ERESTOR/GLORFINDEL: WHAT WEBS WE WEAVE
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,087
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,087
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
ERESTOR/GLORFINDEL: WHAT WEBS WE WEAVE
THE BASTARD
As quiet as a shadow, Glorfindel eased himself into the house, trying not to let the door click behind him as he shut it. Silently, he cursed himself for missing his appointment with Erestor, and worse, for what he had been doing to result in that negligence. Suddenly, he did not feel very good about himself. Pausing before a hallway mirror, he swept the generous fall of hair from his brow and scrutinized his face. It was flushed, but was there any hint of guilt otherwise in his expression or demeanor that might give him away? A small abrasion on his lip where it had been love-bitten might escape Erestor’s notice, but not the bruise on his neck. Glorfindel spied a long scarf – perhaps one of Arwen’s – hanging on a clothes-tree and slid it off of its peg. It was white silk shot with silver thread – not the most masculine piece of apparel that he could have found, but Glorfindel was desperate, and thought it would have to do. Wrapping it around the offending bruise, he gave the mirror one last glance before striding into the library.
Erestor sat alone in a loveseat. An open book lay on his knees, while he stared pensively at the door. When Glorfindel entered, Erestor’s stolid expression revealed nothing of his emotions to Glorfindel. Only his posture gave him away. His legs uncrossed and re-crossed the opposite way. One hand clutched the arm of the sofa, and Glorfindel noticed the white knuckles and the deep creases his fingers left in the fabric. Erestor had been leaning his head against his other hand, and he jerked this away from his face where it dropped to his lap, knocking the book, unnoticed, to the floor. Erestor’s gaze remained fixed on Glorfindel’s scarf.
“Erestor, I’m – ,“ Glorfindel tried to begin an apology, but Erestor cut him off.
“You bastard.” His voice, as cold as the wintry wind, echoed in Glorfindel’s ears.
As quiet as a shadow, Glorfindel eased himself into the house, trying not to let the door click behind him as he shut it. Silently, he cursed himself for missing his appointment with Erestor, and worse, for what he had been doing to result in that negligence. Suddenly, he did not feel very good about himself. Pausing before a hallway mirror, he swept the generous fall of hair from his brow and scrutinized his face. It was flushed, but was there any hint of guilt otherwise in his expression or demeanor that might give him away? A small abrasion on his lip where it had been love-bitten might escape Erestor’s notice, but not the bruise on his neck. Glorfindel spied a long scarf – perhaps one of Arwen’s – hanging on a clothes-tree and slid it off of its peg. It was white silk shot with silver thread – not the most masculine piece of apparel that he could have found, but Glorfindel was desperate, and thought it would have to do. Wrapping it around the offending bruise, he gave the mirror one last glance before striding into the library.
Erestor sat alone in a loveseat. An open book lay on his knees, while he stared pensively at the door. When Glorfindel entered, Erestor’s stolid expression revealed nothing of his emotions to Glorfindel. Only his posture gave him away. His legs uncrossed and re-crossed the opposite way. One hand clutched the arm of the sofa, and Glorfindel noticed the white knuckles and the deep creases his fingers left in the fabric. Erestor had been leaning his head against his other hand, and he jerked this away from his face where it dropped to his lap, knocking the book, unnoticed, to the floor. Erestor’s gaze remained fixed on Glorfindel’s scarf.
“Erestor, I’m – ,“ Glorfindel tried to begin an apology, but Erestor cut him off.
“You bastard.” His voice, as cold as the wintry wind, echoed in Glorfindel’s ears.