Snorefindel

Dedicated to Evendim’s Glorfindel and Erestor

Snowflakes slowly danced down into the Valley of Peace, covering the Last Homely House with a soft, downy blanket of white fluff as the Elves of Rivendell withdrew inside their homes, singing by their fires after the pleasures of the evening meals.

Erestor quietly moved through the kitchen, returning the bottle of silver polish to the high cupboard in the corner by the pantry. Soundlessly closing the cupboard door, the Seneschal tiptoed to the table and lifted the now shining silver decanters two at a time, carefully preventing any metalic clanging when he placed them back on the shelves in the old cabinet.

A soft, raspy sound, not unlike someone sawing trees far off in the distance, mingled with the contented purring of the mousers; its source a golden-haired warrior, sitting in his chair by the range, legs crossed at the ankles, feet stretching out towards the heat of the fire, a feline contentedly sprawled on the velvet-clad thighs.

“Look at you, you great blond streak of aggravation,” Erestor snorted inwardly. The golden head was hanging backwards, leaning on the chair’s back. The blue eyes were glazed over, the fair features relaxed, mouth slightly open…in short: the mighty Captain of the House of the Golden Flower of long lost Gondolin was a picture of peace.

The Seneschal sat down in his own chair, opposite the sleeping Slayer of a Balrog. Though snoring was a highly uncommon feat among elves – the sawing of logs being rather a trait of the Second Born and the Children of Aulë – Glorfindel had snored for as long as Erestor could remember.

The Chief of Defenses had ventured into the kitchen to relax after a long, laborious day in the snow. The warriors of the Rivendell Guard had made themselves useful by shoveling snow off the many winding paths in the Valley. Although the Elves could easily walk on top of even the deepest of snows, the warm west wind blowing across Eriador from the sea would not allow for a steady time of frosty temperatures. The ongoing alternation of thaw and frost would soon turn the steep paths into dangerous ice-slides.

Glorfindel had worked with his warriors from dawn till dusk – although Erestor did not need to ask to know that the great blond loon had also engaged in a snowball fight or two. Imladris did not know that many days of snow per year. The sea climate of Eriador and the west winds blowing warm air all the way to the Misty Mountains mainly made for a lot of rain in the winter months – and for many feet of snow in the higher passes. But when the snowline came down to the bottom of the valley, Glorfindel became a little elfling once more.

The Seneschal chuckled when he remembered the three snow-elves he had found standing outside the kitchen window a few years before. Glory had secretly worked throughout the night to make a beautiful snow-sculpure, depicting a scene from one of Erestor’s favourite memories: Elladan and Elrohir playing with elfling Arwen in the snow. Inside the kitchen Erestor had then found the blond warrior in a very similar position to his current one: Softly snoring by the range, resting after his efforts.

Later that day the impertinent Elf had coaxed the Seneschal into a snowball fight. Or rather forced, the Seneschal scowled, ruffling his feathers at the mere memory. Glorfindel had pelted the dark-haired Noldo with snowballs all the way from the training grounds, where Erestor had delivered a message from Elrond, back to the Last Homely House. Insisting on maintaining his dignity – and thus refusing to run – Erestor had kept a stiff upper lip and ignored the rascal as he had hurriedly made his way back to the safe haven represented by the kitchen door, where Erestor at least had the right to demand that no cold, oozy wetness was dragged across the threshold. But before he had made it back into his fortified compound, the ongoing thuds of well-aimed fluffy projectiles in his face, neck and ears had eventually caused the Seneschal to throw a hissy fit – followed by a downright tantrum when the golden-haired pestilence had simply refused to lay off. The Seneschal’s warrior instincts had taken over, and he had fought off his assailant with the only weapon available: the kind that had liberally descended on the grounds of Imladris during the previous night.

Erestor smiled when he remembered Glorfindel’s delighted grin as they had chased one another through the gardens like a pair of rambunctious elflings. Oh, he had been angry, seething in frustration at the golden oaf’s never-ceasing desire for mischief. He had been determined to wipe that smug expression off the Balrog Slayer’s face, washing it away with several cartloads of snow. He had run between the trees and the white-crusted flower beds, sweeping up snow as he went and throwing snowballs with a speed he had not even known he possessed.

Erestor would never admit it, not even to himself, but he had enjoyed the boisterous game immensely. It had been a long time indeed since he had last run around in the midst of nature, carefree as a young ellon, playing chase.

“Just you sleep, my dear Glory,” he whispered to the snoring Elf, reaching out to brush a few crumbs from the warrior’s robes.

The Seneschal’s eyebrows rose triumphantly when he slipped a few of the crumbs into his own mouth. “Aha! Ginger snaps! You have been pilfering the pantry again, you big scamp! You could have asked me if you wanted some! How many more times must I tell you?”

Now did Elrond’s Chief Advisor just imagine it? Or had the fleeting ghost of a smile just passed over the blond warrior’s face? Erestor shrugged. Glorfindel was prone to have facial expressions in his sleep. The Balrog Slayer of Gondolin had an amazing second sense, even while he slept. He always just knew if danger was near. Was it so strange, then, to think that the rapscallion would respond to his friend’s admonishment, even while he walked the path of waking dreams?

The Seneschal rose and walked to the hearth, where he had placed Glorfindel’s soft leather slippers to get warm. “You cannot walk around the house with only socks on your feet! How long did it take me to wean Arwen of this habit?” he muttered to the sleeping Elf. “You will not start and set a wrong example now.”

