Southern Ventures 1

Southern Ventures

Part 1 - An Expedition Sets Out From Imladris

Posted: August 1, 2008
Title: Southern Ventures
Series: Favourite Addition
Sequel to: Favourite Addiction
Author: Erfan Starled
Type: FCS
Characters: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The elves are copyright of Prof. JRR Tolkien and his estate. There is no profit being made. This story is written for entertainment only.
Beta and occasional co-writer: Keiliss
Language help: Malinornë.
Warnings: Reference to sexual manipulation. Violence. Not intended as light romance.
Author's Notes: Special thanks to Kei for reading, and for discussions and suggestions regarding plot, language, characters and chapter contents. Enide, thank you for all the critical feedback and encouragement. Thanks to Mal for much more than help with names.

Summary: A trip to Harad includes trade and other objectives, and leads to relationships, adventures and conflicts.

*****

*** Imladris 1499 TA ***

Imladris was a hive of activity and had been since late spring. In kitchens, on roadways, in stables, stores and barracks, elves worked to complete their tasks on time: Lord Elrond was sending a party south to trade, and the departure date drew near.

Nor was his purpose mere trade. There was business under way in his part of the house that intimated some less open intent. Ever since the equinox, he had been meeting visitors, some stranger than others and some less reputable than those who normally frequented his halls, but all with one thing in common: experience of Harad, Umbar or Gondor, or connections with those lands. Elrond kept close counsel, opening his meetings only to those he most trusted, with one exception: Erestor, his ward-of-justice and officer since the Second Age. He, too, was bidden to attend. The rest of the house was left to wonder what they planned, since no-one cared to discuss it.

What with traders coming and going, supplies to prepare, goods to secure for transport, and elves spending time with family and friends before their leave-taking, there was no part of the house that was not affected by the preparations. And while the work went on, tongues were as busy speculating as hands were working.

Harad, the delegation’s destination, provoked long debates. Its remoteness left much to the imagination; fully under human sway, the Far South had a reputation for being particularly barbaric, subject to pirate raids, invasion and war. The wilder tales of giant animals ridden by painted, bone-pierced warriors were generally discounted, but even without these fables, it was accounted a colourful, strange and violent part of the world. It was also, however, known to be one furnished with treasures lacking in the temperate north: spices and pearls, fine silk and rare oils, and – frivolously luxurious – beans from the cakao trees that flourished in hot southern climes.

Meanwhile, across the ford, an array of wagons lined up beside the Bruinen awaiting goods selected to tempt Southrons into eager trade. Lord Elrond himself, and Lord Glorfindel with him, were picking their way among the mounds of stores laid out for loading.

Elrond’s purpose was more to show an interest than because any inspection was necessary. All up and down the road others were seeing to the details. The master trader was ordering the loading of cargo from newly arrived carts, the wagon-master’s feet stuck out from under a wagon-bed as he lay with his hands covered in tallow up to his wrists, greasing an axle, but still issuing a stream of instructions to three others apparently intent on listening to a pair of talking feet, and a party of the guard worked up a sweat methodically stowing their equipment. Even as one pile was mined, it would be redoubled by new deliveries. Stoically, the work went on, Elrond and Glorfindel the only ones present remaining undishevelled and sweat-free.

The lords’ conversation was sporadic, interrupted when they stood aside to make room for the flat-bedded carts that were ferrying goods across the river, or as they broke off to greet those at work. Glorfindel nodded approvingly to two elves beside a pile of gear who were making careful inventory as they loaded each sack and crate neatly into the limited space with the help of the driver. A journey spanning four provinces and all the hinterland between needed to be well-equipped and well-organised. Elrond had no fears on that score, with himself, Glorfindel and Erestor involved, but still his conscience pricked him.

“You will be careful down there?”

“Careful? Always. Never worry.” Glorfindel’s easy confidence was not reassuring.

“You are too complacent!” The words were too sharp. More moderately, Elrond added, “I have no business letting you risk your life. We none of us know why you were returned to us – I still wonder if I should send you at all, when Thelinn is very competent.” The Elda was far from arrogant, but Elrond doubted his previous experience quite matched the treacherous and alien arena awaiting him. After assimilating the content of endless conferences, his reluctance was undiminished; he would prefer by far to risk others in his new friend’s stead.

“Come, Elrond, with Harad bidding fair to be a danger sooner or later, and sooner by Erestor’s arguments, I would say my going is fully justified. Last minute doubts always creep in, but to retract what we have already argued so closely…” And those debates about him going had been among the most heated, Glorfindel reflected.

