As soon as Erestor walked into the apartment, he was shoved against the wall. Aranel poked her finger against his chest and glared at him. “What did you do to my horse?”
“Nothing.” He glanced at Glorfindel and then looked back at Aranel. The two of them had finished their business at the stables late, and after returning the horses to the House of the Hammer, had gone to the library to find books with examples of theatres in them. Erestor handed the books he had checked out to Glorfindel before addressing his wife again. “Why? Is something wrong?”
Aranel narrowed her eyes further, looking at him from tiny slits. “My horse is not right. What did you do to her? My father said you took her and your horse out for nearly six hours today, and now she is exhausted. What were you doing?”
“Do not blame Erestor. He was trying to help me out.”
Turning her attention to Glorfindel, but allowing no quarter to Erestor, Aranel waited for an explanation. “You have ten seconds to tell me what the two of you did.”
“We were breeding my horses,” said Glorfindel, and at once Aranel became even more furious. “Mine are all sickly, and—“
“I know that! Everyone knows that! Do you think I want mine getting the same disease yours have?” Aranel kept shouting, tears running down her cheeks. “Maybe horses are just things you own to you, but I love my horse, and if she gets sick now, I will never forgive you for it! And you! You might have at least asked me!” For a moment, it looked as if she was going to turn around and leave, but Aranel drew back her hand and slapped Erestor across the face. He did not so much as flinch. “I really do not like you right now,” she said before retreating to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
From the couch, Tauniel sighed. “Sorry. She has been in a mood all day, despite the horses. That just put her over. I think you might have to find supper on your own tonight.”
Glorfindel nodded as Tauniel set her knitting aside and quietly walked across the room. She knocked on the bedroom door before letting herself in and disappearing as well. He turned to Erestor and motioned to his cheek. ‘Do you want me to get a cold cloth for you for that?”
Erestor shook his head. “I thought I was getting the calm, reasonable one, and you were getting the spitfire.”
“Surprise,” said Glorfindel after a few seconds. He tugged on Erestor’s sleeve as he opened the main door again. “Where do you want to go, the king’s hall or Ecthelion’s place?”
“Neither. I may still say something regrettable to Ecthelion, and Rog will be in the hall.”
“Still avoiding him?”
“As long as I can. So far, I have done quite well when you consider I have yet to miss a council meeting and still have managed not to be confronted.” Erestor walked with Glorfindel down the hallway. “We should try one of those outdoor places in the valley.”
“You mean the pit?” Glorfindel’s comment received a nasty look from Erestor. “What?”
“Just remember, the undesirable people who live there are the ones who are not as fortunate as us. Undereducated, underpaid, and underappreciated. They cook the food in our halls and clean our chamber pots; I could go on but I think you get the idea.”
Glorfindel nodded meekly. “I did not mean to say that. I just hear everyone else say it—“
“And if everyone else jumped off the Echoriath, would you follow them?” Erestor shook his head. “If you want a world where someday no one remembers the vile definition of ‘unclean’, then I would suggest you give consideration to others who are different for a different reason.”
For the rest of the walk, Glorfindel was silent. They passed away from the tower and down into an area where the buildings were small and crowded together. No ornate gardens were found here, but instead, there were backyards filled with clotheslines and choking gardens. Some of the buildings were constructed so that the living quarters were on the upper level and the lower would be a bakery or a bar. One such spot advertised with a picture of a fish head over the door, and this one Erestor led Glorfindel to.
There were three people in a line at a large open window. Steam rushed out and upwards as a sweaty ellon wearing a grease-covered apron greeted customers and handed them paper cones filled with wedges of potato and chunks of fried, battered cod. As Erestor approached the window, holding up two fingers and depositing a pair of copper pieces into a jar on the counter, Glorfindel exclaimed in fascination, “Look, they reuse the old newsfolios to put the food in!”
“We reuse everything here, m’lord,” said the fish monger as he held out one of the cones to Glorfindel, and the other to Erestor. “Sorry; we ran out of lemon.”
“Not to worry. Your fish is good even without, Vardir.” Erestor led the mesmerized Glorfindel down the path as he began to eat the morsels from his paper dish.