He briefly paused to admire the view of Glorfindel’s feet, cozily wrapped in socks without holes. It was a small miracle that merited some special attention – despite the fact that it had only been accomplished because these were freshly darned socks, given to the Balrog Slayer in exchange for the cold and wet footmittens with peepholes for the warrior’s toes, which the Elf had been wearing when he entered the kitchen.

Kneeling down, Erestor carefully lifted one sock-clad foot and slipped it into a warm slipper. He momentarily glanced up at his protégé, ready to soothe the warrior back to sleep in the case he should wake from his slumber, but Glorfindel did not even stir. Smiling that the warrior’s ‘danger-radar’ had not detected his, Erestor’s, action as a possible threat, the Seneschal slowly maneuvered the other foot into its warm, leather housing.

Erestor was glad that he could take care of his friend like this. It was always Glorfindel who took care of everyone in the House and the Valley. The optimistic, pragmatic and endlessly patient Elf was ever the voice of reason; the warm, comforting shoulder; the listening ear; the fierce – and at times ferocious – defender and supporter; and the good-natured, kind and caring friend: And not only to Elrond, but also to Erestor, Celebrían, to the twins, to Arwen, to the commanders of the Rivendell Guard and to all of his warriors. Even Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien had struck up a warm friendship with the Golden One. He was a pestiferous imp who never got enough of playing pranks, nor of wasting his time with foolishness and with outbursts of downright mischief. But all the same: his Glory was the source of much joy, bringing light and laughter into the heart of Imladris. And Erestor loved him for it.

With careful hands the Seneschal unbraided the warrior’s hair, gently brushing his fingers through the long, golden tresses. The raven-haired Noldo’s melodious tenor softly sang a song that the golden one had ofttimes sung for him in his times of distress.

“Sleep in peace, oh elfling sweet,

The moon will ride the sky

While the stars shine on your feet.

o-O-o

Blessed dreams, oh elfling bright

Have no fear, for I will hold thee

And shall love thee through the night.”

Now, had the Balrog Slayer been awake, Erestor would never have displayed such open affection. He had to uphold the image of the distant, irascible Seneschal, and besides: Glorfindel might take it wrongly; he might want to see more of such open and honest love, giving it no rest until he got what he sought. Erestor shuddered at the mere thought of such demands for affection.

But since he was unobserved, with no-one else present in the kitchen but the mousers and the snoring blond, Erestor fondly brushed his fingers through the long, golden hair and pressed a soft, tender kiss on the top of Glorfindel’s head.

“Sleep in peace, my dear Glory,” he whispered. “I will go and fetch you a pillow for your head, and a bolster for your feet.”

The cat on Glorfindel’s lap lazily stared up at the Seneschal, blinking serenely. Erestor reached down to scratch the animal behind the ears before he quietly tiptoed to the door.

“A pillow,” he mused, while he disappeared into the corridor. “And a bolster…a glass of wine for when he wakes…and dried fruit chips! Glorfindel loves dried fruit chips…”

Had Erestor been able to see the bright, smiling face of the Balrog Slayer behind him, it is to be doubted that Glorfindel would have eaten any dried fruit chips – or ginger snaps! – for many long years to come. No longer glazed over, the warrior’s blue eyes gazed fondly at the door through which Erestor had just left the kitchen.

“I love you, too, my snarky cat,” Glorfindel chuckled softly.

He had not, in fact, been asleep. Nor did he ever snore… Not for real, in any case. Technically this would not be very difficult for Erestor to find out, for the Balrog Slayer of Gondolin spent plenty of time sleeping amongst his warriors when he was out on patrol. But Erestor’s respect for his friend was such, that he did not, ever, mention the fact that Glorfindel sawed wood to anyone else. In all likelihood, the Seneschal attributed Glorfindel’s snoring to his ‘sense of safety’ while in the Last Homely House.

Glorfindel had kept up this pretense of snoring and sleeping ever since Erestor had been a young and unapproachable ellon. He vastly enjoyed – and deeply loved – the un-guarded side of Erestor he got to ‘see’ in these unobserved moments. He had never dropped his guise, not in all these long centuries, for he knew well that this was the closest the snarky Seneschal would ever allow anyone to come to his heart.

Hearing the familiar swiff of the burgundy robes, Glorfindel hurriedly let his head slip back on the back of the chair, unfocusing his eyes and relaxing his body.

Erestor stopped in the doorway and smiled at the picture of innocence sitting by the range, the sound of soft, gentle snoring like a soothing melody to his ears. He carefully propped a pillow under Glorfindel’s head and knelt down to place the bolster under Glorfindel’s feet.

Leaning back in his chair with a contented sigh, Erestor softly hummed a tune as he picked up a thread and another of Glorfindel’s tormented socks.

“Sleep well, my little Snorefindel,” he crooned.

The End

AN: Characterizations of Erestor and Glorfindel borrowed with permission from Evendim.

The expressions ‘great blond streak of aggravation’, ‘hissy fit’, ‘snarky cat’, plus the episode with Erestor darning Glorfindel’s socks, the soft leather slippers, the cats in the kitchen, and Glorfindel’s fondness of ginger snaps all are Evendim’s creations! The poem/song that Erestor sings is my own.