“Approving a plan is one thing. Thinking it safe, or wise, for you to be part of it is quite another – this is a peculiar venture among a violent people. It will be dangerous. And with Erestor posing a distraction to you, I have all the more reason to think twice.” Distraction at best, his thoughts ran on. At worst – Glorfindel led into irretrievable consequences did not bear thinking about. “The Valar did *not* send you here for me to waste on treachery and useless risks.”

“I am not made of glass!” They looked at each other for a moment. Glorfindel continued more quietly, “Elrond, your concerns are natural, but we have discussed this exhaustively. Without a shadow of doubt, you have dredged up every conceivable source of information – Erestor’s thoughts only mirror your own. You had reasons, sound reasons, to sponsor this idea.”

In this they were in full accord. Harad, on its own, meant nothing to their kind. But Harad did not exist in isolation. There was Gondor on one side, weakened by civil war and Umbar ripe, yet again, for the taking; by its present weakness it invited attack. With Harad plagued by bloody in-fighting, malign influences could too easily find fertile ground. There was far too much scope for Harad to constitute a true danger and too soon their aggression could be looking beyond their borders for opportunities. Erestor argued that this was likely and that there were already signs of ill influence at work. Other worrying trends caused concerns that fed one on another: Arnor’s losses and decline were marked, and Elrond had been pondering with unease the unidentified presence in Mirkwood that he suspected both of ill-will and potency in disturbing measure, despite a lack of hard evidence. Morgoth’s devastations and his greatest servant’s deceptions were legacies of grief that carried warnings for the future, not to be ignored.

Then there was the geography of Harad with its vast, dense eastern forests beyond the deserts and rich southern grasslands which bordered the coast. They furnished a large population with rich resources despite the inland deserts, creating a potential as yet unrealized for wielding enormous power in any conflict if it came to that. And the desert expanses, interspersed with ribbons of agricultural wealth along the rivers and all about the larger oases, supplied their own harvest, the fierce fighters whose culture characterized the country’s rulers and gave Harad her martial, public face. Beyond her natural tendency toward expansion and conquest, should such a land tempt the eye of that dark power currently in retreat, the consequences could threaten the world indeed. And should such an influence go unopposed…

Elrond breathed in the scents of early summer air while he thought what to say. May was in flower up and down the banks, and the running water brought out the fresh smell of spring foliage. He sighed. The potential gains of this journey were worth considerable risks. To do nothing would be unjustifiably negligent, and Galadriel was certainly a potent safeguard regarding Erestor’s intentions in returning to his stamping grounds of two millennia. None better than she to verify his motives, he thought with satisfaction, thinking of the letter he was composing. But Glorfindel should *not* go there so blithely unconcerned, however much it was in his nature. He eyed a dragon-fly while wondering whether to change his mind and put Thelinn in command. With every year that passed, Glorfindel’s presence felt all the more indefinably right to Elrond, though the Valar’s gifting remained a mystery.

“We know it’s a nest of vipers and it is Erestor’s old territory. I tell you again, he never elected to be one of us. Twice over he proved it, running from Gil-galad and then standing against our allies and the King’s decrees.” He paused and held his hand up against interruption. “No. Listen to me. When Galadriel brought him, he was out of choices. He did not come here because he wanted to…” He looked at the frowning Elda and sighed, forestalling his immediate protest by saying simply, “Your return is a great and unlooked-for blessing and it would be gross ingratitude on my part to squander so sacred a trust in sending you down there. I am rightly worried about you going.”

Glorfindel tightened his lips while he listened. “Elrond, I am no stranger to court intrigue, and you are hardly so naïve as to think so. Of course I will be watchful and wary! What do you want to do, wrap me in silk and keep me on a shelf in your library? No. You cannot use me if you will not risk me.” He studied Elrond’s face, the frown, the tension, the expressive mouth opening to argue. “Come. We have compelling reasons to involve ourselves, which is why you are letting your hawk fly free of his jesses, and why you will send me. Galadriel’s testimony will prove the wisdom of letting Erestor loose, and there is no denying he is well-suited to this task.”

