" He raises the other cup he had been considering.
Fine lines around her eyes crinkle as she smiles. It is something Erestor finds both fascinating and terrifying about the Secondborn, how easily they show their age. Despite his choice, Elrond, too, has the beginnings of such lines around his eyes. "I was not sure then if it would be worth bringing so many. Now I know how much you Elves like tea! And that one is lychee oolong—lychee is a sweet fruit from the soapberry tree, and we like it in tea and sweets."
Erestor sips it; it is a lovely, delicate flavour. Not nearly as strong as the other tea, but it has a natural sweetness that he very much likes. "I shall get a box of this one as well, then, and a bag of peach oolong, if you have any? And tomorrow I shall bring my boxes of plain oolong and jasmine for a refill, if you would not mind."
"For a repeat customer like you? Of course! And are you liking the genmaicha?" She addresses this last to Glorfindel, with some extra amusement; it is amusing to her, to see one so youthful-looking drinking a brew that, at home, is popular among the elderly. Although, she thinks, he is likely far older than even the oldest in her city.
She slants a glance at Erestor, seeing the lack of any basket or bag, and pulls out a thin sheet of hemp that had been lining a crate to wrap his purchases in.
Glorfindel takes another sip of his drink, downing the lot. “I am indeed,” he tells her. “What a pleasant, calming flavour. What is that, mixed with the tea?”
“That is the toasted rice,” the merchant explains. “We roast it and it pops in the process, which is why the children love to call it ‘popped rice’ tea. It does give a good aftertaste, no?”
“Hmm.” Glorfindel picks a cup and hands it to Erestor. “Try it, it's really nice. Although I will already get one, so you can just stop by if you ever would like it again.”
“Oh, this is also interesting,” he adds, picking up another cup, this time with a drink that is a deep ruby colour. “Is this colour because of a flower, perhaps?”
“That is right,” the lady says with a nod. “It is made of hibiscus flowers, which grow abundantly in the south.”
She watches curiously as the tall Elf takes a sip of the second tea. The flavour is quite far from the one he earlier picked, and so is a little surprised when he declares he is buying that one as well. Although she supposes, glancing at his companion in the deep red robes, some things just naturally catch people's interest.
Lips curving up slightly, Erestor takes a sip of the cup Glorfindel had handed him. It is very pleasant, with a sort of toasty, nutty flavour and natural sweetness, as if someone had combined the flavour of a good porridge with the delicate quality of tea - although given the popped rice, that makes sense.
"Very nice indeed. I shall suffer your company in return for more of this," he teases. "And now who is getting excited over tea, hmm?"
He takes several coins out of his money pouch, enough to cover the two teas Glorfindel has thus far picked out as well as his own purchases—Glorfindel meant to stop Erestor from paying, but he is quick, and Glorfindel knows better than to argue with Erestor when he already has the upper hand. He sighs and fondly shakes his head even as the exchange happens right before his eyes. "Thank you," is what he chooses to softly say to Erestor instead.
Then, though Erestor had not intended to purchase any more, he catches a whiff of cinnamon and some other spices he cannot quite name yet—cloves, perhaps? Ginger?
He picks up a bag from which the smell is emanating, and takes another curious whiff.
"Ah, now that one is quite different, sir. That one comes from even further East, and they drink their tea very differently there. They grind it with spices—" Here she frowns, clearly trying to remember, and lists them off on her fingers. "Cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, ginger, black pepper, long pepper, and nutmeg! They brew it in boiling water and strain it and add sugar and milk, so it is a thick, sweet, milky drink. It is called masala tea."
It sounds perfect for cold nights, Erestor thinks, though sugar is expensive this far West; it is why marchpane is a rare treat at festivals. He will have to try it with honey.
Glorfindel waits for their purchases to be packed, but then notes Erestor's interest in another blend. He smiles at the sight, glad to see his companion finally relaxing. Erestor is not exactly incorrect in his earlier assessment of Glorfindel and tea; Glorfindel enjoys them enough, but he can see Erestor's love for them is something else entirely. Glorfindel likes to tease him about it—and Erestor, of course, does not shy away from comments on Glorfindel's tastes in turn—but the truth is that he is glad for anything that brings joy to a good and dear friend.
