gondolin_noble | (no subject)

(no subject)

There is no moon tonight. The stonework is still lit, though, dimly, by the multitude of stars overhead. There isn't even a single cloud to obstruct the view. Glorfindel was right, however - the wind is a bit sharp up on the palace's tower.

There's benefits to having taken care of the royal couple when they were children.

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"The Red Hound." Glorfindel corrects, looking amused by her attempt. He pushes his way inside - inside it is warm from the roaring fire in the hearth and the press of bodies. Inside it is loud, with songs and chatter and (mostly) good-hearted ribbing. Inside the air is rich with the scent of baked dinners and house-made ale.

It's a good place to be on a cold night. Glorfindel raises a hand to get the attention of the barliman, then heads for a quieter corner, carving a path mostly by force of elbows. It's clear he's been here often enough that the locals don't care so much about the elf in their midst.

The warmth and press of people is welcome, and Alana loosens her hold on her cloak. She doesn't let down the hood, however, keeping her head lowered to avoid catching anyone's eye.

"It smells lovely in here," she tells Glorfindel.

"They say this was one of the first place to receive fresh supplies after the siege, even before the Stewart's house." Glorfindel grins. The barliman doesn't bother finding out what the elf and his companion are here for - Glorfindel's dragged enough people here that he knows the pattern. Soon, two of the promised meat pies are left on their table by a harried-looking barmaid, along with a mug of ale and a glass of wine.

Alana offers a smile of gratitude to the barmaid. She wraps her hands around the mug of ale, taking a tentative sip. "Why did this place get fresh supplies first? I would think that the noble's houses would be first in line."

"They should have, certainly. However, most of the suppliers eat here, so..." He shrugs, grinning. Honestly, he's on the side of the workers - he's seen what Faramir's cook does to food, and it meets a happier end here.

"Of course, Prince Imrahil was in charge of city affairs at that point by all accounts, and he is a very sensible sort of fellow."

"Prince Imrahil?" Alana says, cocking her head. She pulls her meat pie closer to herself, but doesn't dig in until Glorfindel starts eating his own. "What is he like?"

"He is of the old blood, the old sea-kings who founded this country. As such he is both experienced and wise. Of course, there is elven blood in his line, which I'm sure helps."

Biased, Glorfindel?

Yes, he is, a little. He won't be sorry, no.

He tucks in to the meal heartily - nothing wrong with this elf's appetite, no.

Alana smiles at the inclusion of elven blood in Prince Imrahil's description. She eats her meat pie politely aside from an exclamation of how good it is. "Is Prince Imrahil still in charge of the city?"

"No, now they have their King, and he has his Queen, and if they can figure it out, they will have a prince of their very own." He's fairly sure the twins have been needling their sister about it endlessly. "The Prince has gone back to his own corner of Gondor, in Dol Amroth, by the sea."

"I see," Alana says, nibbling on her food. "Do you approve of the king and queen?"

Glorfindel laughs cheerfully.

"If I do not, I only have myself to blame, as I was there for the raising of them. Besides, it would take a braver fool than myself to disrespect that pair amongst those who love them."

"You raised the king and queen?" Alana says, chuckling. She leans forward to say conspiratorially, "I didn't know you were a royal nanny."

"I have many talents." He avers, "Though I would protest 'nanny'. It isn't as if the job was done single-handedly."

"You can protest it," Alana says, inclining her head. She nibbles a little on the meat pie. "Your contributions to the royal children's education must have been fantastic. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall during your time in their household."

"They were hardly royal children at the time - merely the daughter of my lord, and the ward of my lord's house." And very very distantly his lord's nephew, but that's a much older and much longer tale.

Though a bit of that is a lie.

Little Arwen had Glorfindel wrapped around her fingers from the moment she blinked at him the first time. Honestly. It was more than a little ridiculous.

"How did they become royals, then? Through marriage?" Alana says, tilting her head at him.

"Through war and fire." Glorfindel's eyes are very bright, starlit and ancient as he delivers the news baldly. "The king's line had been in exile for some time, and it took nearly the breaking of the world to reinstate it."

"I see," Alana says, finishing up her meat pie. She sets the tray aside. "But the world recovered from its breaking and its war."

"Recovering." Glorfindel allows, sipping his wine. "There are some places in the world that may never recover from their wounds."

He certainly has no desire to set foot in Mordor again, no matter how much time might go by.

"How long ago was it?" Alana says, cocking her head at him. "And how long did it last?"

"The ending of that war? Barely a handful of years, now. As for how long it lasted... well. In truth, longer than I have been returned to this land." The Lord of Gifts walked the land before Glorfindel could win his way free of Namo's grasp and return to finish fulfilling his oath.

"Returned to this land?" Alana repeats, raising a brow. "Where did you go?"

"I spent some time with the Doomsman of the Vala." He replies, off-handedly.

Yes. He did that on purpose.

He's ancient, he's wise, he's a peerless warrior... he's also very much an elf with an elf's love for provoking reactions.

Edited 2015-11-18 06:57 (UTC)

Unfortunately his reaction from her is a blank look. "The Doomsman of the Vala? Sounds ominous."

Glorfindel does not pout, but only because he's had millenia to learn to not do that. The reaction is usually better than that.

"You might call him the Lord of the Dead."