Archive of Our Own

One: The Valley

The first time Erestor meets Glorfindel, he does not yet carry the title of Captain of the Imladrim. He does not carry much of anything, in fact.

Least all proper clothing.

He is, in his defence (what little of it he is entitled to), not completely nude. A pair of indecently tight leggings cling to his hips for dear life, cinched by a leather belt that has seen better centuries. A scrap of fabric that may have, in another age, been a finely crafted shirt hangs loose over his chest. The front clasps have been ripped off at some point, only raw bits of thread left behind to mourn their loss. The sleeves have been sloppily rent from their seams, freeing his absurdly muscled arms to the glow of the mid-morning light. The effect is a gauzy, open-chested vest, such as might be found on the covers of the torrid Mannish novels Lindir insists he doesn’t read.

“So,” Erestor says to the blond elf before him—or, more accurately, to his broad, bare chest and extremely visible nipples. Gods above, Erestor didn’t know they still made elves this tall. “If I am to understand you correctly, the Valar in all their wisdom took it upon themselves to reembody a legend of the First Age—”

“I would hardly consider myself a legend.” “—made him into a beacon of hope for our disparate peoples, and then delivered him to our shores… without a shirt?”

“They also failed to give me trousers, if that helps,” the elf says with a bright smile, either unaware or uncaring of Erestor’s ire. “Nor a map! Which is how I find myself lost in your fine forest!”

“Is that so?” Erestor asks in a tone that has cowed the better part of Lindon’s court.

The elf who claims to be Glorfindel merely laughs, as if Erestor has just shared a joke between them. “Indeed! I washed up bare as the day I was… well, reborn I suppose. Good Master Cirdan was kind enough to lend me some of his things but…” Here, his cheeks color, and he sheepishly looks down at himself as though he has just now realized how preposterous his tale is. “Well, they ripped.” He flexes, as if to demonstrate. As if Erestor is not already quite aware of the span of his shoulders and the musculature they contain.

Erestor’s brow furrows, and he can already feel a tension headache building in his temples.

Perhaps the most infuriating part of all this madness is that Erestor cannot sense even a hint of deception from this strange elf. He speaks with the lilt of a tongue born speaking Quenya, one that has not had an age to grow comfortable with the shape of Sindarin in his mouth. His eyes, and indeed his whole being, seem to glow with the Trees. Beyond that, he simply radiates… goodness.

It's dreadful.

Whoever this elf is, Erestor has no choice but to believe he has in fact spent the last three weeks on some Valar-given gallivant through the valleys and plains of Middle Earth shirtless and sun-kissed because his shoulders were too broad to fit into a shipwright’s shirt.

Erestor supposes he could start a fourth kinslaying, but Elrond would be cross with him, or worse—disappointed.

Peace it is.

“Very well,” he says at last.

The elf positively beams, the kind of smile that might make a lesser elf melt. Erestor merely winces back his looming headache.

“You shall show me to Imladris?” he asks joyously.

“I shall show you to my Lord Elrond,” Erestor corrects. “He shall decide your fate.”

The elf’s smile impossibly grows. “Ah! Earendil’s kin?” This amount of good cheer simply cannot be natural. Who is that happy about family trees? “I knew him as an elfling—Earendil, that is, not your Lord.” His gaze softens for just a moment, not so blindingly bright, before the elf seems to remember himself. He straightens up to his full height (good Gods, he could in fact get taller) before sinking into a deep Vanyarin-styled bow, the kind no one has done for at least a millennium.

Erestor pointedly does not look at the dip of the elf’s golden collarbone or the ridiculous topography of his muscles. Instead he straightens his own posture (still a full head shorter) and reminds himself of the daggers strapped to his sides.

“You should know, should you do anything to harm my Lord, I will personally see your throat slit.”

The elf, maddening thing, merely laughs again.

Erestor’s bafflement must show on his face, because the other elf merely waves a hand as he straightens out of his bow. “Pardon me, it is only…” he trails off a moment, that soft, somber look returning for just an instant. “You reminded me of an old friend, is all.”

Erestor does not know what to make of that. He does not know what to make of any of this ridiculous elf before him. He turns on his heel, before his face can betray any more of his swirling thoughts.

“Very well,” he says, and begins striding down the path, not waiting to see if his guest will follow. “Do try to keep up.”

Bell-like laughter follows merrily behind him, close enough to tickle Erestor’s ears. Damned long legs.

