Storms that churned the clouds and turned the sky a shade of green were the kinds of storms that Glorfindel could have done without. They had gone for many months without a thunderstorm, but this one was making up for lost time. There was little rest between the cracks and booms, and the rumbling growls that made him recall a short battle he secretly wished he had never fought.
Many elves made it through these nights by plugging their ears with wax; something that Celebrian had shown the children earlier in the evening while many sat in the Hall of Fire watching the windows be pelted with hail and rain. Glorfindel had taken the pair of white blobs she had handed him, but they were still sitting on his table. Even knowing that the storm was raging, feeling the slight sway of the house, would give him nightmares that would cause him to wake in terror.
Instead, he wandered the halls in this late hour, not wanting to rouse Erestor from his reverie. He felt he owed it to the dark ellon to allow him a night of rest after three long days and nights of meditation followed by a night of singing and fiddling that lasted until the sun rose once more. Everywhere he went, Glorfindel found the house deserted – not even a stray maid fixing a bite for a weary stable hand who had found himself caught in the rain. Even the hounds were snoring loudly near the larder door with their fattened bellies in the air, and the big orange cat whose occupation was chief mouse hunter barely opened his one good eye as Glorfindel passed him sleeping on a chair near the front door and scratched behind his ears.
He began from the top of the house and worked his way to the bottom. He did not have his keys for the secret ways, but there were enough rooms in the main house to amuse him for the better part of an hour. There were the two grand halls of course, the kitchens and the private dining halls. Little time was spent in the glass enclosed greenhouse and he found that someone had left an empty mug and saucer in the painter’s conservatory.
By the time he reached the lowest level of the house, he was debating going back to the kitchen to make something to eat. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw a door that was open, with candle and firelight flickering against the opposite wall in the hallway.
“I was not aware of the fact that our library was open both day and night,” Glorfindel said, poking his head into the doorway.
“I like that idea. Except, then I would not be able to be here after hours. Nevermind,” decided Erestor, who was seated cross legged on a couch he had pulled near to the large fireplace, “bad idea. We are still closing at sundown.”
“Oh, you had my hopes up for a moment.” Glorfindel wandered into this room as well, approaching Erestor slowly. “What are you doing?” he asked, looking at the table beside the couch. On it were a number of small cups and bowls with what appeared to be different colors of ink in them. There were also some quills with very sharp points and stained tips, and a brush that Erestor carefully put down.
Leaning against the arm of the couch was a medium-sized mirror. Erestor was using it to look at something that he had painted on his arm. “I cannot seem to sleep. Have you ever been up for so long that when you try to sleep, you cannot sleep? That is the trouble I am having.”
“But, what are you doing?” Glorfindel picked up one of the quills and touched the point with his finger. “Yeow!”
“Careful! Those are sharp,” warned Erestor.
“A little too late,” said Glorfindel, setting down the quill. He examined his finger, finding a tiny droplet of blood welling up from the smooth pad. “That really smarts!”
“I know.” Erestor picked up the brush again and applied a few more strokes of black ink to his shoulder. “Well? What do you think? ‘Tis hard for me to tell at this angle.”
Glorfindel walked around to the side and looked at Erestor’s arm. “Looks like your cobra.”
“Good! Because I would hate for it to end up looking like a giraffe,” he said.
“A what?”
“At Cuivienen, there were these creatures, like deer with necks that were two or three stories high and legs taller than an elf. In some books, I have seen men call them giraffes,” explained Erestor. He took the brush and on his left arm, drew a crude image of one.
“That is just weird,” remarked Glorfindel while Erestor picked up one of the quills and dipped it into a cup of green ink. “Are you doing that skin art thing again?”
“Does it look like that is what I am doing?”
Glorfindel looked about. “Actually, yes. Yes, it does.”
“Well, that is exactly what I am doing,” said Erestor. He propped his left arm to steady it and began to poke at the image on his right shoulder with the quill.
“Does that not hurt?” questioned Glorfindel with much concern.
“Of course it does. That is part of how you know you are doing it right. Ow! That one went a little deep,” muttered the librarian, concentrating more on his task.
Biting his lip, Glorfindel queried, “Why do you do it if it hurts?”
Looking at Glorfindel with confusion, Erestor answered, “Because... I want to?”
“Very mature answer,” mumbled Glorfindel as he pulled a chair over and sat down backwards on it. “How long do these last?”
“They start to fade after about two or three hundred years; about five and they are gone completely. There are ways of making them permanent, but I reserve that for very special designs because it is a little more difficult and a little more painful.” Erestor dropped the empty quill into a glass of water, where green and red swirls spun around the liquid turning it brown. Picking up a cloth, Erestor pressed it against his shoulder before retrieving the quill again.
“How much does it hurt?” asked Glorfindel as Erestor began to work with a different shade of green.
Erestor looked past the mirror and stopped his work. “Hold out your hand.”
“No!” Glorfindel scooted backwards, chair and all. Laughing, Erestor went back to his task. A few minutes passed before Glorfindel placed his hand on the edge of the couch.
Erestor looked up to see that Glorfindel’s eyes were squinted shut.
His eyes snapped open when he felt the feather tickling the back of his hand. “Why do you care if it hurts or not?” Erestor’s grin was mischievous.
“No reason.” Glorfindel withdrew his hand as Erestor tapped the feather end of the quill against his own nose, narrowing his eyes at the slayer.
