Erestor was beginning to think that he should move his office to the waterfall. It seemed that any time he needed to talk to someone or someone needed to talk to him, they would track him down at the waterfall. He could only suspect it was because it was one of the few places where he would be in generally the same spot for more than a few minutes.
This time it was Gwyndir. He had asked Gwyndir when they finally returned to the estate if they could speak privately later in the day, but all of the activity and the additions of assistants had made that fairly difficult to do. He was halfway to the falls to wash away the multicolored paint from his arms and anywhere else it had managed to go when he realized he was being followed. He turned and beckoned for Gwyndir to follow along, and the shy Sinda did so, but spoke very little as they traveled. Erestor tried not to dominate the conversation, but it was difficult when the other person only shrugged, smiled, or shook their head to every question asked.
When they reached the river, Erestor stripped and dove in. It took Gwyndir a little more convincing to join his friend, but eventually they were under the rush of the waterfall, one of them still carrying on rapid conversation, and the other shyly keeping his gaze down at the ripples in the water.
Erestor managed to get most of the paint from his skin, but then came the matter of his hair. He started to work on the strands with the most outrageous colors, namely yellow and pink, but eventually gave up with a sigh. “Did you bring a knife with you?” he asked Gwyndir.
Gwyndir hesitated to answer, but eventually gave a sideways look over and nodded before he left the curtain of water to retrieve the item. He handed it handle-first to Erestor who gathered up his hair, slid his hand down to where he felt he could live with it, and sliced the knife through without giving it too much thought. He let his hand drop down, fingers letting go. The current swept the discarded tresses away and Erestor held the knife back out to Gwyndir who said nothing as he took the knife back to shore.
When Gwyndir returned, Erestor was perched on the ledge. “I was thinking about some things today,” said Erestor as he worked the remaining bits of color out of what was left. “This school was founded when there was no conflict. No one knew what a war was or what evil was or any of that. The studies were scholarly, artistic, and creative. We crafted and we sang and danced and thought those were the skills we needed, and the only skills we needed.
“War and strife are known to us now. A knife like that would never have existed back then,” added Erestor as he nodded to where the shore must be beyond the falling water. “I am not so naïve to think that war will never come again. Perhaps it will not be as Finrod and Andreth believe it will be, but Morgoth will not stop, and neither will others who would see all this destroyed. If we never go to the aid of men again, it will still come to us some day,” decided Erestor. “We need to be prepared for that. To that end, I do not want to simply teach our students how to paint and make dye and write poetry. I want them to know how to protect and how to fight and if they have to, how to kill.”
Gwyndir listened to all of this keenly, and then asked, “Is that what you are wanting with me?”
“Actually, I am wanting something else of you. I still think that you are happiest when you are cooking. Am I correct in assuming that?” Gwyndir smiled at the question he was asked and nodded. “Then that is what you shall do. As for me, Finrod brought up and interesting topic recently. He wanted to know what made me happiest. Instead of dwelling on everything that had ever gone wrong, what is it that I enjoy. It took me a very long time to answer that question.”
Erestor eased himself back down from the ledge and approached Gwyndir. First, he held out the cake of soap, and then, he took hold of Gwyndir’s free hand and moved it so that they were both looking at Gwyndir’s palm. “Look at your hand. The span between your fingers; the length of them. Yours are not the hands of a sculptor or a floutist. They are the hands of a soldier. And mine.” Erestor let go of Gwyndir’s wrist and Gwyndir could see that while Erestor’s fingers were slightly more tapered than his own, his hands were huge. “I was not made to hold a quill. I was made to wield a sword. I was meant to protect Him,” he said pointing upwards, “and our people.”
Erestor backed up to the falling water and leaned his head back to wash the soap from it. He then went back to his perch while Gwyndir finished bathing. “If I remove everything that has to do with personal relationships, anything with family, anything with pleasures of the flesh, I am left with very few bright spots. Yes, I enjoy violin, and I like writing poetry,” he said. “There are a great many things I like to do, but when it comes to what is it that made me happiest, I am reminded of a time in Gondolin.”