Hopefully Lord Elrond will reveal him to be some trick of the Enemy, or else find his tale true and send him back to Lindon to serve at the King’s side. Either way, he will soon be out of Erestor’s hair.

*

Lord Glorfidel, it turns out, is not soon out of Erestor’s hair. Rather, Elrond immediatly names him Captain of the Guard, graciously houses him in the family wing (right next to Erestor), and welcomes him to the valley with aplomb and fanfare (which Erestor must plan).

“I’m sure he will grow under your tutelage, Counsellor,” Elrond says when Erestor comes once more into his office for what is nominally a private counsel meeting but has, in practice, become something of a weekly complaint session.

“Grow? I hardly see how he could get any taller," Erestor mutters.

Elrond’s jaw twitches in the way it does when he wants to laugh at someone but knows it’s unbecoming the King’s Herald. Erestor has seen it many times, though never aimed at him. Elrond fixes his gaze at Erestor over a missive from The Greenwood—damn him, Erestor is the one who taught him how to arch his brow like that. “You know what I mean, Erestor.”

Elrond means that he expects Erestor to work side-by-side with that maddening golden mass of an elf for—what? Forever? Until they sail, at least. Which could be ages from now. Literally.

“He is… bothersome,” Erestor says, even more troubled that he cannot find a better critique of Imladris’ latest resident. For all his merriness and laughter, he is unfortunately competent with both sword and shield, valiant, tireless in his work, and (worst of all) well-liked.

“You are clever and creative, Erestor. I’m sure you’ll find a way to overcome your… differences.” This time, Elrond can’t hide his smirk.

Erestor wrinkles his nose and steals the letter from Prince Thranduil just to have something to glare at.

*

Two: The Sparring Field

Years turn to decades. Imladris blossoms into an elven realm of its own, and Captain Glorfindel into a shining beacon of hope in the midst of growing darkness.

A shining beacon of hope who has failed to submit his seasonal budget report. Again.

Erestor grits his teeth so he does not crumple the sheafs of paper in his hand as he strides down the path, robes swishing behind him like a furious shadow. Does Glorfindel think steel and cloth just grow freely from trees? Trade deals must be made, artisans hired. It takes time, and care, and a meticulously balanced purse to supply and house an army. A meticulously balanced purse that Erestor is tasked with maintaining, not that Glorfidel cares about that.

If Glorfindel will not do Erestor the courtesy of turning in his paperwork on time, Erestor will not do him the courtesy of upbraiding him in private.

He is, at least, easy to find. There is, at any given moment, a little flock of sycophants following him around, singing tales of his glory and begging just a glance of his beautiful blue eyes. It’s sickening. Erestor told Elrond as much, and his Lord had, infuriatingly, smiled and said something pithy and profound about finding light amidst the shadows.

Sure enough, when Erestor arrives at the training fields, a crowd has gathered around one of the rings, soldiers and civilians alike vying for a spot. In the center of the field is Glorfindel, sweaty and gleaming and shirtless, fighting off two of his comrades at once. His chest heaves, muscles rippling as he disarms and knocks away one of his foes with a single twist of his sword. Then, quick as a lightning strike, he turns, swinging his blade and catching the other combatant by surprise with a delicate tap on the side of the head.

Show off.

The gathered audience cheers and claps at his victory. Glorfindel, the utter bastard, has the nerve to look bashful at the attention.

“Captain,” Erestor calls.

Glorfindel’s gaze snaps to him, a smile spreading over his face. “Erestor!”

Erestor feels the weight of dozens of eyes shift to him. His glare, at least, is dire enough to keep the crowd silent, parting for him as he stalks forward.

Glorfindel is, as always, infuriatingly unmoved by Erestor’s ire. “Finally decided to visit me?”

“I assure you, it is not by choice,” Erestor says with a roll of his eyes. He withdraws the leather folio. “You have neglected to submit your budget report. Again.”

Glorfindel dismisses his opponents with a flick of his hand and saunters forward. Erestor, valiantly, does not stare at his chest as he does so.

“Let’s make a deal,” Glorfindel offers. “You let me show you how to hold something heavier than that penknife of yours, and I’ll spend my lunch break filling out this form for you. You can join me, if you like. Make sure it’s up to your standards.”

Erestor blinks. “You wish to teach me… to fight?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you for your first time.” Glorfindel claps him on the shoulder. Erestor sways under the force of it.

