In your Eyes: Reflections
Glorfindel took the offered chair and looked at the raven-haired Peredhel Lord. Slightly inclining his head and pushing aside a strand of golden hair shining in the daylight, he teased his old friend.
"I would have thought you would be more interested in the message itself than in its bearer, my Lord."
Elrond could not suppress his warm smile at the seneschal's answer. Glorfindel was one of the rare people who dared tease him. Instead of being offended by the brutal frankness, he found his friend's attitude somewhat refreshing.
"The message is obscure. It is a request for a meeting to discuss the encroachment of darkness into Mirkwood. Honestly, I do not know what to make of it. It is not like Thranduil to ask anyone for aid, especially me. I fear the situation may be extremely serious. But tonight..."
"But tonight is not a night for such worries" interrupted Glorfindel as he smiled. "I think you may have to explain to Erestor your interesting theory about these concerns. He is more than tense, and I have never seen him so stressed. You should have seen his face when I informed him that a Prince of Mirkwood would stay among us to attend the celebration. He would not have looked more desperate if a Balrog had attacked Imladris...
A melodious chuckle escaped Elrond's lips at the sudden sound of hopelessness in the Seneschal's voice when referring to Erestor. He himself had long ago abandoned the thought of changing the raven-haired counselor's mind.
"Erestor will always be Erestor, Glorfindel", sighed Elrond, before adding with a casual gesture of his hand to enhance his words, "Nothing and no one will ever change him. But do not worry, his mood will improve tomorrow and he will become once again the nice, quiet elf we know.
Glorfindel raised a golden eyebrow, looking somewhat dubious.
"I hope so, but I am sure that at this very moment, he is arranging the table seating to place the young Thranduilion next to you."
At those words, Elrond's expression changed a little. Becoming serious again, he sought his friend's gaze and said:
"I would like to ask you something, my friend" Seeing that Glorfindel had nodded in ascent, he continued: "I would like to have you entertain the little princeling tonight. Usually, I would have asked to my sons to attend to such a task, as they are more his age than you are, but..."
"But, you are not sure that your sons' exuberant company would befit the young Prince", interrupted for the second time the golden-haired elf. Signifying his Lord's opinion with a vigorous nod, he said: "I agree with you, but I'm not sure I will be more appropriate for this task. He does not look like someone that can be easily reached, you know. He is far too distant for his age, if I may daresay."
Sighing, Elrond smiled sadly and looked for a moment at a beautiful little golden bird, waddling and skipping on the edge of the open window, before answering:
"I agree with you, Glorfindel. I have noticed it while we were discussing Mirkwood. But his apparent detachment is a mask. You have met more wood-elves than I have, my friend. You know that they do not often show their emotions." With a light chuckle, he added. "Thranduil is the only one I have ever seen losing his temper..."
The blond seneschal laughed openly, his musical laughter filling the small office before he corrected, wielding a mischievous forefinger toward the Lore Master:
"But Thranduil had not exactly been raised as a mere wood-elf, Elrond. And if I may suggest something, I think you are the only one that has this effect upon him. Just as he is the only one who can truly anger you..."
Elrond sadly smiled, his friend's words awakening dark memories in him. Glorfindel indeed spoke the truth. Since the end of their friendship, every time they had met, the encounter had ended in cries, insults and curses. And, even if he hated to admit it, those very unlordly manners had not only been on Thranduil's part. Sighing, he acknowledged the spoken truth:
"You are right as ever, my friend..." Chasing away echoes of the past, he added more lightly: "Even if I think the twins can compete with him in that particular matter"
Glorfindel smiled warmly and rose to pour them some of the light wine that he had brought with him. He watched the glinting of the velvety liquid sparkling against the crystal glasses. A pleasant scent of spice and freshness emanated from the wine that he inhaled with delectation. The soft wine was a product of the vale, the sweet flavoured grapes were cultivated on one of the farthest hills and made a light and delicate wine, that could be consumed without too much danger of intoxication. He offered one of the two glasses to his dark-haired friend before sitting again. Then, remembering the first subject of their conversation, he said:
"His son looks very much like him"
Elrond breathed in deeply of the spiced scent of his wine before swallowing a cautious sip of the red liquid. He nodded his approval when the fresh fruity taste invaded his mouth, then he replied:
"Yes, but I do not remember such reserve in Thranduil when he was young"
The blond advisor's reply came immediately and Elrond noticed the deep interest flaring in his voice:
"One could understand him. He has grown up within the shadows of his realm. He has seen death among his kin. Being distant from events is a way for him to protect himself. Remaining emotionless has some advantages, you know: for example, it spares you the grief of loss."