He was familiar with hard decisions and understood all too well the demands exacted by heavy responsibilities – thus did he appreciate his friend’s unease, though he did not share it in this case. But he acknowledged the wisdom of caution… Had Turgon only been more cautious and less trusting! He did not ride that horse home to its stable, as he had countless times before, but he could not find it in his heart to blame Elrond. The irony of it struck him, not for the first time, that where Turgon had trusted too much, Elrond found it hard to trust at all, and he, Glorfindel, had argued with both of them.

He hesitated over his next words, wincing at the prospect, but went on nonetheless, “Why do you not examine Erestor yourself? If you truly do not place your trust in Galadriel?”

“I might just do that – but I do trust her – of course I do, and you may be very sure I have written to her. You will carry the letter for me yourself. Try and understand, it is your own complacency that worries me. You trust him too much.” Elrond gestured around them, frustrated. “He looks so tame here. You don’t understand what he can be like.”

The unconscious echo of his own thoughts found uncomfortable resonance with Glorfindel. If Turgon had heeded his earlier advice… He glanced at Elrond and forbore to press him further; Elrond’s adamant concern would not be allayed by anything he could say. For himself, he thought their intentions dangerous yet thought also that they would meet whatever came resourcefully and successfully. Surely it was better to be confident than consumed with doubt?

He had not fought other enemies by worrying, but by taking a firm grasp of his weapons and standing firm. Glorfindel believed in following his instincts. If Turgon had let him deal with Maeglin as he wished, there might have been a very different history. He pressed his lips together. Fealty had proven costly as that tragedy unwound to its bitter end, and he did not mean his own death, but the city’s fall. This lord he loved and would serve with all his heart, but frustrated obedience was no longer his calling. Who was to say what was intended of his time here? His service to Elrond felt right, felt like a home-coming of the heart, yet might not this journey south be part of the intended scheme of things? How could they tell?

What could be said, had been said. He did not doubt his own abilities and he did not doubt the idea had merit of goodly weight; he would back Erestor to the hilt. If there was danger, they would face it. If Erestor proved out Elrond’s unsubstantiated fears – then that too, he would deal with. Just because he doubted the necessity would ever arise, did not mean his loyalty would ever be in question – or his competency, faced with a traitor. Of its own volition his hand found the hilt of his sword.

***

Two more days… In the full dark of earliest morning, Erestor lit a lamp and made sure of his pack-bags one final time. He let the undemanding task relax him. Today and tomorrow would leave little time for personal matters. He glanced over at a small chest. He satisfied himself as to its contents, recent products of careful commission and purchase. As he handled the expensive fabrics with care, making sure to lay each one flat when he was done, his face took on a rather expressionless look. When he finally strapped the lid closed, a glance at the window showed a weakening of night’s black hold. Another day of preparations awaited his attention.

As he took the stairs to the ground floor, he had a perfect view of dawn-lit clouds to the east and of Anor just tipping the hills. He gazed out upon the valley, no longer in such a hurry to begin the day’s work. Imladris, as prisons went, was beautiful. Stirred by feelings he could scarcely identify, he stood watching rainbow reds play across the sky, seeing the mist-threaded mass of trees through fresh eyes. In all the long years lived out under their leafy shelter, he had never tired of their serenade, gentle and wild by turn. Their companionship had never failed him and in turn, he had been a faithful listener to all their songs. There were other forests, where he was going, but they would not be the same.

When at last dawn’s red-gold glory gave way to the fresh blue of early morning and the valley showed every nuance of green, he stirred from the landing and took the last flight down to Elrond’s offices. He ignored the readied documents laid out across a counter, now awaiting only his successor’s inspection, in favour of his own more private store of manuscripts, from which he withdrew some that he would take south, and others that he would hand over to Elrond. A few yet remained.

With these he sat down, reading some, giving others only a cursory scan, deep in contemplation while he reviewed each one. There was charcoal to be had from the steward’s cellars. He fetched it and carried vellum and fuel to his rooms and lit a brazier on the balcony. When he was done, no scrap remained in the tray beneath nor lifted on the hot air to be carried intact on the wind. Only ash remained, and the sour smell of burnt sheepskin.

***

“Come into my office, would you?” Elrond stood in the doorway, and for a moment one dark elf looked at the other, neither warming at the sight. Erestor was the more impassive and Elrond’s face in repose never did seem friendly. Erestor inclined his head and rose to his feet.

Seated at his desk, Elrond unfolded a square of thick, black velvet. Onto this, he up-ended various small bags from a miniature chest. Precious metals laden with stones spilled out with a dull clinking and spread across the cloth. The jewel-smiths of Imladris had produced work to impress the most discerning of elves – or the richest of men.