Erestor forces his face into a mask of placid guilelessness and smiles sweetly. “How kind of you, my Lord.” His shoulder is still tingling.

Around them, soldiers have started whispering. Glorfindel leads Erestor over to a long rack of practice weapons, dulled and tipped with wax, blathering on about weight and balance. “Of course longswords and spears offer the benefit of greater reach, but don’t underestimate a shortsword or even a good dagger in a moment of danger. The best weapon is the weapon you can use.”

Erestor, who in fact keeps two sharpened daggers in his desk drawer at all times, nods agreeably. “Very wise.”

The whispers grow; Erestor hears at least two sets of elves making wagers. Glorfindel tests out a sword with a series of elegant figure eights and apparently deems it acceptable. He offers it out to Erestor by the hilt.

Erestor looks up through his eyelashes demurely. “Which end do I hold?” he asks.

He thought he was laying it on a bit thick, but Glorfindel, blessed fool, only apologizes for not thinking to show him first.

“Here,” Glorfindel says, pressing the full shirtless length of himself up against Erestor’s back. He extends his arm out, demonstrating the proper grip, then urges Erestor to copy him. Erestor ignores the heat of him, the sheer size of him, the way his body dwarfs Erestor’s own. Erestor can feel every shift of muscle as Glorfindel adjusts Erestor’s stance this way and that, his hands covering Erestor’s own, running over his arms and down his sides. If this were one of Lindir’s tawdry books, Erestor would be swooning into Glorfindel’s arms. As it is, he’s overheated, cranky, and (worst of all) behind schedule.

“Very good,” Glorfindel says directly into his ear, when Erestor manages the herculean task of not holding a sword by the pointy end. “You’re a natural!”

Erestor is a trained veteran, actually, not that Glorfindel knows it.

“I thought we were going to spar,” he says.

Glorfindel withdraws from where he’s plastered himself to Erestor’s back, thank the Valar, and goes to stand in front of him. He settles into a relaxed guard, sword centered low and at the ready. “How about this? For now, you just try to hit me, and we’ll go from there.”

“But what if I hurt you?” Erestor asks.

“Don’t worry about that,” Glorfindel says with a patient smile. Erestor wants desperately to wipe the expression from his pretty face.

Erestor makes a show of waving his sword about uncertainly, swinging comically wide on the first two strikes. Glorfindel, predictably, evades both easily without even adjusting his footing.

“A good first attempt!” Glorfindel cheers, even though it objectively wasn’t. “Try getting a bit closer!”

On his next maneuver, Erestor brings the sword up with both hands, then makes to swing down wildly, pitching his weight forward in a feint. Glorfindel steps to the side, expecting him to stumble. He does not expect Erestor to twist, striking at the back of his unguarded knee and knocking his weight out from under him.

Glorfindel goes to the ground with an undignified squawk. Erestor seizes on the moment of surprise and closes, arcing his sword in a downward strike, stopping just above Glorfindel’s throat.

Around them, whispers turn to heated murmurs and sounds of disbelief. One elf begins to clap, before being unceremoniously shushed by their peers.

Glorfindel is, for the first time since Erestor has had the misfortune of meeting him, stunned speechless. His lips are parted on a wordless Oh, wide eyes fixed on the tip of the blade poised at his throat. His face is flushed pink all the way up to his ears. Good, Erestor thinks, as he drags the tip of the blade, barely a hair’s breadth above naked skin, from Glorfindel’s neck down to his navel. Perhaps embarrassment will prove a better motivator than lectures.

“Just because some of us have the dignity to keep our clothing on and don’t go gallivanting about with a sword does not mean we have not seen war,” Erestor says. He leans in, close enough for their breath to mingle, so that his next words reach Glorfindel alone. “Those of us who actually lived through the end of the First Age spilt blood for the privilege to do so.”

If Glorfindel has any sort of response to that, Erestor has no patience to hear it. He whirls around, tossing away the practice sword and stomping off the field. The sea of soldiers parts for him in stunned silence.

“I want that report on my desk by the end of the day,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes. “And for the Valar’s sake, put on a damned shirt.”

*

Imladris hardly needs clocks, not when one can mark the time by Erestor bursting into his chambers to interrupt dinner with his wife for yet another tirade against the valley’s Captain.

“He is a beacon of hope sent to us by the Valar,” Elrond says, as he has every day since Glorfindel arrived.

