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@counsellorerestor
List of RP threads
Threads with @counsellorerestor
(Glorfindel/Erestor)
A Friendly Visit: Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3 link
Spring Festival I: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Spring Festival II - The Rose Tournament: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Spring Festival III: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Spring Festival IV - Answers: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
"Counselor Erestor?"
Melpomaen does his best to push down his nerves. Already he gives himself away, unable to keep his hands from wringing the sleeves of his robes.
"May I have a moment?"
Erestor takes a moment to respond, focused on signing a letter with a flourish and setting the quill aside before it can drip. He glances up, quickly taking in the other Elf's clear nervousness.
"Certainly. What is it?"
Châtelain; the keeper of the castle or in this case Rivendell
-Erestor with his 74 keys (yes I counted them)
@nighttimepatrons
Glorfindel, Balrog-Slayer and Lord of the Golden Flower in Gondolin 💛
grumpy sigh
He is unfairly perfect.
Of Flowers and Fealty
I could not get this post out of my mind, so... Glorestor be upon ye!
Erestor looked at the flowers for a long moment, his hands brushing against Glorfindel’s where his fingers were wrapped around their stems, neither taking nor refusing them, before lifting his dark eyes, hard as obsidian, to meet Glorfindel’s. “You must know that I feel the same attraction you speak of,” he said, his voice carefully measured. “But there are other considerations to make ere I can accept your courtship.” Glorfindel inclined his head, waiting. “Tell me, Glorfindel,” Erestor continued, unwaveringly stern. “If I were your lover, your spouse, and by some circumstance you were forced to choose between our Lord’s life and mine – where would your choice fall?” Ah. So that was what it came down to. Glorfindel could not fault him the question, but neither could he bring himself to look up at the one he loved, lest he be tempted to console him with a pretty lie; he owed Erestor the truth, if nothing else. “I would choose Elrond,” he said quietly, resigned. “I would choose the one to whom I have sworn my sword and my fealty.” He waited, silently, for the warmth of Erestor’s hands against his to vanish along with any love he might have had for him, but instead gentle fingers brushed against his cheek and tilted his head up, and when he met Erestor’s eyes he found them warm and approving. “I am glad,” he said, “for such would be my choice also, now and always, and I would not give my heart to one who does not understand that my loyalty belongs to another, nor permit you to falter in your service to him for love of me.” Ere Glorfindel could say anything Erestor raised the flowers to his lips and kissed them. “I accept your courtship, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower.”
Glorfindel/Erestor inspired moodboard
☀️ The Sun and Moon of Imladris 🌙
Glorfindel and Erestor are kinda my OTP, and I hate (despise, loathe) drawing armor, but I had the strong urge to see them in such.
But Erestor in armor you say?
I headcanon that Erestor is quite old, probably Years of the Trees old, and is a very skilled warrior. Perhaps he was a military commander and strategist at a couple points in his life, or potential a spymaster, but he is deadly in battle. He may have put the majority of his warrior tendencies behind him in favor of his books and scrolls and work as chief counselor of Imladris (because let’s be honest, I love this facet of him too), but he still enjoys a good spar with Glorfindel, and they sometimes patrol together!
Are they holding hands? Of course they’re holding hands. What do you take me for?
Perfect.
Experimental Erestor
Do you ever try something else to learn and are not quite sure what to make of it? Well, this is mine ^^' It does work quicker, yes, but I think I need to return to my usual coloring despite that, this feels reminiscend of something I have done years ago :D
Elrond: Like Maglor always says: if at first you do not succeed, then it's only attempted murder.
Glorfindel: Maglor? Maglor always said that?
Erestor, wiping away a tear: Inspirational.
*dryly* Fatherhood came so naturally to them.
E R E S T O R
“That is the path of despair. Of folly I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.“—The Fellowship of the Ring, The Council of Elrond
Erestor in The Return of Shadow
Today on even more obscure Erestor lore, here are all the Erestor mentions in The Return of Shadow.
The Return of Shadow is the sixth book in the 12-volume The History of Middle-earth series. It shows the early versions of what would later be The Fellowship of the Ring and as such, is the only other book apart from The Fellowship of the Ring and The Return of the King when Erestor, Elrond's chief counsellor, is mentioned.
In the first version of the text, Erestor was already conceived as a counsellor to Elrond. He was not yet chief, but he was still an Elf, although he was in the company of two Half-elves.
Christopher Tolkien lists early characters conceived for this chapter. Erestor pre-dates both Gimli and Legolas, and seems to have always been a part of the plans for the Council scene.
