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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"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."

"Oh! Did you die, Glorfindel? Who killed you?" Alana says, her eyes widening. "And how did you come back?"

That is much more gratifying, and he graces her with a enigmatic smile.

"Oh, the minstrels tell it much more elegantly than I... and more frequently as well. I should let one of them do it." Finishing his wine, he stands and offers her a hand. "I must give you something to look forward to, after all."

Alana stands and takes his hand. "Well, I shall look forward to that, then," she says, offering him a look. "Are we heading out?"

Edited 2015-11-18 07:08 (UTC)

"Last call will be soon, and doesn't the old story say I must return the princess to her castle before she turns into a pumpkin?" Glorfindel asks with an impish smile.

"In my world, it's her coach that turns into a pumpkin, but the general idea is the same," Alana says, smiling a little. "Home might be a good idea."

"How very curious, how would they fit?" Glorfindel asks with true curiosity as he makes his way through the thinning crowd. Never mind that a princess who turns into a pumpkin if left out too late doesn't make much sense either, outside of fairy-tale logic.

(Of course it makes sense, it's a curse placed on the elvish princess by a dragon who became enraged that the princess was more fair than any prize it could hoard.)

(Makes perfect sense.)

(Glorfindel always had fun doing the dragon's voice when he told the story to the twins and Arwen when they were little.)

(... Who are we kidding, he still does it when asked.)

"I think the coach is much bigger while it's a coach," Alana says, following him. She adjusts her cloak around her shoulders, hiding her wrap dress from prying eyes.

Glorfindel keeps up the line of questioning as they ascend through the circles of the city - where the coach's appointments those of a normal coach, or were they more of squash? Where-ever did the coachman sit? Did the horses try to eat the pumpkin-coach? In all honesty, it's done on purpose - a tall starlit elf-lord, expounding upon the problems of a pumpkin coach as the white gems in his fair hair glitter as brightly as the stars overhead is a memorable sight - very few people will remember the person walking with him, at this rate.

That, and it's fun watching Alana try to answer such ridiculous questions.

They are near the first circle, the torch-lit courtyard visible overhead, when there's a shrieking cry in the night. The stars over the city are blotted out suddenly by a swiftly-moving something.

Alana's answers trail off at the shriek, and she glances up to see a giant eagle sweeping its way across the sky. "That's impressive," she murmurs to Glorfindel.

"Manwe's messengers." There's a fondness in his voice as he watches the eagle tilt and whirl, riding the eddies. He spent much of his first life making friends with the eagles who nested around Gondolin, and has heard since what they did after his fight with the Balrog. He never got the chance to thank that particular eagle, but he made sure to extend those thanks to the eagle's kin, when he got the chance.

Politeness is important.

"They do still like to keep an eye on things, even in this Age."

Alana watches the eagle soar across the night sky, the master of all it surveys. "They're huge," she says superfluously, shocked at just how much of the sky the eagle takes up. "Are they intelligent? They'd have to be, to be messengers."

"They are, very much so - a very proud and polite kind." Glorfindel agrees, beckoning her towards the closest section of the city wall that rings this section of city. Solemnly, he raises his hand as if to hail the giant bird.

Or to hail it in truth, because almost before he makes the gesture, the eagle turns, banking sharply back towards the city.

"Do remember the thing about politeness, I'm not sure I know this one." He murmurs, sounding pleased.