“He is a menace is what he is,” Erestor snarls, stealing a teacake off the tray and tearing a vicious bite into it. “Absolutely no decorum or sense of propriety or respect for station!”

Elrond graciously does not mention the time Erestor threatened to stab someone at a council meeting over grain tax. Only with a letter opener, but still.

“Perhaps it is a matter of cultural differences?” Celebrian muses, stirring honey into her tea with a look of innocent amusement.

Elrond nods. “Things have changed a bit since the First Age.”

Erestor scowls at them, still chewing, and holds up a finger. After he swallows, he says, “And yet none of the texts on Gondolin mention prancing around sweaty and, and—”

“And?” Elrond prompts. It’s a rare sight indeed, for his Chief Counsellor to be at a loss for words. Elrond finds he quite enjoys it.

“And shirtless!” Erestor hisses, as though the very concept itself is one of the Dark Lord’s twisted machinations.

“I see,” Elrond says slowly. Celebrian meets his eyes over her teacup and takes a delicate sip.

“He is distracting everyone from their work!”

“Everyone?” Celebrian asks. “Even you, Counsellor?”

The tips of Erestor’s ears go red. Elrond just manages not to choke on his tea.

“You should have seen the crowd,” Erestor sits, finally taking a break from his pacing to slouch into the armchair they keep in their living room for this exact purpose. “And then—then!—he had the gall to offer to teach me to spar.”

Elrond winces. “I see…” Erestor has the pride of a dragon, and a temper to match, though he manages to hide it… most of the time.

Next to him, Celebrian tilts her head. Elrond can see the thoughts running through her head, lighting up her mind like stars in the sky. “Erestor,” she begins gently, “Did it ever occur to you that Lord Glorfindel might…”

“Might what?” Erestor uncrosses his arms with a pout and inches his fingers towards Elrond’s plate. Elrond rolls his eyes and shoves it across the table; they only stock cherries for Erestor anyways.

Celebrian stares at him in the uncanny way she inherited from her mother, equal parts captivating and unnerving. Erestor manages to hold her gaze for longer than most, but even he must eventually look away.

“Nevermind. Don’t worry about it.” Celebrian says at last, apparently satisfied with whatever it is she has seen. She sets her teacup down. “Elrond will speak to him.”

“I will?” Elrond asks. Celebrian shoots him a look. Ah. “I will.”

*

Three: The Hot Springs

Erestor lets out a quiet groan of relief as he sinks into the steaming hot water. Seven days of tension and poor rest slowly seep out of him, and he practically melts into the stone bench seat of the hot springs.

Erestor has spent a maddening week beating the budget into order. People truly seem to think a Homely House can run on nothing more than waterfalls and starlight. As though people don’t need to eat. As though waste does not need to be disposed of. As though flagstones and archways and plumbing just sprout fully formed from the ground.

Erestor has a headache and a half, but their stores have been shored up for the eventuality of winter or war (whichever comes first), contracts have been negotiated, and vendors have been hired for all the unsightly sorts of work other people don’t like to think about. Erestor lets his eyes slip closed; he has earned an evening of peace and quiet alone.

Quiet footsteps pad across the stone path. Erestor’s ears twitch at the sound and he scowls. This is the private spring, reserved for members of Elrond’s household. Celebrian had insisted Erestor avail himself of its healing properties after all his hard work and assured him neither she nor Elrond would disturb him. So who—

“Good evening, Counsellor.”

Of course.

Erestor breathes out slowly through his nose, sinks lower, and briefly considers drowning himself. “This is Lord Elrond’s private pool.”

“I know. Lady Celebrian said it was wondrously soothing. Told me I was welcome any time.”

Erestor just barely manages not to curse aloud. Conniving daughter of a—

“Might I join you?” Glorfindel asks.

Erestor peeks one eye open to glare at him and then nearly does drown at the sudden snort of water that fills his lungs. He coughs in another mouthful, floundering, and hears Glorfindel swear. Strong arms haul him up out of the water before he can protest, a broad hand clapping him on the back.

“Are you alright?”

Erestor spits out another undignified mouthful of water and tries to surreptitiously wipe away the snot at his nose. Glorfindel is still hovering nervously, his extremely bare chest plastered to Erestors’s side. Of course he showed up to the springs with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He can’t manage to wear proper clothing at the best of times, why would he start now?