In a later but still pre-FotR version, Tolkien considered the idea of Erestor being Half-elven, exchanging him with the two Half-elves from the earlier excerpt.
There is a footnote from Christopher Tolkien however that said that even as an Elf instead of Man (Half-elf) in the first version, Erestor was nonetheless implied to be a kinsman of Elrond.
This detail about him being Elrond's kinsman is no longer in the published version of The Fellowship of the Ring. All the same, Erestor being as close as kin to Elrond remains to be a popular fanon, and this at least seems to be a sentiment early versions of the text share.
We now move to an early manuscript of the critical dialogues in 'The Council of Elrond' (early title being, 'In the House of Elrond'):
This exchange is largely the same as what we see in the published version in FotR. Erestor suggests to seek the aid of Tom Bombadil, who seems immune to the power of the Ring. Gandalf advises against this, and so Erestor proceeds to give alternatives:
In this version, the ideas of sending the Ring west to Valinor or destroying it also came from Erestor. In the published version, these lines were given to Glorfindel, although interestingly, the footnotes imply that Glorfindel has already been considered before, as well as Elrond.
As we will later see in the published version, Tolkien eventually distributes Erestor's lines among the other members of the Council. Glorfindel suggests sending the Ring West, but Elrond is the one who explains why this cannot work. Glorfindel then suggests destroying the Ring or casting it into the Sea. Lastly, the lines, "The journey to the Havens would be fraught with peril..." were later given to Galdor, who was then changed to be an Elf of the Havens instead of Mirkwood.
There is another interesting footnote in this section around Erestor's conversations with Gandalf. It's a nice detail, especially considering that the earlier dialogues and exchange of ideas were mostly between Erestor and Gandalf, showing familiarity between the two:
After this, the text progresses to a long dialogue involving Boromir and Glóin, which even touched on the history and the conception of the other Rings of Power. Similar to the published FotR, Erestor returns the discussion to the task at hand:
What's interesting for me in these early versions of the text is how Tolkien seems to have had a good idea of what purpose Erestor needs to serve in the text. The lines in the published version are more evenly distributed among Erestor, Glorfindel, Galdor, Elrond and Gandalf, but in the early version, Erestor is practically the outline on matters surrounding the question, "What do we do with Sauron's Ring?" and thus also moves the discussion along to a decision.
Glorfindel and Erestor
Home, let me come home. Home is wherever I’m with you.
Erestor & Glorfindel | To Middle-earth, by Telerin ships vs The Grinding Ice
moodboard; Glorfindel, lord of the House of the Golden Flower
kicking off @glorfindelweek with a moodboard with no specific prompt, i just love the sunshine boy
for @gondolindon <3
Bitter Work
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.
@counsellorerestor
(Continued from Part 1, Part 2, Part 3)
Glorfindel sighs easily into that kiss. He would be lying if he said he was surprised; perhaps, unwisely, he was even hoping for it. A part of him still feels guilty that they have found themselves like this, but the feeling of Erestor's fingers in his hair and the now familiar taste of his lips, sweetly laced with tea, pull all other thoughts away.
Warmth covers them from the fire, from the tea they shared, and now also from this kiss, which only deepens each time they pull away and dive straight back in. Erestor's breath is sweet against Glorfindel's lips, and his fingers bury in Erestor's hair, thick and soft as they fall over the other's shoulders. Glorfindel breathes him in, wants everything about this moment memorised, so that he can pull this memory whenever he misses it—as he is sure he would, the very moment he has to release Erestor.
Erestor's hands slide down Glorfindel's shoulders and arms to take hold of his hands; with a soft rustle of velvet robes he stands, pulling Glorfindel to his feet. He steps backwards, gently leading Glorfindel across the sitting room and through an arched doorway into the bedroom. As Glorfindel registers the doorway, however, he pauses, uncertainty writ large across his face.
Erestor squeezes his hands, trying to impress the sense-memory of those callouses into his own palms. "I have no expectations." He pauses then, lips twisting wryly. "I have had hopes ever since you first kissed me, certainly. But I will ask for nothing that you are not willing to give this once and never again. I would like to at least have you close tonight though, if you are amenable?"
Ah, how the unwise decisions pile up. Tomorrow evening, when the day's work is done, he will seek out Elrond.
For tonight, however, he will take whatever is on offer and hoard it away in his greedy heart like a dragon, a golden memory to be taken out and admired and then locked away safely again.