“This is really good! Much better than the dry stuff they serve at the outdoor games.” Glorfindel frowned, licking the oil from his fingers before he reached in for another piece of potato. “Why does Turgon never serve this in the hall, if the same people who cook here cook for him there? It is far better than some of those dry game birds, and there is far more flavor in this than in the fish I have had there.”
“Well, this is peasant food to him,” explained Erestor, enjoying his meal as they walked. “Just wait until we finish this and find a pub. You will be amazed at how different the ale tastes.”
“Do they have wine?”
“They might,” said Erestor. “But tonight, we are going to stick with the general fare, and that means ale. Wine is something left for special occasions down here.”
Glorfindel followed Erestor’s lead, crumpling his empty paper cone when he was finished and tossing it into one of the communal fires that was burning in a common area near a small well, where large pots of water boiled for cooking, bathing, and washing clothes. The came around a corner to a pub that seemed to have a steady flow of patrons, and Erestor casually entered. Glorfindel was slightly more hesitant, but it was that or stay outside. He followed Erestor.
Music was provided by a very lively duet, consisting of an ellon with only one leg playing the fiddle and a spirited young elleth with a patch over her right eye singing bawdy lyrics. Those at tables nearby cheered them on; those at the bar were carrying on hushed conversations with each other or sat alone with their thoughts. Erestor walked to the bar and leaned on it with his elbows until the server came over and set down a large foaming mug with a heavy thunk. “My friend needs one, too,” said Erestor, tossing a coin onto the counter.
The server slapped his hand down on the rolling piece of metal, pocketed it, and filled another mug. This one he set a little further away, and upon looking up at Glorfindel as the young elf approached, gave a click of his tongue. “Blimey. Thought it was odd enough seeing a ginger in here once and then, but you really are a different one.”
“Uhm... thanks…” Glorfindel picked up the mug in both hands, and lifted it high enough to sniff. He tried not to look too appalled by the strong smell of the ale.
“Glorfindel, stop analyzing and just drink it.” Erestor was already halfway done with his pint and motioned to the bartender, who came over, drying a mug as he warily approached. “What sort of scotch do you have on hand?”
“The kind you should not drink,” was the reply.
Erestor grinned. “Not to worry. I want a double of whatever is strongest. My friend here will help me find my way home,” he said, slapping Glorfindel on the back. Glorfindel nearly sunk his nose into the foam of his drink. “Oh, come on, Glorfindel, drink it already.”
Glorfindel, still holding the vessel with both hands, brought it up to his lips and took a tentative sip. Erestor rolled his eyes. “What?” questioned the blond, swallowing hard in an attempt to make the taste go away.
“Not like that. Like this!” Erestor hoisted up his own mug with one hand and drank until there was only a little left, then set it down on the counter. “I fear I need another of those to go with the scotch.”
The bartender looked as if he was going to argue against it again, but he looked to Glorfindel, who had pushed the mug slightly away. “You know where this rogue lives?”
“I certainly do, and I will be certain to get him back home again.” Glorfindel looked at Erestor and said, “Does your wife know you come down here to drink?”
Erestor held his finger to his lips mischievously, and used his other hand to pull Glorfindel’s mug closer. “I have never asked her if she does or not.”
The bartender snorted as he retrieved one of the ornate bottles from a shelf behind the bar. “Wives are the reason most of us drink, and most of them let us to keep us from getting in their way.”
“Not my wife,” muttered Glorfindel. “I am quite happy to drink not because of her, when I do drink, which is seldom.” He hid his shock when Erestor downed the hard liquor he was brought, and then the rest of Glorfindel’s ale, only to request another glass of scotch.
When the bartender brought over two mugs, the one he set in front of Glorfindel was much darker in color than Erestor’s. “Try this,” offered the bartender.
Warily, Glorfindel sipped this new concoction. “No alcohol. What is this?”
“Vanilla beer. We make it for the stable boys and pages who come in here. They think they are old enough for the real stuff, but then they turn into lazes. Since they never know what it should taste like anyhow, they never figure out they are getting a forgery. It gets brewed in a similar manner, but made with honey and vanilla and some sort of roots.” Tipping the bottle of scotch to refill Erestor’s glass, the bartender gave Glorfindel an apologetic look. “Good luck dealing with him when he is done.” He set the bottle down on the counter and walked away.