“I am fine,” Erestor snarls, or tries to, his voice still rough from coughing and his sinuses still stinging. He pushes uselessly at the unmovable hulk of Glorfindel’s body. “I was better before an uninvited guest interrupted me, but I am at no risk of dying.”

“Oh,” says Glorfindel. “Good. Or, rather, sorry, I suppose.” His arm is still slung over Erestor’s shoulder. It is. Distractingly muscled.

“They make bathing robes, you know,” Erestor says, once he manages to recover (some of) his dignity.

Glorfindel hums. “Do they? Must be one of those new Second Age inventions.”

Erestor turns to scowl at him, preparing another rebuke, when he sees the bit-off grin Glorfindel is trying to suppress. “Was that—are you making a joke?”

Glorfindel smiles in earnest and finally lets go of Erestor with a parting pat to his arm. “Trying to.”

Erestor shivers at the sudden chill from its loss. He rolls out his shoulders, shaking off the sensation, and moves to sink back into the water.

“You never answered me, by the way,” Glorfindel says from overhead.

“Hmm?” Erestor hums as he settles back into the spring’s warm embrace. He is determined to enjoy his evening, meddling from Celebrian or no.

“May I join you?” Glorfindel asks again. When Erestor glances back, Glorfindel is kneeling by the water’s edge, tilting his head down to look at Erestor.

Erestor sighs and waves a non-committal hand in the air. “If Lady Celebrian has given you her blessing, I hardly see how I can stop you.”

Glorfindel grins and slings his legs around to dip his feet into the spring, putting Erestor in concerning proximity to the muscled expanse of his thighs. It should be illegal for legs to be that long. He’ll write up a letter to Gil-Galad tomorrow.

“On the contrary,” Glorfindel says, oblivious to Erestor’s torment. “I think you proved yourself quite capable of holding your own against me.”

Erestor allows himself a smug little smile and sinks back into the water. It had been fun to knock the mighty Balrog slayer off his feet. He’s unlikely to best Glorfindel again without the element of surprise on his side—Erestor is competent with a sword, but there’s competent and then there’s literally blessed by the Valar—but there is no need for Erestor to admit as much out loud.

They sit in comfortable silence for a time, nothing but the burbling of the spring and the humming of the cicadas in the trees. It’s… unexpectedly nice. Erestor soaks in the peace of the evening, feeling the knots in his spine untangle one by one while Glorfindel draws little circles in the water with his foot.

“So,” Glorfindel says after a time, maybe a minute or an hour or an age. “I’ve been informed I made a bit of an ass of myself.”

“Oh?” Erestor’s response is relaxed and syrup-slow. Celebrian is right about one thing—these springs are wondrously soothing. Erestor finds it hard to hold onto any of his past anger in their relaxing waters. “And what Maiar gifted you with such wisdom?”

Glorfindel kicks up a few more eddies with his foot. “Elrond told me that you fought at Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

Erestor does some math in his head. “One-sixteenth of a Maiar, then.”

This earns a snort of laughter from Glorfindel. “Do you count sixteenths?”

Erestor returns Glorfindel’s smile with a lazy smirk of his own. “You’ve seen my revision marks in your budget reports; you know I do.”

Glorfindel shudders at the thought. “Don’t remind me.”

Erestor flicks a bit of water at him. “Do your job properly and I won’t have to.”

Glorfindel laughs and pulls his feet back under him. “Fair enough.” he says, and stands and—

Erestor’s brain goes suddenly, blaringly silent as the little towel Glorfindel had been wearing drops to the ground.

Blessed by the Valar, indeed.

Glorfindel, oblivious, turns, displaying his strong back, the narrow cinch of his waist, the taut curve of his—oh, says some distant part of Erestor’s mind, I didn’t know you could have dimples there—and steps into the pool.

Erestor is suddenly feeling very unrelaxed. He pinches his nose closed and submerges himself under the water, head and all, to flush away the feeling.

When he surfaces, Glorfindel has settled himself on the opposite side of the pool, seated across from Erestor with a blithe smile on his face. His hair floats about him like tendrils liquid gold. The water sends up dancing reflections of starlight on his skin, making him look even more ethereal than usual.

Erestor must look like a drowned rat in comparison.

