“Dammit!” Flexing his fingers and squeezing his hand, he then shakes the offending limb. “When will I learn that I need to hire more scribes?”

“Here. Not like that.” I reach over the span of our desks, situated to face one another. Perhaps he will never know the great joy it brings me to have him sitting just a few feet away each and every day I am in the valley. Perhaps he already does know and yet says nothing. “Allow me,” I say, my head bowed as I take hold of his aching hand and gently massage away the cramps he gets from writing too long.

“Thank you.” He sits patiently as I tend to him, giving each long lovely finger its due turn, and take extra care with his palm and wrist. Maybe they seem like nothing out of the ordinary, but his hands are simply the most amazing I have seen. With them he can write a book, or play an entire symphony upon his fiddle. He uses them to weave the braids that are in his hair and to shake warningly at a child he is scolding. They are attached to the most wonderful arms in the world, which have held me both in joy and in grief. Nothing out of the ordinary to everyone else, but something rather special to me.

I shake myself from my reverie and relinquish his hand back to him. “We do need another scribe,” I say, but what I really want to tell him is, “I love you.”

“Why do you wear your hair so long?”

“Why do you keep yours so short?”

The man has no answer to this, and walks away. Smugly, Erestor smirks and looks back to the itinerary posted outside the council chambers. I simply smile.

I hate when his hair is short – only rarely have I seen it that way. Not because it makes him look ugly, as he claims, but because I am selfish. I like it better this way, to watch it ripple down his back, to see it curve around his backside. When he braids it, I like it less, but I still like long braids that reach the back of his knees better than the short black curls that are hidden under the length of it all.

He swims unashamedly naked in a hidden little pool near to the house, and when he emerges, I like to see it cling to him like a second skin. Often I go with him, under the guise of mere friendship, just to watch. One day, he sat down upon the rock where I had been basking in the sun and wordlessly handed me a comb while giving me a puppyish look. Since then, I have taken a great delight in knowing that although we may be only just friends in his eyes, I am the one he trusts the most. He trusts me with his pride, and my joy.

Maybe he does not know how intimate an act it is for me to carefully tend to his raven hair; then again, perhaps he does. There is a smile playing on my lips now, and I realize I have been daydreaming as he waves a hand before my face and snaps his fingers. “Fin. The meeting is starting.”

“Oh. Right.” Before we filter into the room with the others, I say, “I was thinking of a swim after the council. Are you free?”

“Sounds lovely,” said Erestor. “The usual place?”

I barely manage to nod. My heart pounds faster to know that we, he and I, have a ‘usual place’. Our own little spot away from everyone else. “Yes, the usual place,” I say.

“Good. I will see you after the meeting, then,” he tells me, walking into the room to mingle about with the others.

I follow, and before I split away to take a seat beside Elrond on the other side of the room, I say to him, “See you then.” He may never know how hard it is for me not to add, “I love you” each time before we part, no matter how short a time before we shall see one another again.

One moment, I am reading. The next, there is a slice of cheesecake blocking my vision. Looking up as I inhale the sweet smell of my favorite dessert, complete with fresh strawberries and topped with a glob of thick, whipped cream, I find myself looking at the one thing more delicious than my favorite snack. “For me?” I ask, mocking hopefulness. I can spy another plate in his other hand, with plain cheesecake and slices of peach. I know the one before me is mine.

He nods, and waits for me to take it before sitting down beside me on the plush couch. I am glad for his company, more now than ever. “I assume you were reading the lists,” he says solemnly, waiting my reply. I nod, picking up a strawberry by the stem instead of the fork. It causes me to smile to know he knows exactly how I like my special treat prepared. If the shadow did not cause me to be so cold, I know the thought would warm my soul.

“Yes.” I find myself answering in Quenya, just as he had spoken in that somewhat archaic language. I hope he speaks slow so that I can keep up; I know he must do this for too many here in the Hall of Fire speak Westron and Sindarin. “Estel is obvious, and Legolas is a good choice. I know little of Gimli, but if he is like his father he will fight fiercely when needed without fail. I worry about Boromir.”

Erestor toys his peaches around his plate with his fork, cutting them with the side of the utensil into smaller and smaller pieces without eating any of them yet. “It would be an insult for Elrond not to ask him to partake in this task. He is strong, a good fighter, well-spoken, and though he does not entirely agree with the decision, I believe he will ultimately stay true to the fellowship. Samwise is on the list, and Frodo of course as well.”

“Samwise is a delightful fellow. I do hope he stays safe on this journey,” I admit. Biting into the ripe, red fruit, I lick the cream from my lips. “What of Mithrandir?”

“Mithrandir can well take care of his own self.” Finally, Erestor begins to eat, tiny, tiny bites. I watch him discretely as I ignore my own food. “I suppose that brings us to the question of us.”