“Here.” Erestor handed the quill to Glorfindel. “Finish mine and we will have time for me to do one for you.”
“What? No.” Glorfindel tried to get Erestor to take the quill back. When Erestor folded his hands together smugly, Glorfindel placed the feather onto the table. “No. I will not hurt you.”
“It does not hurt that much.”
“Sayeth you,” replied Glorfindel warily.
Before he had the time to react, Glorfindel found Erestor gripping his arm tightly while his other hand retrieved the quill. He jerked his arm, but to no avail. “Wait!” he panicked, still trying to pull away, and he let out a little whine when the needle-sharp tip poked past his skin.
“See? That was not as bad as you thought, was it?” insisted Erestor as he let go of Glorfindel’s arm.
“You poked me,” pouted the blond, twisting his arm to examine it. He rubbed the spot of green that was now barely visible. “Great. It will be there for the next half-millennium. Stupid green spot.”
“No, it is the beginning of a stupid green something,” explained Erestor as he continued the work on his own creation.
Glorfindel glared at the counselor. “You might have used a different color.”
“Hush, you like green,” countered Erestor. “Matches your eyes.”
“My eyes have blue in them, too,” snorted Glorfindel.
“Fine. Compliments your eyes, then. Quit complaining.”
For several minutes, Glorfindel sat brooding on his chair, every now and again looking at the offensive dot on his arm. Erestor had moved on to the red ink with a different quill. “If these fade, how did you make the one on your ankle stay there all of the time?”
“I did not simply use ink on that one,” said Erestor. “In Greenwood, they have a technique of tinting metals and creating a thick ink from them that is only liquid when warm.” Erestor paused his work and lifted his foot up. “If you feel the markings, there is something solid and less pliable about the skin. That is because there is a sort of thin metal underneath between the skin and bone.”
“Could you take it out if you wanted to?” asked Glorfindel, his fingertips pressing against the slightly embossed flesh.
Nodding, Erestor said, “Certainly, though it would be much more painful taking it out than it is to put it in.”
Glorfindel pulled away, and then looked at the half-finished image on Erestor’s arm. “Here, let me do that,” he said, taking the quill from Erestor. He discovered it was much faster for him to complete the design than for Erestor to attempt it using the mirror.
When it was done, Erestor took possession of the quill and thanked Glorfindel for his aid. “Now, yours.”
“No. Now, I go take a nap,” argued Glorfindel, but Erestor had a grip on his arm again. “Wait, no. Hold on, what are you going to do?”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to let go of my arm,” begged Glorfindel, and Erestor released his hold. “Thank you.”
Erestor sighed and nodded, then started to clean up the mess. Glorfindel frowned and picked up a clean, dry cloth to wipe the water from the quills as Erestor cleaned them. As the last one was dried, Glorfindel looked at it with contemplation. Dipping it into the same green ink that he was marked with, Glorfindel offered it to Erestor, and rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa to give Erestor access to what he had already started.
Grinning much like an elfling in a confectionary, Erestor took up the quill and studied the pale skin. “What to do... oh! I could play connect-the-dots with your freckles!”
“Do. Not. Dare,” warned the blond.
“Alright. Seriously.” Erestor pondered for a bit. “Do you have anything in mind?”
“No, I am foolishly giving you control of the situation.” Glorfindel gave Erestor a pleading look. “Do not make me regret that.”
Picking up the brush, Erestor dipped it into the black ink and began to paint fine lines around the spot he had made earlier. “Alright, what do you think of that?”
Glorfindel craned his neck and twisted his arm around. “A dove.”
“Is it alright?”
“I like it,” nodded Glorfindel. “How will you work in the green?”
“A golden flower in his beak, I suppose. Unless you have another idea?” Erestor was rearranging the quills and the ink, and Glorfindel agreed.
- - -
“There. All done.”
Opening his eyes, which he had kept squeezed shut the whole time, Glorfindel tried to see the image on his skin. He noticed the mirror and turned to get a better look.
Erestor tapped Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Not so bad, right?”
Glorfindel was busily admiring Erestor’s work. “What? Oh, yes. I mean, no. No, it was not bad at all.”
“Good. In a few hundred years, we can do this again.” Erestor yawned and took the quill he had been holding and the cloth to the table. He washed everything again and then placed all of the items back into the leather case he kept them in. “Well?”
“Thank you,” said Glorfindel absently.
“No, no, do you like it?” Erestor strolled up behind the warrior. “Is it satisfactory?”
“Very much so,” Glorfindel said sincerely. “You said it will not fade for a while?”
“Two, maybe three hundred years. When it does fade,” said Erestor, loosening the tie of his pants (as Glorfindel’s eyes practically began to bulge out of their sockets), “it will start to look like this.” He let the drawstring go a bit and pushed the material down off of his left hip, revealing the faded image of an eagle in flight.
“Very nice,” remarked Glorfindel, staying his hand from touching the flesh that was bared to him. “Nice artwork,” he amended quickly. “I... I never noticed that before.”
“This one, I did four hundred some years ago, I think. Been there a while.” Erestor pulled the material back up and retied the drawstring. “Well, I need a little rest before the rest of the household awakens. Good... morning, I suppose,” he said, yawning again as he gave the blond a pat on the shoulder and picked up his case from the table.
“It certainly is,” smiled Glorfindel after Erestor had left the library.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Glorfindel is afraid