Their height difference is more apparent now than when they are standing. While the water comes up nearly to Erestor’s chin, Glorfindel is submerged only partway up his chest, leaving the expanse of his collarbone and shoulders exposed. A curl of wet hair clings to his neck, leaving a liquid trail in its wake. Erestor wants to lick it—

“Is there a reason you insist on sparring shirtless?” Erestor asks, like an idiot, to interrupt his own line of thought. Maybe it’s not too late for Erestor to drown himself after all.

Glorfindel rests his head on one shoulder and grins at Erestor through the rising steam of the water. “Other than it being hotter than Morgoth’s balls at high noon, you mean?”

Erestor wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think the Valar have—”

“Kidding!” Glorfindel interrupts with a laugh. “Your face is so funny when you get offended.”

“Is that why you strive so often to offend me?”

Glorfindel, the absolute menace, whistles innocently in response.

Erestor purses his lips in what is absolutely not a pout and considers the eulogy Elrond will write him when he drowns. Here rests Erestor, Chief Counsellor of Imladris, felled by the sight of a wet collarbone. May his fëa find peace in the Forests of Lorien, where captains never wander around naked.

“In truth,” Glorfindel murmurs, gaze trailing from Erestor’s face to stare into the darkness of the night. Erestor has seen the look on Elrond’s face, on Ereinion’s. On his own. It is the face of those remembering something they would rather forget.

“Evil does not always come with a warning,” Glorfindel murmurs, so quiet Erestor can barely hear it over the buzz of cicadas. “Sometimes the minutes it takes to don your armor is more time than you have. Our soldiers ought to be prepared to defend themselves, regardless of the circumstance.”

Erestor feels rather like he’s taken a poleaxe to the face. With all his merriment and laughter, it is easy to forget that Glorfindel has seen the worst of Middle Earth. And still for some reason he cut his own healing short to come back and try again.

Erestor, begrudgingly, feels something like respect begin to unfurl in his chest. He swallows down the knot in his throat and tries for levity.

“Perhaps you might limit such…preparations to once a week?” He says. “For decorum sake.”

Glorfindel finds his gaze again. The darkness is gone, the light of the Trees twinkling in his eyes once. “Why? Do you find it offensive, Counsellor?” he asks teasingly.

Erestor casts up another spray of water at him from across the pool and hides his own smile in the shadow of his arm.

*

Four: The Healing Halls

It happens so quickly. One moment, they are touring what is to become the new armory, Glorfindel lending his practical wisdom as a soldier and tactician while Erestor makes notes on costs and logistics. The next, there is an awful deafening noise, and movement out the corner of his eye. Before he knows what’s happening, Glorfindel is yelling, shoving him to the ground, shielding him, before a massive avalanche of clattering metal and splintered wood is crashing down around them, and Glorfindel is—is—

Erestor’s throat burns. He realizes he’s screaming.

Everything is too loud. There are voices, calling for help and shouting out orders. The world blurs around him. Suddenly it is bright, blindingly so, and there are hands on him, pulling him free, pulling him away from—

“Glorfindel!”

More hands, more shouting, and then he is being ushered down a hallway. Erestor cranes his neck, searching for Glorfindel amongst the flurry, but someone tugs him forward.

Time blurs again, and Erestor is seated on a cot in the Healing Halls.

“Where is Glorfindel?” he asks the young elf blotting at his head with a damp cloth.

“You are concussed, Master Erestor,” they say.

“Where is Glorfindel?” he demands, swatting their hand away. If they will not tell him, he will find out for himself.

Erestor stands, ignoring the way the room sways around him, and stalks through the hall, pausing just long enough to peer through each doorway as he passes, searching, searching…

“Master Erestor!” the elf calls frantically after him. “You cannot—”

Erestor does not hear the rest of it—his eyes are caught on the scene before him.

Glorfindel is laid out on one of the surgery tables, a buzzing mass of healers swarming around him. His tunic has been cut from his body, the bloody shreds of it hanging off the sides. He is pale-faced, a strip of thick leather shoved between his teeth to smother his cries of pain. When he shifts, his chest—Erestor blanches at the sight and staggers sideways, before someone catches him by the waist and hauls him back up.

“Erestor.” Elrond is standing in front of him now. “Drink this.” He presses a steaming mug into Erestor’s hands. The smell of it is nearly enough to make him heave, but he swallows it all down, more out of habit than any true sense of obedience.