Glorfindel squeezes Erestor's hand, holding it tightly as he follows him to the bed. What he thought would have been difficult to do—perhaps it would have been awkward, guilt-laden—is surprisingly not so, for he and Erestor seem to fold against one another easily, lying wrapped around each other on Erestor's bed. Erestor's head rests against Glorfindel's shoulder, tucked under his chin; Glorfindel wraps his arms around him, holds him close.
“Do you know,” he confides, whispering the words against Erestor's hair, “never have I doubted my circumstances until now. It didn't matter if I lived here or on the western shores, and so I thought I may as well go where I could at least do some good.”
But had he not accepted the Valar’s request, they would not have met. Or they could have, eventually, once Erestor sails, but would Glorfindel then have to wait another age? Would it have been better if he had met Erestor earlier? No, because then his death would have been even more tragic, wouldn't it?
Erestor's fist clenches in blue velvet, over Glorfindel's heart, his own heartbeat thudding in his ears; it feels like there are far too many emotions churning in his chest.
He wants to rage at the Valar, at himself, even at Glorfindel for pursuing him and for being so easy to love, so devoted to his duty above all — but would Glorfindel be the same person without his sense of duty? He wants to grieve — he had not expected to fall in love after such a long life so full of loss, and to find it unlooked-for and have it snatched out of reach in the same breath is a loss he had not known to prepare for. The joy of having his long-hidden feelings returned has been tempered by the bitterness of war and duty even before he could enjoy it.
Part of him wants to cajole and convince and seduce Glorfindel into agreeing to try regardless, for why shouldn't they snatch what joy they can find?
But a much larger part of him is steeped in the same sense of duty, for is that not part of why they were drawn to one another in the first place? He knows he cannot, should not, place himself between Glorfindel and his Valar-ordained mission, just as he himself would place Imladris above any lover.
Instead he turns and tilts his head up to brush his lips over Glorfindel's cheek, arms tightening about his — lover? friend? What can he even call them?
"It has not been that long since the Noldor got back into the Valar's good graces, and now here is a former Fëanorian making their chosen champion doubt his path," he murmurs dryly.
Glorfindel huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. “Much as I know many like to blame your people for the ills of the world, I’m afraid there is no one to blame for this situation than their own champion himself,” he says.
So naturally does his head turn so his lips meet Erestor's, kissing him once, then more firmly the second time. He pulls away just enough, foreheads touching once again as he looks into Erestor's eyes, hand against his cheek, thumb caressing his soft skin.
Just this once and never again. Erestor's words play in his mind, over and over as they war against that inexorable pull towards one’s intended—for that is what Erestor is to him, isn't it, nevermind that they met at the most inconvenient of times? A surprising discovery made so late in life, when most Elves find their mates young. Truly, only the will of the Valar can stop him from giving Erestor everything that he deserves—not only what Glorfindel can offer, not now when such an offer only amounts to so little, a mockery of the kind of love Erestor is worth.
Glorfindel kisses him again, knowing fully well it can never be enough. But in this moment Erestor can wring him dry should that be his wish, and Glorfindel would just work twice as hard to make up for it, when it's all over and he's thrown back into Arda Marred.
Erestor kisses back hungrily, desperately. A part of him cannot help but wonder how this might affect Glorfindel - he might believe there are no consequences or rules laid on him, but surely the Valar would be watching their champion?
Glorfindel had spent years uncounted on Valinor after being reborn, and has returned as a representative of the Valar. Will they expect him to live by the old rules that most Elves on Middle-Earth have forgotten? Judging by Glorfindel's earlier eagerness he does not think so, and yet.
He raises himself so that he is hovering over Glorfindel, and leans down to kiss him deeply, nipping at his lip and sucking on his tongue in a way that leaves little doubt about his desires. Consciously, he gentles himself, placing little kisses up along Glorfindel's jawline and then meeting his eyes.
"Whatever you wish. Only whatever you wish."
Does it even matter what Erestor wants, at this point? In the grand scheme of things he matters little compared to Glorfindel's role in Middle-Earth. Perhaps in the morning his pride will be sore, but for now there are too many emotions thrumming through him.
Glorfindel looks back up at Erestor, dazed, still reeling from the kiss. Erestor hovers over him, beautiful in the low light, his hair hanging over their faces as though to hide them from watching eyes.
“What I wish, this night cannot even contain,” he whispers. He takes Erestor's hand and presses it against his lips. “So it matters not. And what I can offer is poor indeed, but it is yours, at least until the time we said we shall have. Or until you say it is enough.”