“I suppose it does.” I, like Erestor, was given two lists from Elrond. The first ends with two very familiar names, while the other has two I am unsure of. Both lists worry me. “Would it be extremely selfish of me to say that I wish for Elrond to choose the second list?”

For a while he concentrates on mashing his peaches together with his cheesecake. Finally he asks, “If I said no, would it keep you from joining them?”

It may not be ‘I love you’, but my heart swells to hear those words from him. “We should remain here, to protect Imladris, and let the hobbits go in our stead.”

“The last thing the fellowship needs is a grumpy old elf and a... whatever you are,” he says in agreement.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, picking up another strawberry. “Love you, too,” I add, and I wonder, does he know how sincere my words are under the cynical sarcasm?

“Have I ever shown you the special archives?”

I place my glass of wine down on the desk and shake my head. Lately I find myself drinking more and more, starting earlier in the day and ending with a sip as I slip out of my leggings and into bed. “Is that some hidden section where you keep all of the really good, erotic books and scrolls?”

“No, the really good ones are in my private collection,” he says without flinching as he stands up and grabs for the pile of keys on his desk. Lifting the ring to which they are all attached he places his hand on the back of his chair to steady himself before taking a candle from the ones which have been flickering on the desk between us. “Well? Are you coming?” He disappears a few moments later behind a tapestry and after a moment of shock I follow him.

“I was not aware of the fact there was a passage here.” I look to him in the dimness of the narrow hidden hallway but he says nothing in return. “No doubt Elrond is aware of this, though.”

“He had long forgotten about this part of the house.” Erestor’s confidence amuses me. “I think there are many things in this house that are hidden to others.”

Only now does he give me a glance. It is brief but I feel slightly accused under his scrutiny, but then he is once more leading us down the passageway. I wonder if he suspects, if he knows. On some level, he must know. I have the greatest urge as we wind a corner to take the candle from his hand and confront him, to pour out my emotion and kiss him breathless. Instead I let out a sigh and continue to follow.

“It is not much further,” I am assured. The next time we turn we come to a door and Erestor shakes out the keys. “Now which is it...” His search is temporary though he makes a few failed attempts before finding the correct key.

I knew the room would need to be small for it to be unobtrusive and inconspicuous but it exceeds even my expectations. Erestor enters first and set the candle in a holder before beckoning me within. I crouch down to pass through the doorway and then find myself unable to stand in the room without touching Erestor in some way. A closet is what it is, from floor to ceiling with books, scrolls no longer on rolls but folded and stacked or pressed between the books. “Why did you bring me here?”

“In case something happens to me, someone needs to know what is here.”

My next intake of air is deep and I squirm to raise my arm and place a hand on his shoulder. “Erestor, nothing will happen, to you or anyone. The quest will succeed. I have faith in Olorin.”

“I share your optimism, but the war will reach us before the end of this age.” Always logical, Erestor pulls a small volume from one of the shelves. The cover looks as if it is about to come off in his hands as he gingerly opens the book and turns the thin, yellowing pages. “The chances of you falling in battle a second time, even in these dark days, is much less than chances are that I might be-“ A squeeze of my hand on his shoulder stops him from saying that which I dread. Changing the subject, he turns best he can in the space he is wedged into and says, “These are some of the greatest treasures in Imladris. With what is here, nearly the entire history of the Eldar can be told. This one is... special to me.”

Taking the book from his hands, I skim through and begin to read when a name familiar to me appears. “Who wrote this?”

“Gildor,” he tells me. “It was before you came back.”

The name of my once and current lover is issued forth only after hesitation. It may only be because he and Erestor are like water and oil, but I like to think it due to Erestor being jealous of him on some level. “He writes kindly of you,” I say before handing the book back.

“That he does. He is one of the few who wrote anything of me. However, it acknowledges that I was in Gondolin and that is not something I want as public knowledge.” The book is placed back on the shelf. “I hate my cowardice,” he mumbles.

“It was one time, and it was a balrog,” I remind him gently.

“A balrog you did not fear.” He bows his head. “If something happens to me, I need to know that the items here will be safe, and will be found. Promise me this.”

“I swear they will be, but I also swear that nothing shall happen to you.” He raises his head and I say, “We will fight side by side, should the shadow come here, and neither the city nor you or I shall fall.” He nods.

Embracing him, perhaps in part due to the wine, I say, “Thank you for trusting me, above all others.” Again he nods, and for a few moments, he mirrors my actions and puts his arms around me. As I step away I add, “Things will be alright. You will see.” Now when he nods he gives me a little smile. Whether he believes me or not is another matter, but at least he does not openly disagree.

As we make our way back after the room is safely locked once more, I wonder if I should tell him the truth. It was not courage that sent me to my doom, but love. When that demon came, my thoughts were not on those who would escape if I succeeded, save one. My only regret of my death was that I spent my final words spewing insults at the fire beast when I might have taken just a few moments to say to him, ‘I love you’.