Across the room, Glorfindel is writhing on the table, two healers trying and failing to hold him still. Erestor makes a sound of distress and lurches forward. He shoulders past the healers, reaching for one of Glorfindel’s hands. Glorfindel’s fingers find his, grasping desperately. His grip is so hard it feels like Erestor’s bones might shatter under the pressure.Erestor ignores the pain.

“Glorfindel? I’m here, you’re alright. It’s alright.”

Erestor focuses on Glorfindel’s face so he doesn’t have to look at the rest of him. It will be alright. He can’t allow himself to even think otherwise.

Glorfindel’s eyes, wide and panicked, find Erestor’s admist the chaos. “Oh,” he breathes out, barely even a whisper. “You’re safe.”

And then his eyes roll back into his head and his body goes limp.

Elrond is the one to peel Erestor away. “I will take it from here.”

“My Lord?” Erestor hears himself say from far away, feeling unmoored. He has been in battles worse than this, seen soldiers cut down by the forces of evil. Why now does his chest ache?

“Erestor,” Elrond says, with a calm surety that leaves no room for question. “He will be alright, but I need you to let me do my job. Do you understand?”

Erestor swallows down the tang of fear in his throat and nods.

*

Erestor drifts through the Healing Halls in a bit of a haze. At some point he swallows down another mug of that awful tea and sits through a lecture from the healer whose name he still can’t recall. The hammering in his skull has settled into a faint thrum when Elrond finds him again. His face is drawn and tired. Erestor’s stomach coils itself into a knot, the awful empty pit in his chest reopening.

“He is well,” Elrond says, answering the question Erestor can’t bring himself to ask. “Or rather, he will be, with time and rest.”

Erestor nods. His eyes sting. Elrond puts a hand on his arm. “This was not your fault, Erestor.”

That is easy for Elrond to say, when he was not there. When he is not the one who Glorfindel pushed out of the way, when he did not see—

“May I visit him?” Erestor asks.

Elrond shakes his head, though not unkindly. “Not yet. He will be sleeping for a while yet. We had to…” he trails off with a grimace, and the fear-pit in Erestor’s chest shudders. “Nevermind that. He is resting now. As you should be.”

He gives Erestor a sharp look. Erestor manages a wry smile in response. “You know that’s not in my nature.”

*

In his office, Erestor sets a timeglass and allows himself exactly five minutes to fall to pieces. When the last grain of sand falls, he stands, wipes his face, and sets out.

His feet carry him where he needs to go without conscious thought, tracing their way through the long hallways and twisting paths of the valley. He makes his way from his office to the barracks, then to the cellars, then the kitchens, the tailors, and lastly Lindir's room.

"I'd ask why you've suddenly taken up an interest," Lindir says, as he hands over the requested parcel with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, "but I think I have an idea."

Erestor glares at him and snaps up the bundle with an affronted scoff, but Lindir only laughs and shoos him off.

When Erestor returns to the healing halls, basket in hand, the sun is low in the sky, painting the walls in the soft pinks and violets of coming twilight. The tang of copper has been cleared from the air, replaced with the too-clean scent of athelas and vinegar. Glorfindel’s bloodied robes are gone, likely whisked away by some apprentice or another to be mended or (more-probably) discarded. Glorfindel himself is not where Erestor left him, and he has to fight down a new prickle of anxiety.

Elrond finds him before it can fester into panic. “We moved him to the end of the hall. The surgery wing is hardly a good place to rest.”

Something in Erestor settles at that. They would not have risked moving him if there had been any danger of complications.

Elrond eyes the basket Erestor holds, laden with the fruit of his toils. He holds up a finger in a one moment, please gesture, then turns and disappears through an archway. A few moments later he returns with a tray laden with the usual Healing Hall fare: a pitcher of water, a tureen of broth, a steaming teapot, and a matching set of bowls, cups, and spoons. Erestor raises an eyebrow at the quantity.

Elrond returns the look. “If I know you at all, you haven’t eaten anything either.”

Erestor does not dignify that with a response. He balances the basket in the crook of his elbow, takes the tray, and flounces down the hall with his best haughty look. He hears Elrond’s quiet chuckle at his back as he goes.

*

Erestor finds Glorfindel tucked away into a quiet alcove at the far end of the Healing Halls, away from the bustle of healers and their apprentices. The linen sheet is tucked neatly about his waist, revealing the long line of his torso. They’d washed the blood from him at some point, and the wreck of his chest is hidden away behind thick swathes of bandages that wrap around his ribs and over one shoulder.

