Glorfindel turned up to dinner discreetly holding hands with Erestor, their entwined fingers concealed by robes, wondering what in the name of the Valar his lover had been alluding to before. He had reached the conclusion that Erestor had, for some reason unknown to him, taken the clothing to lend to another elf; and he would have gambled anything on Arda that the elf in question was Rúmil. But the reason why remained just as obscure.
He was correct. The young Silvan elf looked truly dazzling; the aquamarine formal robes brought out the blue and green in Rúmil's eyes and made them sparkle like well-cut turquoises. His hair had been braided and twisted with great attention to detail, and served to accentuate his delicate features. If it weren't for Erestor, perhaps even Glorfindel might have been momentarily tempted by the Lórien scout.
He and Erestor took their customary places near Lord Elrond, and Glorfindel threw a casual glance at the gold cutlery in the hope that the implements would tell him something of what to expect food-wise tonight. They didn't; there was no soup spoon, hence tonight, no soup, but apart from that snippet of information, he could glean nothing. The knives and forks were all of generic design and could be used for a variety of dishes. He enjoyed this somewhat juvenile guessing game, anticipating the dishes of the evening, whether they were cheese, fish, roasts or casserole; he'd have another stab once the first course was served. For the moment, though, he'd just have to wait and see.
Erestor, typically, ate in silence; Glorfindel, typically, took to amusing himself by turning to Elrond and debating politics with the Half-Elven Lord. However, the golden-haired Elda was also keeping a discreet watch on Rúmil. The young Silvan elf seemed nervous and unsure of himself, and kept throwing glances at, of all people, Faelon. If the Imladris scholar noticed, he gave no obvious sign; but often when his gaze wandered in Rúmil's direction, he made an overt point of staring through the Lórien visitor.
Glorfindel caught Erestor gazing at a dish of steamed vegetables, and immediately passed it across; in return, his lover reached for the wine and refilled the golden-haired warrior's goblet. It was a fine but heady wine, and although Glorfindel was far from drunk, he thought he might appreciate some singing sometime soon.
Whatever explanation Erestor had given to Glorfindel to account for the disappearance of some of the seneschal's best robes, and their subsequent reappearance on Rúmil, it seemed to have mollified him. Glorfindel's face showed only curiosity and - for a fraction of a second, Rúmil was amazed to see - attraction, even if that had disappeared a moment later. He relaxed and began to enjoy the meal.
He soon discovered Faelon was watching him. Not overtly; whenever Rúmil's eyes crossed to the dark-haired elf, he was either staring at his plate or conversing soberly with one of the other counsellors sitting nearby. Rúmil didn't know whether to be pleased or uncomfortable, and ended up compromising and feeling a combination of both.
It was then that he saw that Faelon was sipping very sparingly at the wine. Not carefully, as an elf would do when making absolutely sure he did not accidentally become inebriated, but disapprovingly, as if he did not agree with the choice of vintage. Faelon seemed to have a good point; this wine could have benefited from being laid down another year or two. However, Glorfindel had just been complementing Lord Elrond with great enthusiasm on the selection; Faelon must have been reluctant to contradict the seneschal and risk offending his Lord. Rúmil chuckled to himself. He could see that, actually, the two elder elves were drinking a different wine altogether, a white, when he and Faelon were sipping a red. But as the goblets were inlaid mithril, Faelon, from where he was sitting, would not be able to see the contents. He was unaware that Glorfindel was loudly proclaiming the virtues of an entirely different wine to the one he was drinking.
"Tell me," Rúmil said to a servant as he laid another dish on the table. "Is this red wine Lord Elrond's selection, or that of his vintner?"
The servant was momentarily taken aback. "Lord Elrond personally recommended the white, sir, but I believe the vintners chose the red, on the advice of a note he received today."
"Curious. This wine is too young, you see, and does not complement some of these dishes."