“Shall we take that as well, then?” This time, Glorfindel takes a page out of Erestor's book and smoothly hands the lady her coin.
Erestor glances sidelong at Glorfindel. "Thank you, too," he murmurs equally softly in return.
The lady grins, pocketing her gold coins and tucking their new purchases into the bundle. She also pulls out what looks like a tiny ball, barely an inch across, wrapped very tightly in paper. "A free gift, for buying so much," she explains, tucking it in as well and re-tying the bundle. "It is pu-erh tea, which is stuffed into a ripe tangerine and then naturally fermented. Good fruity flavour." And a popular choice for wedding tea ceremonies back home, she thought, but did not say out loud; she could see the way they glanced at each other, but also the careful distance.
Erestor smiles fully then, touched, as he thanks her and picks up the bundle. "I will see you tomorrow for my refills. Make sure you come by the lunch tables later and try some sweets, too."
He turns to Glorfindel. "We might have time to watch a game or two before lunch. Shall we?"
Glorfindel nods, returning the smile, glad to see Erestor's mood has lifted. “Let us go then,” he says.
He turns, too, to the pleasant woman who helped them, and thanks her for her generosity with the tea and stories she shared. She gave them a humble bow and wave, bidding them farewell and to come back whenever they wish to.
“I believe I still have a bit of time before they call for the participants to the tournaments,” he says to Erestor once they have resumed their walk. “Those are not scheduled until after lunch, are they not? If so, then you are right and it would be nice to see what we can get up to in the meantime.”
They take their time strolling down the path, looking through the stalls that line the exit back to the open fields where the games are set.The smell of tea and spices still faintly emanates from the bundle in Erestor’s arms, cradled atop his festival file, and he breathes in deeply. Beyond that fragrance is the fresh scent of spring everywhere, with soft new grass and flowers, and laughter floats on the air from the game fields up ahead.
They both swerve around the race area, where Elf-children are running in an egg-and-spoon race. On their other side, other children are clustered around a paddock, cooing at the first foals of the year and feeding them treats and patting them; occasionally their watchful mothers also come to lip at a child’s hair or steal a piece of apple. Many Elves are wearing flower crowns; Galadir and the other Elves must have been by with their baskets.
Up ahead are ring-toss games; Elrond himself appears to be having a go, laughing good-naturedly. Down near the barracks and training fields there is an archery trick-shot competition, but here it is mostly simpler games, and a few of the human merchants have even wandered over to join in.
Erestor’s demeanour is still open and relaxed as he glances up at Glorfindel while they walk. “Which tournaments did Galadir sign you up for?”
They are approaching an Arnad game-field, the players just setting up the beautifully carved wooden blocks for another round; Lindir spies them and calls their names, beckoning them over, before Glorfindel can answer. Their gaze flicks between the two Elves with a flicker of glee, but they say nothing, adjusting their wreath of daisies and sweet pea blooms.
“I am saved!” they declare dramatically. “My team was trounced and then Morfinnel abandoned us for the archery trick-shot, and Melpomaen had to go back to his work. Will you both join Saelbeth and me?”
Next to them, Saelbeth fixes Erestor with a pleading look. On the opposing side Anhebir, one of the guards, grins. “Are you so worried that you must call on Captain Glorfindel to avenge you, Lindir?”
“You are just sore that the tides seem to have finally turned!” Lindir tells the guard, playfully puffing their chest and raising their chin for all the good that does, with Anhebir standing a good head above them. “Besides, one would think you'd be happy for the challenge.”
“There is a challenge, and then there is this, isn't it?” Anhebir tipped his head over to Glorfindel. “Although I suppose you against all of us might actually make you break a sweat, eh Captain?”