Erestor eyed the display coolly. “They more than meet their purpose, my lord.”

“I thought so. They certainly represent vast wealth to those you go among – they are everything you asked for.”

Erestor smiled faintly. They would not be the only valuable property on display, and not the most costly either.

As he stirred the contents of the tablecloth, he saw no pains had been spared in the crafting and sheer elegance of the collection of earrings, bracelets and the like. He did not hide his admiration but displayed no other emotion, until one of the pieces caught his eye and his fingers traced a fall of green stones. Wonderingly, he lifted a human fortune in emeralds on an interwoven plait of gold. These alone would be enough to tempt men to murder for the profit – and the exquisite necklace with its matching hair-piece, arm clasp and two rings belonged to Elrond personally.

Pensively, Erestor held the emeralds up to the light. Maedhros had liked emeralds. He had worn little in the way of adornments, but those he affected were heavy pieces, and rich, crafted by his father. Erestor’s early and enduring memories of Maedhros’ displeasure were of staring at the favoured green-gemmed pendant and cloak broach, rather than face hard, critical eyes. Maedhros, long gone, had not been easy to please. When Erestor looked up, seeking to understand this more personal contribution, he met a gaze less grim but just as penetrating.

“You do not stint of your aid, my lord.”

“There seems little point in half measures. I added a few pieces I thought would suit your requirements,” acknowledged Elrond. “It’s only gold, of course, but men may be impressed by it. It’s still a pretty piece. The emeralds suit that setting, and it was a gift… I do want you to succeed, you know.” Against his will, he felt shaken at the sight of Erestor with those gems, aware of how well they would become him. “I should tell you – I have asked Glorfindel to take charge of these and bring them back if you should be delayed by Galadriel, or if anything goes amiss in Harad.”

Neither of them rushed into the gap that followed. With that withdrawn intelligence so thoughtful, and the sooty, almond eyes contemplating the necklace just so, Erestor’s motives were wholly obscure to the Imladris Lord. He had penned a letter to Galadriel in which he asked her to make certain of Erestor’s intentions, as well as covering all the ramifications of the Harad plan. Then he ranged far beyond it: the letter had been long in the writing.

Leaving the outcome of events in an elf like Erestor’s care was not ideal if there was even a chance that Harad might prove pivotal to the future. This was an ellon who, rejecting Gil-galad’s allegiance in favour of barbarism, had for centuries lived among the humans of the south, using them for his own ends, and one who had ultimately turned his hand once more to blood-letting in rebellion and resistance against his own kind. Regardless of cogent arguments for the prospect of stability fostered, and perhaps enemies forestalled – even allies secured – Elrond could not be easy. Yet Galadriel, who wielded a skill far greater than he, at once more subtle and more penetrating than his own, should surely provide a sufficient test of Erestor’s reliability.

Out of the silence, Erestor said, “It will be soon now, that we leave.”

Another two days would see him gone from his Lord’s lands. His service had earned him no better place in Elrond’s estimation than the day Galadriel first handed him over with a behest to make good use of him. Elrond had done so, more than he had right or reason to expect, but the lord had never accepted that rain-sodden offer of service as sincere. Had never believed that his word, once given and accepted, would hold him of his own will. So be it. But still, Erestor would let Glorfindel bring these jewels home. That little trust, he would keep.

“Yes. You are ready, I think?”

“We are.” His office no longer gathered work for his attention other than what the journey necessitated; he was looking far beyond its walls to the task ahead. In that rare communion which could fall between them when they worked with common purpose, Elrond, too, was gazing into distant lands, thinking of subversion, and of preserving the seeds of possibility for a governance less prone to corruption and the footholds for evil it afforded. Then he thought of Glorfindel amidst such a mess of intrigue and quailed. The moment of accord fled.

Almost without conscious decision he reached – touched – took hold; Glorfindel’s loss was his deepest fear, Glorfindel the reason he now trespassed on Erestor’s awareness without warning, unplanned. His only consideration was the restrained lightness he employed in his first touch. No matter to Elrond that he gave Erestor a fleeting chance to gather himself; if he resisted, he could not win in any case.

Rather than fight, Erestor fell motionless. The violation was familiar and at the same time, not. This presence in his mind was different than he had learned to expect from Galadriel. Not as sharp. Heavy, hard, gripping tightly. Holding him unbearably and yet leaving him no choice but to bear it. Nausea rippled through him. What Elrond would have of him, Erestor was not entirely sure, but what Elrond wanted, he would take. In that, he was Galadriel’s identical match. Every bit of will he possessed went into the calm steadiness of his next two words.

