Continued from Answers Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 for @glorfindel-of-rivendell .
Just as Erestor is normally slow to fall asleep, he is often slow to rise.
Today, however, his eyes flutter once as the sunlight grows too much to bear, and then he jerks awake. His hand darts across the mattress, searching, and then clenches into a fist against the still-warm hollow next to him.
As if Glorfindel of Gondolin would be forsworn, even if it meant forsaking his own joy.
Erestor picks up the small pitcher of water on the bedside table and hurls it at the far wall. It shatters satisfyingly, leaving a mess of clay fragments and water. That can wait for tonight, he thinks, flinging the sheets back viciously. He winces as he moves to sit up, lower body twinging in a way that will remind him all day of the choices he had made last night.
He raises a hand to the opposite shoulder, fingers feeling across the skin until they encounter a tender spot that makes him hiss. He presses his fingers into it for a moment anyway, relishing the sharp sting. It is a further reminder that regardless of their greater duties and the way they have chosen to move forward, last night Glorfindel had indisputably claimed him for his own.
In the bathroom he stares at the bruise on his shoulder for a long moment, admiring how vivid it already is, and at the other marks littering his body. Then he takes a deep breath, and another, and forces himself to get ready for the day.
Freshly showered, he stands before his wardrobe and violently shoves away all thoughts of how, just yesterday morning, he had been standing here thinking of how best to dress for Glorfindel. Instead, he focuses on his plans for the day and selects a fitted tunic of imported Haradrim brocade, of a deep ruby-red colour woven with gold patterns; it is a little brighter than he would normally choose, but he is dressing for diplomacy today. Over this he wears an open sleeveless robe of black velvet.
He braids his hair back in his usual manner and places his circlet on his brow, determinedly not thinking of the crown of bluebells lying abandoned in the sitting room.
As Arien climbs higher and golden light spills over the floor, Erestor pads over to the small desk in the corner of the sitting room, carefully avoiding looking at the table and the tea things still there – that can be something else to deal with tonight. Instead he pens an elegant missive to the Haradrim contingent, inviting them to a light luncheon on the western library terrace and placing his official seal on it.
With little appetite, he elects to skip breakfast. Instead he makes his way across the House to drop the missive off at their rooms, and then to the kitchens, where he offers praise for last night and directions for the day's various small lunch meetings – Elrond is hosting Nilûbên and the Númenorean contingent for lunch (he had hoped to attend it before conversing with Haroun, but it cannot be helped; the Haradrim emissary's news seems urgent) and the various Guild Heads are also meeting for lunch.
That done, he goes to Elrond's rooms, catching the Peredhel just as he is leaving for breakfast.
"Elrond," he calls, and ignores the way Elrond blanches at the sight of him. "I have arranged for a meeting with Haroun; he has important tidings, I fear, and I do not think it can wait. I shall see him for lunch and inform you of any news afterwards."
Elrond comes towards him and clasps his shoulders. "Forget all that – what has happened?"
Perhaps others would not be able to so easily tell anything is wrong, but Elrond knows him better than anyone. For one long moment Erestor allows himself to sag forward and take the shorter Elf in his arms, breathing in his familiar scent.
"Erestor," Elrond murmurs. "Tell me."
Erestor shakes his head, already straightening.
"Is it Glorfindel?" Elrond looks aghast.
"No! At least, not in whatever way you are imagining. It is... complicated, Elrond. But he has not wronged me. We have been honest with each other and we have chosen to move on."
Elrond frowns at him. "Your words say one thing and your face tells me a different tale."
"Elrond, please. I will tell you everything when I feel able. For now, let me work."
The shorter Elf frowns at Erestor, but nods.
"When you see Glorfindel, tell him to come to the western library terrace for the lunch with Haroun; this concerns him too."
"And you cannot tell him yourself?" Elrond questions delicately.
"Just tell him, Elrond, please."
Elrond nods, clearly displeased but accepting the answer.
"I will see you at dinner. Give my respects to the Númenorean group." Erestor stalks off to his office, heedless of Elrond's concerned gaze boring into his back.