He slides a hand up to the back of Erestor's neck, presses his thumb behind Erestor's ear as he pulls him close for another kiss. He kisses Erestor while holding nothing back, loath to give him any room for doubt about how wanted he is, if not for the doom that hangs over their heads. He bites into Erestor's lips, pulls him until he has Erestor's tongue in his mouth, coaxes him down so he is lying on top of Glorfindel. Glorfindel buries fingers in his hair, massaging against his scalp, his other hand sliding down Erestor's back until his arm is wrapped tightly around Erestor's waist.
Erestor can only gasp and moan into that mouth, letting Glorfindel's firm touch move him as he pleases; his body sings under such desire, thrumming like a harp being plucked. One kiss fades into another, and he thinks that he has never cursed Arien so, nor wished so fervently for Tilion to remain in the sky and continue illuminating Glorfindel in his silver light, casting those beloved features into sharp contrast. Would Tilion heed one Elf begging him to stay?
He shifts as they break for air, coaxing Glorfindel to sit up so that he can straddle the taller Elf's lap and kiss him again and again, as if he were drowning and Glorfindel were the air he needed.
Erestor finds himself wanting to say sentimental, heartbroken things, to promise himself and give himself over to Glorfindel in a way he had avoided with previous lovers; he shoves those urges down violently and focuses on the taste of Glorfindel, the feel of broad muscles shifting under hungry hands and flexing under his thighs as they move against each other. He kisses down Glorfindel's neck, greedy fingers tugging his collar aside so that he can fasten his mouth to the junction of neck and shoulder and bite down hard, laving the area with his tongue even as he draws the flesh between his teeth and sucks, something darkly self-satisfied settling in his belly at the thought of the bruise that will result.
This night may be all they have, but Glorfindel is his. Let him see the mark over the next few days, and remember its phantom sting next time he rides out on the Valar's bidding.
He draws back and admires his handiwork for a brief second before Glorfindel claims his lips again.
If Tilion can hear the desperate prayers directed at him, he shows no sign.
~*~
Erestor has, for most of his life, struggled to fall asleep quickly. His mind is ever active, and in the quiet of the night when his head hits the pillow he cannot help but mull over the events of the day, or think about upcoming events and meetings and proposals, potential effects and problems and how to mitigate them, and so on.
Now he desperately wants to lie awake and take in every moment of Glorfindel's warm body next to him, to murmur soft words and hold him close and not waste a single second of their time together even as it rapidly slips through his fingers like water.
Ironically, the reason he wants to avoid Irmo's realm is also the very reason he cannot help but give in to it. One of the reasons he was drawn to Glorfindel from the beginning was the other's soothing presence; something about him quietens Erestor's mind and calms its frenetic energy.
And so as they lie together now, bodies entwined and hair mingling on one pillow, Erestor can feel sleep claiming him even as he tries valiantly to stay awake, gaze tracing that fair face. His mind is enveloped by peace, and is quiescent. He blinks a few times in protest, moisture clinging to his lashes, but eventually his breathing evens out and his head relaxes against Glorfindel's shoulder.
@counsellorerestor
(Continued from Part 1, Part 2, Part 3)
Glorfindel sighs easily into that kiss. He would be lying if he said he was surprised; perhaps, unwisely, he was even hoping for it. A part of him still feels guilty that they have found themselves like this, but the feeling of Erestor's fingers in his hair and the now familiar taste of his lips, sweetly laced with tea, pull all other thoughts away.
Warmth covers them from the fire, from the tea they shared, and now also from this kiss, which only deepens each time they pull away and dive straight back in. Erestor's breath is sweet against Glorfindel's lips, and his fingers bury in Erestor's hair, thick and soft as they fall over the other's shoulders. Glorfindel breathes him in, wants everything about this moment memorised, so that he can pull this memory whenever he misses it—as he is sure he would, the very moment he has to release Erestor.
Erestor's hands slide down Glorfindel's shoulders and arms to take hold of his hands; with a soft rustle of velvet robes he stands, pulling Glorfindel to his feet. He steps backwards, gently leading Glorfindel across the sitting room and through an arched doorway into the bedroom. As Glorfindel registers the doorway, however, he pauses, uncertainty writ large across his face.
Erestor squeezes his hands, trying to impress the sense-memory of those callouses into his own palms. "I have no expectations." He pauses then, lips twisting wryly. "I have had hopes ever since you first kissed me, certainly. But I will ask for nothing that you are not willing to give this once and never again. I would like to at least have you close tonight though, if you are amenable?"