“My lord?”

Elrond’s eyes were clinically pitiless as he tracked the sweat forming on pale skin, and the hands effortfully in Erestor’s lap rather than clawing at his chair. “Your intentions – will you keep faith with what we have agreed?” He closed his eyes, as if better to hear with his inner mind. “Tell me again, why you want to go…”

It did not matter that it was hard to form words, or that it hurt to think. Elrond was not letting go without his answer. Erestor forced thoughts into sentences – Harad, in violent chaos, threatening danger amidst too many other instabilities and ill-seeming trends to ignore. Gondor, the immediate target northwards, troubled since the Kin-strife as well as far weaker for it, much diminished in coherent loyalty, in honour and in strength. Umbar, fifty years lost to Gondor and now ripe for another fall under its fraught and undisciplined rebel rulers. The Kingdom of Arnor reduced to a third of its strength and waning still. Suspect influences, the Mirkwood blight. The list went on – and all the while, Mordor left to be guarded by human Gondor, the proud and frail sentry at the gates. Another uprising, or even an outbreak of disease, might be all it took for the southern line of kings to fail and with them, their watch.

Before his arguments – his true concerns – were fully listed, Erestor was tempted to give up his struggle to retain a pointless outer show of dignity. He flushed when Elrond immediately read the thought as easily as words voiced aloud.

Instead of releasing his discomfited vassal, Elrond asked the question most dear to his heart. “And Glorfindel? Shall you keep faith with him?”

“As with any other of the party, I will, yes. Giving him what he wants is another matter.” Despite beaded temples and clenched fingers, Erestor gave a good impression of wanting to toss his head, though he sat straight and still, facing Elrond.

Sourly, Elrond forgave him that last honesty, being himself of the same mind. Glorfindel would not find what he sought in Erestor. No crime if they agreed on that. “But for the rest of the party, and for him, you will take all due care?”

“I never betrayed a comrade in my life, my lord. I do not intend to start now.” Erestor looked directly back. He controlled his features enough to show only proud disdain at the implied accusations – a waste of effort when Elrond could uncover what feelings he pleased.

But Elrond, whose intent was Glorfindel’s safety, not Erestor’s humiliation, confined his abilities to the answers to his specific questions, rifling no further than he must through the other’s mind. And there was nothing here he could object to, even the bitter resentment, not in these circumstances. He posed one last question. “Can I trust you in this venture, no matter what passes?”

“To do what needs to be done? Yes.” The flat rejoinder was uncompromising.

The silence that followed was absolute save for the noises that came distantly through the windows and from the rest of the house. Erestor waited braced, but Elrond was done with him and released him, withdrawing more gently than he had begun.

Erestor’s deference had never fully returned since the day he walked out, furious with Elrond, but never was the change in him more evident since then than now. Not only had Elrond invaded his mind without grace of warning and been unable, wholly, to shield his antipathy – but he had also, for those few short minutes, destroyed all Erestor’s plans and hopes, sure he would be kept here after all.

His eyes were not now turned politely aside. He did not sit poised to listen attentively. Elrond had been about to pour him a glass of miruvor for the shock and probable anger Erestor must be feeling over such a sudden and too-personal interrogation, but his victim took on the subtle hint of one of Maglor’s more unpleasant sneers – it took Elrond a moment to place the resemblance – and the precise delivery of his next words abandoned utterly the courtesy meticulously shored up after their previous altercation. Which, Elrond noted, had also been over Glorfindel.

“Strange. You hated Maedhros. Would you be surprised if I told you that you remind me of him very much at times?”

Elrond had been about to try and soften his invasion. Instead, immediate antagonism leapt to quash the unacceptable line Erestor was taking, except that he found himself over-ridden…

“The resemblance is oddly striking.” Erestor looked sick despite his rigid control; his voice came out toneless, his eyes uncompromising. “He had my service, he didn’t like me, and he disapproved of his brother’s interest in me – an interest that was wholly uninvited, I assure you. He trusted me only to the extent that he could curb me, one way or another.” Bleakly, Erestor ended with the faintest of questions in his eyes.