Glorfindel laughs and shakes his head before turning toward Erestor. “What do you think?” he asks him. “I suppose we could manage a round. Galadir told me to show up for the rose tournament, but I believe he also promised me to the archers. Though I suppose they could manage for a while.” Then, in a lower whisper so that only Erestor could hear: “Besides, I do not think these younger guards have seen you with throwing knives. Fancy giving them a sample of what they're up against?”
The rose tournament. Erestor’s stomach twists; either Glorfindel will act as most single Elves in that tournament do, gallantly giving the flowers he wins to various onlookers he knows and likes, or he will continue to single out Erestor as his companion for the day and bestow most upon him. He does not know which he wants.
(Oh, he knows which option he desires, but he doubts its wisdom.)
He glances up at Glorfindel at the mention of knives, pleasantly surprised that the other Elf remembers this about him. As a warrior Erestor had primarily wielded twin swords, and long force of habit means he still trains with them occasionally to keep his skills up; Glorfindel had been pleased to discover this, and they had even sparred sometimes. But the throwing knives are less used, more of a backup than anything else and more of a fun trick these days, and Glorfindel has only seen him practice with them a scant few times over their acquaintance.
“That is certainly tempting,” he murmurs.
Saelbeth comes closer then, placing a hand on his forearm. “Please, Master Erestor? I never see you joining the games anyway. Join us?”
Erestor has a soft spot for Lindir, Melpomaen and Saelbeth—youths of Eregion orphaned by Annatar, who had all attached themselves to him to some extent in the early days—and they well know it, and are not above making use of it on occasion. His face softens, and his voice is fond. “Very well. Shall we, Glorfindel?”
He reaches up to adjust his flower crown, ensuring it sits snugly and securely on his head, as he steps towards the line; Lindir and Saelbeth crow in pleasure, and Anhebir shoots a mischievous look at Glorfindel. Stooping to lay his file down and pick up one of the pieces, Erestor weighs it in his hand.
Glorfindel is pleased to see Erestor take his place behind the line for Lindir's team. It looks like Lindir’s team is set to go first to see how many of the other team’s pieces they can take, and Glorfindel wonders how they might want to go about it.
He glances at Erestor and has to keep down his smile. Erestor can finish a game in one round easily—but Glorfindel supposes they could give the other team some moment of hope.
“Shall I go first, then?” he volunteers, taking one of the batons for throwing.
“Showing off already?” Anhebir laughs. “Surely, you will not finish the game before we could even begin with it?”
“Oh, I am not the one you should be worried about, my friend,” Glorfindel says with grin before taking his first shot. He manages to fell one block from the opposing side, to which he can hear Lindir crow in delight.
“We are going to win!”
Glorfindel takes another shot and misses.
“Perhaps not as quickly as I expected but still we shall get there!”
Glorfindel laughs at the minstrel's commentary, not at all worried about his own round. Judging by the members on the other team, all of whom Glorfindel knows quite well, he needed only to capture three blocks that they could manage to take back during their first turn.
This expectation proves true soon enough, as Amarion, another young guard, takes the next round. He downs one, then two blocks, leaving them with a four-tower guard protecting their king.
Glorfindel turns to Erestor as he helps to hand him the batons for the next round. “Five shots to win, Counsellor,” he says to him. He gives only five, however, shaking the sixth and making a show of keeping this tucked in his belt, tipping his head up at Erestor in challenge. “If you end up needing this one, you will owe me a drink.”
Erestor makes an effort to look demure as he accepts the batons, biting his lips against a grin. “Do not get their hopes up too high, Captain, or you will only embarrass both of us.”
Indeed, Saelbeth is beginning to look concerned; such a guard configuration around the king would normally be tricky. Lindir, however, has picked up on their confidence, and calls to Anhebir, “Shall we lay a wager?”
Unfortunately, Anhebir knows his Captain too well; he shakes his head at the minstrel. “I do not trust them!”
Erestor moves to the new baseline and takes a moment to orient himself, weighing up his baton and the distance to the tower blocks. Then he tosses the first baton in a neat underarm throw, and it knocks over the first block with a thunk.