Ah, how the unwise decisions pile up. Tomorrow evening, when the day's work is done, he will seek out Elrond.
For tonight, however, he will take whatever is on offer and hoard it away in his greedy heart like a dragon, a golden memory to be taken out and admired and then locked away safely again.
Glorfindel squeezes Erestor's hand, holding it tightly as he follows him to the bed. What he thought would have been difficult to do—perhaps it would have been awkward, guilt-laden—is surprisingly not so, for he and Erestor seem to fold against one another easily, lying wrapped around each other on Erestor's bed. Erestor's head rests against Glorfindel's shoulder, tucked under his chin; Glorfindel wraps his arms around him, holds him close.
“Do you know,” he confides, whispering the words against Erestor's hair, “never have I doubted my circumstances until now. It didn't matter if I lived here or on the western shores, and so I thought I may as well go where I could at least do some good.”
But had he not accepted the Valar’s request, they would not have met. Or they could have, eventually, once Erestor sails, but would Glorfindel then have to wait another age? Would it have been better if he had met Erestor earlier? No, because then his death would have been even more tragic, wouldn't it?
Erestor's fist clenches in blue velvet, over Glorfindel's heart, his own heartbeat thudding in his ears; it feels like there are far too many emotions churning in his chest.
He wants to rage at the Valar, at himself, even at Glorfindel for pursuing him and for being so easy to love, so devoted to his duty above all — but would Glorfindel be the same person without his sense of duty? He wants to grieve — he had not expected to fall in love after such a long life so full of loss, and to find it unlooked-for and have it snatched out of reach in the same breath is a loss he had not known to prepare for. The joy of having his long-hidden feelings returned has been tempered by the bitterness of war and duty even before he could enjoy it.
Part of him wants to cajole and convince and seduce Glorfindel into agreeing to try regardless, for why shouldn't they snatch what joy they can find?
But a much larger part of him is steeped in the same sense of duty, for is that not part of why they were drawn to one another in the first place? He knows he cannot, should not, place himself between Glorfindel and his Valar-ordained mission, just as he himself would place Imladris above any lover.
Instead he turns and tilts his head up to brush his lips over Glorfindel's cheek, arms tightening about his — lover? friend? What can he even call them?
"It has not been that long since the Noldor got back into the Valar's good graces, and now here is a former Fëanorian making their chosen champion doubt his path," he murmurs dryly.
Glorfindel huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. “Much as I know many like to blame your people for the ills of the world, I’m afraid there is no one to blame for this situation than their own champion himself,” he says.
So naturally does his head turn so his lips meet Erestor's, kissing him once, then more firmly the second time. He pulls away just enough, foreheads touching once again as he looks into Erestor's eyes, hand against his cheek, thumb caressing his soft skin.
Just this once and never again. Erestor's words play in his mind, over and over as they war against that inexorable pull towards one’s intended—for that is what Erestor is to him, isn't it, nevermind that they met at the most inconvenient of times? A surprising discovery made so late in life, when most Elves find their mates young. Truly, only the will of the Valar can stop him from giving Erestor everything that he deserves—not only what Glorfindel can offer, not now when such an offer only amounts to so little, a mockery of the kind of love Erestor is worth.
Glorfindel kisses him again, knowing fully well it can never be enough. But in this moment Erestor can wring him dry should that be his wish, and Glorfindel would just work twice as hard to make up for it, when it's all over and he's thrown back into Arda Marred.
Erestor kisses back hungrily, desperately. A part of him cannot help but wonder how this might affect Glorfindel - he might believe there are no consequences or rules laid on him, but surely the Valar would be watching their champion?
Glorfindel had spent years uncounted on Valinor after being reborn, and has returned as a representative of the Valar. Will they expect him to live by the old rules that most Elves on Middle-Earth have forgotten? Judging by Glorfindel's earlier eagerness he does not think so, and yet.
He raises himself so that he is hovering over Glorfindel, and leans down to kiss him deeply, nipping at his lip and sucking on his tongue in a way that leaves little doubt about his desires. Consciously, he gentles himself, placing little kisses up along Glorfindel's jawline and then meeting his eyes.
"Whatever you wish. Only whatever you wish."
Does it even matter what Erestor wants, at this point? In the grand scheme of things he matters little compared to Glorfindel's role in Middle-Earth. Perhaps in the morning his pride will be sore, but for now there are too many emotions thrumming through him.