Elrond poured the miruvor anyway and handed it to him, before stiffly answering the words and manner rather than that slender thread of unspoken enquiry. “The situation was very different. And you had every chance under Gil-galad to serve willingly and earn trust. He would have understood what happened with Maglor.” That much Elrond himself conceded. “He was prepared to set aside what your lord led you into, the same as he did with all your people after the world was sundered. He accepted any who would come to Lindon. He *encouraged* them to come and he welcomed them. We had the world to rebuild after direst cataclysm and there had been too much of war.”

He was not fond of remembering those days of upheaval and its aftermath of strange quiet, facing disaster’s legacy rather than imminent disaster itself; riven from Elros, his days well-occupied and well-friended, but starting anew after bloody war and loss. He felt his body tense and carefully relaxed coiled muscles. As he did so, all the old sadness washed through him and he bore it as rocks withstand the tide, shaped by it but stoic; accepting. He let it recede and brought his attention back to present company and finished what he was saying.

“The King stood ready to embrace all who would help that cause. This you knew. But you – you were too proud. You could not run from him fast enough – and in such company…” He refrained from damning qualifiers but he had found Erestor’s comparison offensive to say the least and his tone alone conveyed his meaning.

Still, he reined himself in a little, out of an innate sense of justice. “You know the reasons for my reservations. But I admit you have never given me grounds for complaint. None regarding your work. None in all your time here, other than attaching Glorfindel to you.” He left unspoken the thought that service offered could be withdrawn, and trust could be betrayed.

Erestor just held his untouched miruvor, looking at him, but not speaking.

“Do you accuse me of treating you so ill?” Elrond did not think so, despite practical neglects, too late remedied.

Erestor, who remembered the end of the First Age as well as Elrond – better, for he had seen far more of it – knew they would never agree about his choices in the next. He answered instead the last question, straightforwardly. “No. Have I ever said so? Though regarding Lord Glorfindel, you are wrong in thinking it has been aught of my doing. But in time I had hoped to earn better from you than mistrust. No matter.” He was surprised to find it was true – and supposed it had lost its sting, being of no further import to him.

Erestor drank his miruvor in one go, then set the glass down with a precise click. He stood up to leave, making the short bow that was the lord’s due. Elrond nodded permission and so they parted, neither having more to say.

***

Two mornings later, Erestor lay in bed, caressed by the sounds of night’s dwindling reign; reverie had slipped from him as lightly as gossamer on the wind.

For those with preparations still laggard, this day of departure had come all too soon. Not so for Erestor. Even with first light still far off, the coming day sang in all his senses. He closed his eyes to listen in the comfortable dark.

A horse whinnied, and started a flurry of answers. Hooves thudded on packed earth paths. One groom called to another. The kitchens were baking, and a clatter of pans carried from the perpetually open doors. Birdsong rose apace in the valley, dawn’s earliest harbingers overtaking nightingale and nightjar, though an owl on the wing hoo-hoo’ed its way along the valley. He had envied those owls their flight, on nights when he had sought solace of his horse and the illusion of escape in riding.

Imladris. The walls of the house, imbued with Elrond’s pervasive presence and power, had constantly whispered ‘confinement’ to him as they creaked about him in the night, the brown wood and arching stone year upon year enclosing him. He had been glad of its peace, it was true, and of the long, undisturbed solitude. And he had left before, going far beyond the valley’s bounds in Elrond’s train and without him, too, on the lord’s business among company deemed competent to watch him. But today’s departure was different and he savoured it.

For a few moments more he enjoyed wash-softened cotton against his skin and a firm, clean palliasse under him. He smiled into the dark. He had only to forgo such luxury in favour of the hard, damp earth and navigate Galadriel’s scrutiny, for the wide South, full of promise, to open before him. Such a small word, ‘only’. On that thought he rolled out of bed, no longer the layabout, eager to be up and doing. He would not dwell on what could not be avoided.

He found himself the first of the travellers to arrive among the press of grooms and horses. He searched out Meren’s pale coat and the smaller build of his latest purchases.

One of the grooms slowed long enough in passing to peer at him. “Erestor? They are in the other yard, all ready.”

“Thanks.” He merged into the press, edging dangerously around hind-quarters and under whickering noses to reach the smaller yard. Here, Glorfindel’s grey was unmistakeable, along with two small mares and Meren. Empathic as ever, the stallion lifted his head impatiently.