“What did you do in Gondolin?” asked Gwyndir, for he had spent little time talking to Erestor in the past.
“Oh, well, I did quite a few things. There was one thing in particular that I did which made me very proud. It was right after I did some of the stupidest things I did. Someone gave me a second chance.” Erestor let one hand dip down to flick at the water. “I spent time training as a soldier. Properly. Without any special treatment, without any special consideration for who I was, what I had done, who my father was, who I knew, or any of that. Every other position I ever had, everything that I was ever granted, happened because someone knew I was Tata’s boy, or because they thought that my connection to Finwe’s son should somehow factor for some reason, or because they thought that perhaps the friendship I had with Thranduil meant that I should be different. That I should not earn things because I worked hard and deserved them. That one time in Gondolin, I worked my ass off, and I earned that title, and I was damned proud of it. That is when I was happiest. I want- I need that again.”
“I will do whatever I can to help you out,” said Gwyndir as he scrubbed his red hair and checked for any wayward paint in it.
Erestor cracked his neck and then answered, “Training. I need someone to spar with, and Glorfindel, while he will not pull punches, will also not want to do anything that might hurt me. I think I need to get knocked on my ass a few times, come home with a black eye, split lip, really get back into all of it.”
“Not.. now, though, right?” asked Gwyndir uncertainly.
“Oh, no, not right now. Right now there is so much to do with the school. I just want to start lining things up. I need to find others who can train as well; I think this will give Beleg something to look forward to. He had worried that he would not have a place here at the school,” shared Erestor.
Gwyndir finished washing up but stayed under the waterfall, enjoying the peacefulness of the place. “I would have guessed that you would have wanted to train the future rune-keepers of Valinor.”
“Just because I learned early on how to use rune stones to do things does not mean that I am some sort of magical rune-keeper. In fact, I am not all that good at it, truth be told. I just sort of fling insults and shout them loud enough as I randomly set things on fire or freeze things solid. My technique was dreadful,” he admitted. “However, I had all the charisma and confidence that a rune-keeper needs, so few caught on to the fact that I was not that great. Now, as a loremaster I did a little better, but not by much. I can speak to animals, but that is really where that ends. I still relied on my sword more often than I used my staff. In fact, I thought the staff was a little ridiculous compared to the sword.”
Gwyndir stood and listened with interest. “What would you classify yourself as?”
“I would say guardian, except I think I was much more prone to charging in and going after the biggest, meanest looking things on the field and killing as many orcs as I could find. Of course, the alternative then is to name myself as some sort of champion, and that seems rather arrogant of me,” explained Erestor.
“I suppose, but if you really do that, then you are some sort of knight.” Gwyndir tilted his head a moment as if recalling something and then asked Erestor, “Is it true that you used to joust?”
“I still do when I get a chance. There are few opportunities for it now,” he said. “I used to race horses as well, and I boxed, too.”
This surprised Gwyndir. “You are a boxer.” His eyes squinted a little as he recalled something. “Many years ago, you were punched several times in a short span of time. I know. I was one of the people who punched you.” He paused to allow Erestor to nod as he recalled the incidents. “Why did you never fight back?”
“Oh, I did,” replied Erestor. “Remember? My nose attacked someone’s hand…”
***
When they returned to the school grounds, the conversation between Glorfindel and Erestor was brief. “When did you decide to do this?” he asked, reaching out to brush a hand through the shorter hair.
“Just sort of happened,” said Erestor.
They looked at each other for several moments while Gwyndir hurried away just in case there were any negative feelings. Glorfindel took a step back, walked once around Erestor, and then crossed his arms over his chest. “I think I might just sort of happen to stop shaving,” he replied.
Erestor considered this for a moment, and then said, “It does get windy here in winter. I suppose a beard would be helpful.”
Glorfindel blinked. “You hate the beard.”
Erestor shrugged. “Do you hate it?”
“I never had a chance to decide if I did or not,” he answered. When Glorfindel reached his third stage of life and started to wake to bristly whiskers, Erestor was the first person to voice his displeasure.
“I guess if you want to know, you better start growing one,” decided Erestor before he walked away.