The Lore Master gave himself a few seconds to ponder his friend's words. He decided that he agreed with this intuitive analysis. Then, looking at the golden-haired elf, who had just finished his glass of wine and placed it on the desk, he said:
"You seem to have taken a liking to the little Princeling, my old friend"
Glorfindel deliberately ignored the emphasis that Elrond had put upon the words "Princeling" and "old", as if to emphasize the large difference in age. Grinning widely, he replied without any hesitation:
"As have you, Elrond. As have you..."
Smiling back, Elrond slightly shook his head. It was hopeless to think that one day Glorfindel would ignore something about him, but he liked him like that. Sipping the remainder of his glass, he stated, changing of subject:
"I have one or two things to ask you about that horribly long and boring report of yours..."
The blond archer sighed and stretched, taking care not to wet the new bandage on his forearm as he placed the injured limb on the edge of the tub. He tried to relax his mind, to empty it of all thought, but found he could not. A pair of intense grey eyes were staring at him, piercing his very soul. No matter how hard he tried, he could not chase them away. They remained in his mind like two brilliant gems.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the steam from the heated water before he plunged his head below the surface in an attempt to calm his agitation. As he slid into the welcoming heat, the world became muffled. The sounds became distant, the song of the birds a mere shadow to his ears. He stayed there, blue eyes wide open, his long hair floating to form a halo around his submerged features. He remained that way as long as his lungs would allow, and finally sat up when his body was screaming for air. When he emerged from the water's surface, the exterior noises exploded in his ears, bringing him back to reality.
He was angry with himself. More than angry. It was not in his nature to be upset by anything. Years of discipline had taught him well how to handle any situation. Yet, this time, he had lost control. Simply lost control. And it was a severe affront to his pride. An odd feeling had overwhelmed him and he had not been able to push it back. He had not liked that feeling at all. It made him feel lost and vulnerable.
He could not keep himself from returning the gaze. He simply could not help it, and something had happened. Something that had never happened before, and he was unprepared for it. A connection. A link. A bond. It was if the beholder had known him forever, as if they had shared their strengths, weaknesses, their fears and hope through that one moment. It was as if they were open books to each other. A feeling of completion had seized him. It was an odd and yet very comfortable feeling, like a balm upon the secret wounds of his heart. He could have spent hours there, drowning himself in the depths of those dark eyes. He let go the restraints he held upon himself, opening his mind to this beholder, giving him the keys to his soul.
Fortunately, a voice had called him back to reality, pulling him out of that trap he found himself caught in. He had been startled, then grateful for the interruption that had warned him of the danger he was in. He had quickly regained his composure and chastised himself for his behaviour before eagerly following the healer. But he had not been able to leave without glancing one more time toward the owner of that awkward gaze. People would have called it curiosity, he called it weakness and he hated himself more for indulging the treacherous temptation of his mind. He had looked back at the delicate features, and somehow found the strength to avoid looking into those vivid eyes. He had noticed the dark complexion, the high, noble cheekbones, and the angular lines of the clenched jaw. But most of all, he had immediately seen the exact likeness between the beholder and the other occupant of the room that had raised a curious gaze toward him. It had not taken him long to know who they were.
Indeed, Lord Elrond's twin sons were known well beyond the boundaries of the vale of Imladris. Legolas had always thought they would remain names and hazy images for him. Many stories were told about them. Both were fierce and skilled warriors who had killed many of Sauron's minions, known to lead long and furious hunts that brought them very far from the peacefulness of their realm. The fact that they were twins was renown. Elven twins were rare, an occasional and blessed event among their kin, who suffered a decrease in births as their time on Arda came to an end. The two brothers were objects of barely hidden admiration and curiosity. An aura of mystery followed them, and whispering could be heard when they were near. Many stories were told of them, stories that spoke of blood, revenge, broken hearts, and wild nights. Legolas had never really listened to the gossip around the campfire by warriors trying to forget the hostilities of battle.
All those stories lauded their perfect likeness. The Peredhel twins were said to be indistinguishable from each other, like mirrored images. But if Legolas knew little about them, he had learned one truth. To him, the brothers were absolutely not identical. Their eyes were different. Their gaze was not the same. While one would look at him and see only what Legolas chose to reveal, the other would know everything about him, even what he failed to acknowledge himself. And to the youngest Prince of Mirkwood, that was not a slight difference.
Shaking his head to clear unwanted thoughts, the blonde archer combed his tangled wet hair with his fingers. In one graceful movement, he stepped out of the bath onto the stone floor, oblivious to the water dripping the length of his body forming a puddle at his feet. Taking a few steps within the bathroom, Legolas seized a large towel resting on a seat. It was time for him to get ready for the feast.
Next: The Feast
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