Beside him, the two-year-olds were more uncertain. Slender, yet to fill out to their mature weight, and unused to much besides their valley range and herd companions, their butter-yellow coats and cream manes showed to good advantage in full daylight. In the dark, they remained pale smudges. They stood, one neat, small head in conference with the other and then came alert, nostrils flared, not quite alarmed at the elf’s approach.

Erestor made time to let them get his scent under the paling sky. He too breathed deeply and felt the ground reaching up for him and he to it. The road called.

***

Glorfindel entered the yard with a sense of work completed. There was nothing left to do but mount up and make their way east and south. Anuial was taking the muster of the guards and scouts, the wagons, drovers and muleteers each had their own appointed leaders who were chivvying them into final readiness. The smallest group, the traders’ representatives, were waiting on the rest of them, which left only one other and himself – and no sign of Erestor anywhere. He spied a solitary groom giving the horses’ hooves a last going over.

“Has Erestor been here?” he asked - and stepped back in surprise when, in straightening up, the groom turned out to be his quarry.

Finished with his task, the not-groom patted the flanks of the two youngsters, and the fillies danced away, pretending to be nervous. His answer came as a cool good morning. “How long until we leave?”

“Now. If you are ready? The sun will be up soon.” Glorfindel’s teeth showed in the dark, smiling in simple pleasure at the prospects of a long ride, adventure, and time in Erestor’s company.

Erestor kept a bland face; Glorfindel had overtly declared himself, as much as actions could. He wanted to give the Elda no excuse for feeling encouraged in his hopes. He nodded in answer and they sprang astride.

By voice alone Erestor gathered the mares, persuading them to follow by invitation. They slid and skittered across the cobbles, out of the gates, snorting and trotting, shying aside from a pheasant’s rocketing leap skywards, and halting, splay-legged, at the dread rumble of wheels. The fiendish threat proved to be a last cart heading down to the ford carrying fresh bread, cause of great suspicion. With Erestor’s attention undividedly cajoling and urging them on, Glorfindel was free to look his fill while with his knees he told Asfaloth, namesake and look-alike of his father’s famous racing colt, to leave the mares alone. They were coping with enough without adding the stallion’s virile courtship. Though in time it might be an idea eventually to breed him with one of them. It would prove a pretty foal. It was Erestor, however, who claimed his own immediate interest.

Mesmerized, Glorfindel watched the play of muscle as Erestor’s thigh flexed with Meren’s stride. He had not recognized Erestor from behind at first sight, bent to Lachel’s hind-foot, dressed in softly-cured suede decorated with hide thongs. His leaf-green linen shirt, broken by beige in the weave, and the darker tunic were unobjectionable choices – simple, practical of movement and offering perfect camouflage among the trees – but all the same, flattering.

From his vantage beside and a little behind, Glorfindel could not have had a better view. Erestor looked different, and it was not just that he was free of the formal dark colours of his attendance on Elrond’s business. There was an energy to him, not lacking hitherto but rather banked down. A hunting hawk, thought Glorfindel, loosed from its too-small perch, would look like this, as it wasted no time rising to fly high and wide.

“Do you like what you see, my lord?” Erestor in his driest voice put a stop to his dreaming. Glorfindel drew alongside.

“You know I do.” Unapologetic about the attraction, he slid a smile in Erestor’s direction and received an enigmatic glance in return.

***

They found Elrond with the wagons. Anuial waved confirmation – all were ready. Glorfindel made the signal to move out to the head drover. Their lord eyed Erestor’s clothes, patted Meren absently, and nodded good morning to his rider before turning to walk beside Glorfindel and exchange a few words privately. They all drew back from the roadside verge to let the drovers and their charges sweep past in a clatter and tumble of hoof and hide, with the pack-train following more soberly in their wake. The wagons pulled out behind, harness creaking as the horses, knowing their business, picked up the weight. The last team passed and broke into a trot to catch up with the rest. Glorfindel nodded to Anuial for him to move out with the scouts and the elves under arms. An increasing quiet settled behind the massed departures.

The sun broached the horizon. Elrond stood away from Asfaloth and Glorfindel took final leave of his lord, Elrond’s one hand in his, the other on Glorfindel’s thigh, as the Elda bowed low over the hand he held. The old-fashioned gesture brought a wistful smile to Elrond’s lips. Glorfindel would leave a large gap by his absence.

With a glance at Erestor and a touch and a word to his horse, Glorfindel started them down the road to Lórien and their ultimate destination, the South.

*****

Anuial (Sindarin) Twilight

*****

| Chapter Index | next

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Erfan Starled