The next block goes over just as easily. The last two are a little closer together, and Erestor exhales and puts a little more force into that baton; it knocks over both wooden blocks in one go, one toppling into the other. Saelbeth cheers, and he thinks he hears a Dwarvish curse from Amarion.
The carved king-figure is unprotected now, and Erestor raises the fourth baton to his lips thoughtfully before throwing it, hitting the king square in the face. It wobbles a little, and then falls over in the grass as Lindir and Saelbeth cheer.
Walking back to his team, Erestor cannot resist a dash of pride; he tosses his unused baton to Glorfindel and reaches out to smoothly pull the spare one from the taller Elf’s belt, raising it in a little salute. His lips pull up into a small smirk.
“Perhaps in future you should let them think I am a useless quill-pusher, and lay a wager for them to buy us drinks.”
There is probably a more intelligent response to that, but Glorfindel for the life of him cannot think of one. “Well,” he says, fully aware of the heat on his cheeks, “that is why you are the strategist of the two of us.”
He thought he had known what to expect, but leave it to Erestor to still have something up his sleeves. Those last manoeuvres were so expertly and exquisitely done that Glorfindel found himself joining the young ones in their surprised admiration.
“Erestor, that is amazing!” cries Saelbeth, running to his senior and crashing into his side. “I did not know you could do that, or that one could even do that!”
With with a soft little oof Erestor raises his arm, allowing the smaller Elf to hug him tightly about the middle. It is not normally a gesture he would permit, but younger ones can get away with much. Knowing this, Lindir leans into his other side.
“We are avenged,” the minstrel declares, and Erestor gives them a fond look.
“That was indeed some fine throwing, Chief Counsellor,” says Anhebir as well. He casts a cheeky glance at Glorfindel. “No wonder the Captain was acting all smug and suspicious. It is a shame though that we do not even know how good of a shot you are, or we would have asked for lessons.”
Erestor turns back to Anhebir. “Thank you, but I am afraid those days are over for me; this is simply a gimmick at this point. I was always better with throwing knives than with the bow, but the bow is far more practical.”
He glances over at Glorfindel, concerned for the other Elf; he cannot quite read his expression, but Glorfindel is oddly flushed, though Erestor does not think the weather is especially hot. Perhaps they ought to go and get drinks?
Sensing Erestor's eyes on him, Glorfindel quickly catches himself and clears his throat, meaning to distract before Erestor reaches any embarrassing conclusions.
“Now then!” he says with a clap of his hand. “That is one round won. Would you like another go?”
“Unless the good chief counsellor goes last and far away from your turn, Glorfindel, then it is hardly fair,” Anhebir says, although he does so good-naturedly. "Or is this a lesson you are teaching us, Captain? "
“We can mix the teams, as I have already suggested earlier when Morfinnel and Melpomaen left!” huffs Saelbeth. “It is hardly our fault that our teammates had to be elsewhere, and you lot spend enough of your time together as it is. What good is a festival if you only spend it with the same people?”
They make quite a sight, Saelbeth reprimanding the much larger Anhebir. Glorfindel watches them with amusement for a moment before turning again to Erestor. “What do you think?” he asks. “We can stay here or there are the archery fields. If we are doing that, then perhaps I can see which ones Galadir intended for us to join. I am fine either way.”
Erestor's gaze is now resting fondly on Saelbeth, amused and proud that the once-quiet youth has progressed to telling off guards, but he turns to Glorfindel when addressed.
"Us? Oh no, you are not pulling the same trick twice. I have not been invited to the archery fields, only you. I shall watch you, but I will not be entering."
As if he did not always watch Glorfindel's progress in such things, whether invited to be his companion for the event or not.
He glances up at the Sun's position and then at the far end where the food tables are, still fairly quiet. "We have time for another round, I believe."
Amarion comes up then, grinning as he reaches to throw an arm around the Counsellor; Erestor neatly sidesteps a little as if moving to pick up his file, so that when he straightens Amarion's hand lands on his shoulder instead, the guard seeming not to notice the sideeye he is getting.
"I think it is only fair that we get the Chief Counsellor this time!"