The servant became flustered and apologetic, before Rúmil made a placating hand gesture. "It doesn't matter, no harm has been done. Could you just instead open several bottles of the batch we brought from Lórien? And send some to the elves over there - the ones wearing indigo." He pointed to the group around Faelon. "Say it comes highly recommended from Lothlórien, and you hope they find it more to their liking."
The servant ran off to do as instructed; Rúmil looked once more, longingly, at Faelon before returning to his food. As he did so, he made brief eye contact with Erestor. The counsellor had not spoken to anyone the entire meal, and did not now; nor did he smile. But Rúmil saw the sparkle in the dark eyes, and wondered how much of his conversation with the servant Erestor had ever heard, and how much the advisor knew about it all.
Faelon looked up in surprise when a servant appeared, hovering at his shoulder with an unopened bottle of wine. "I have been asked to open this for you," the elf explained. "It comes highly recommended from Lórien, and I hope you should find it preferable to that which you were drinking before."
Faelon was intrigued. Surely, the servants hadn't been watching him so closely as to realise he wasn't enjoying the first vintage? He had deliberately not made a display of his disapproval, as it would hardly do to slight Lord Elrond's competence as a host in front of guests - even if those guests probably wouldn't know a good wine if it was poured over their heads. But someone had ordered a better bottle for him, and he remembered from his last visit to Lórien that Lady Galadriel was personally fond of this one.
He thanked the servant and allowed a fresh crystal goblet to be half-filled with the drink. Holding it up to the light, he took in the rich colour, an intense burgundy like molten silk. The aroma was exquisite and complex, oak and river air, dark plums and warm earth. And the flavour was as exceptional as the scent had promised. Whoever ordered this for him knew their wine; it was a perfect accompaniment to the game dishes being served all around. He nodded his satisfaction to the servant. "Please pass my gratitude to whoever sent this," he instructed with a subtle smile which he'd picked up from Erestor.
The servant dashed off, heading for some elves further down the table. He leaned down to say something to one of the Silvan elves from Lórien -Rúmil, in fact - before disappearing from the room. The servant was busy tonight. Faelon wondered what Rúmil had wanted; he'd noticed the sardonic raising of the young elf's eyebrow as the servant spoke, and wanted to know more of the exchange which had taken place.
Lost in thought, it took nearly a minute before Faelon realised he was staring at Rúmil again, admiring the way his long locks shivered when he laughed and the way his eyes glittered. Faelon was quite sure he'd seen those robes before...the way the sheer surface reflected the play of a nearby candle flame as Bruinen reflected Arien's bright rays was distinctly familiar. He remembered in an instant. But what in the name of the Valar was Rúmil doing in Glorfindel's robes?
"What in the name of the Valar is Rúmil doing in Glorfindel's robes?" muttered Melpomaen into his brother's ear. Faelon jumped, shocked by their identical thought patterns, until he remembered that he'd been watching the Silvan elf so intently it was no surprise Melpomaen's attention had been drawn to him as well.
"Don't ask me," he answered curtly.
"It looks almost as if he's trying to impress someone," Melpomaen mused. "I wonder who the lucky one is... If he's got Glorfindel to co-operate with him on it, he must be keen. And I must say, I think I envy the object of his affection, just a little. He cleans up rather nicely, don't you think, brother?"
"It's the fact that he needs cleaning up at all which puts me off."
"Perhaps." Melpomaen tilted his head thoughtfully. "Still...you were looking."
"Oh, come off it." Faelon cursed himself for sounding so defensive. "I was admiring the statue over there."
"The one that's been there for the last four hundred years?"
"Melpomaen." The name was spoken with a mild but unmistakable warning.
"Suit yourself." The elder brother returned to his food, leaving Faelon to his thoughts. He sipped the wine again, appreciatively. Next time the servant who had delivered it walked past, he beckoned the elf over.
"Did you pass on my thanks?" he asked without preamble.
"Of course, sir. I relayed your message as soon as you gave it to me."
"But you went to speak to Rúmil."
"Yes, sir." The servant was well-trained enough not to look smug, but his polite smile was perhaps just a little too polite.
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