Lindir gasps. "Then I am coming with Erestor, and you can just send Anhebir and Bregolon over here! I like the idea of being on the team that trounces Glorfindel."
“But—”
Before Glorfindel could have a say in anything though, the teams have rearranged themselves so that he is now teamed with Saelbeth, Anhebir, and the young archer, Bregolon, who politely greets his captain before taking his place on the side.
Over on the other team, the new team seems excited with the new arrangement, hanging on to their new champion. Glorfindel is glad to see Erestor like this, comfortable and enjoying himself with the wreath of bluebells Glorfindel made for him. Amarion still has his hand on Erestor's shoulder and even Lindir is hanging off of his arm, whispering threats for the other team, no doubt, and sticking close.
It is nothing, Glorfindel tells himself. It is good that people are friendly with him and he with them, for it is not always so. Erestor is free to spend his time with whomever he wishes, and he deserves to do so.
“Come on, you hold on to him any more closely and even he is going to notice.” Glorfindel has not even noticed Anhebir sidling to his side, the comment whispered low with an elbow to Glorfindel's ribs. “Or is that the plan now?”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Glorfindel is quick to mutter back. “We are here as friends.”
The expression on the soldier's face is pained and he does not even hide it. “You're killing us all, Glorfindel.”
“Now!” Lindir declares, cutting all conversations off. “Since I hear no violent reactions to the new team assignments—Anhebir, hold your captain down—let the unfolding of justice commence!”
“Justice? I thought you only lost to them once, and then I won one round for you,” Erestor points out.
“Erestor, surely you will not deprive me of my opportunity to beat soldiers led by Glorfindel?”
The older Elf sighs. “If Saelbeth then demands another round for his honour, I am out.”
Amarion sends them a cheeky smile as he returns from setting up the pieces afresh, and their fourth member, a quiet guard named Caragnîn, nods to her new team-mates. Across the field, Glorfindel’s friends seem to be ribbing him about something or other; still, as everyone takes their places, Erestor cannot help but admire the figure Glorfindel cuts, tall and broad and with something about him that draws the eye.
He shakes himself as Anhebir takes the first shot, and watches the other team make their play.
This time, without any need to even a score, Erestor lets his team take the first shots of their round and only takes the last couple of shots each time. Glorfindel and his team put up a fine fight, especially keen-eyed Bregolon, but eventually after a few rounds Erestor knocks over the last standing block and the king-piece to his team’s cheers.
“Beauty, brains, and a fine aim?” Amarion clutches his chest, grinning. “Ah, Chief Counsellor, you have struck one more target today!”
Erestor snorts as he strides back over the field, though he is amused by their antics. “Save your flattery for a more receptive target. Perhaps someone younger, who might still fall for such lines.”
Saelbeth hands Erestor his file, and Lindir recovers their lute from where it had been leaning against a nearby tree. The Counsellor rejoins Glorfindel, looking up at the golden Elf with a slight smile; his earlier concerns are still present at the back of his mind, but the harmless merriment with young Elves he is fond of has largely cheered him. “Shall we go to the archery fields, and then get some lunch before your tournaments? I am looking forward to more marchpane and perhaps a baked apple.”
Glorfindel knows it's silly, but the relief he feels seeing Erestor turn Amarion down is undeniable. They make an unlikely pair, he knows this, and Amarion is a flirt but mostly harmless. That is not to say, of course, that Erestor cannot choose someone like that, and perhaps that is where Glorfindel's misgivings come from. It is never easy, seeing Erestor's attention on someone else.
All these worries melt away, however, as Erestor returns. The strains of the game have brought a flush of colour to his cheeks, his face aglow from the day and good company. Glorfindel finds he can't really begrudge him anything, not when Erestor looks the way he does when he is cheered by others around him.
“I shall, of course, defer to your wishes, dear victor,” Glorfindel says to him with a gallant bow. He could practically feel the roll of Erestor's eyes, but this only serves to amuse Glorfindel enough to snort and break character.
They bid the group farewell, happier now (or Saelbeth is, at least) that they have an even number of skilled players. The two counsellors then make their way to the archery fields.