Glorfindel’s eyes are closed, but his lips purse as Erestor approaches.

“I told you, I don’t want any more blasted broth,” Glorfindel growls out.

“Did you now?” Erestor asks, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his foot and leaning against it with an unimpressed look.

Glorfindel’s eyes shoot open, turning his head on the pillow to stare back at Erestor. “Oh—Counsellor—”

“Back to titles, are we?” Erestor keeps his voice carefully light and busies himself setting down his basket and finding a spot for the tray so that Glorfindel can’t see the dart of pain that shoots across his face. “And after you went through all the trouble of saving my life.”

When he has schooled his expression back into pleasant humor, he looks up to see Glorfindel trying to prop himself up in bed.

“Don’t you dare,” Erestor hisses, striding across the room in three furious steps and pressing Glorfidel back to the bed.

Glorfindel had the good sense to look repentant, wide eyes and slack jawed. “Yes, sir.”

Erestor realizes then that Glorfindel is still shirtless—potentially naked—and that he is touching his bare skin. He snatches his hands away, heat warming his cheeks.

Glorfindel is either too drugged up not to notice the slip or kind enough not to mention it. His eyes drift to the basket Erestor brought. “Are those gifts? Did you bring gifts for me?” he asks, with all the excitement of an elfling at Midwinter.

Erestor masters himself back into haughty aloofness. “No, those are for the other elf who nearly got himself killed today,” he deadpans.

Glorfindel winks. “Didn’t know I had competition.”

The blasted heat is back on his cheeks. Erestor turns to hide his blush and grabs at the tray of food. He fixes a bowl of broth for Glorfindel and pours himself a cup of water.

“Finish the broth and I’ll show you what else I got you,” he says.

Glorfindel eyes the bowl warily. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I am Elrond’s chief negotiator for a reason.”

Glorfindel turns his eyes to Erestor and then does something completely unfair with them. “Only if you feed it to me.”

“You are ridiculous," Erestor snipes, but picks up the spoon nonetheless. He ladles some of the broth into it and gingerly lifts it to Glorfindel’s mouth. Glorfindel keeps his eyes on Erestor as he sips, the very picture of innocence.

Erestor, somehow, manages to get through the full bowl without combusting, though it feels like a near thing.

“Ah, I also brought you something from the kitchens,” he says, to give himself something to do. He pulls a little bindle of napkins out from the basket, undoing the knot to reveal a pair of sweet sticky buns, still steaming and warm from the kitchen ovens.

Glorfindel eyes them with interest he had not shown the broth. “Well?” he says expectantly.

Erestor gives him a questioning look.

Glorfindel grins. “We had a deal, didn’t we?” he asks and opens his mouth expectantly.

Erestor flushes. There’s no way Glorfindel doesn’t see it. “You are a tyrant,” he hisses, but still sits on the edge of the bed. He breaks off a piece of the bun between thumb and middle finger and holds it up warily.

Glorfindel bites down gently, teeth scraping against the tips of Erestor’s fingers. His lips are wet from the broth, leaving a shining trail behind. He makes a soft moaning noise as he swallows, eyes sliding shut. Erestor’s face feels like it’s on fire.

Erestor shoots off the bed, nearly knocking over the tray in his haste. Surely no pastry in all of Arda is that good. “Bargain fulfilled!” he says, a bit manically, pacing away before he can do something contemptuous like try to kiss a man who literally had a gaping hole in his chest just a few hours prior. “Now for your reward.”

“Oh right. Presents,” Glorfindel says behind him, sounding like he had rather forgotten.

Erestor grabs up the rest of the basket, fiddling to reorder the things inside. His hands hesitate at the bundle from Lindir, wrapped in paper and twine. At the time, it had seemed like a bit of fun, some desperately needed levity in the midst of a dire situation. Now he wavers.

“Well?” Glorfindel needles. “Hurry up, the suspense is killing me.”

Erestor whirls around to glare. “Not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Glorfindel says, sounding not at all repentant. He lifts up one hand to make grabbing motions at Erestor. “Show me what you got me.”

Erestor swallows down his embarrassment and offers up the basket.

The first few gifts are innocuous: a tin of Glorfindel’s favorite tea, pilfered from the winter stores; a spare ribbon for his hair, in the dark red velvet Erestor himself favors; a folded letter, signed by all of his soldiers, filled with blessings and well wishes.

Then Glorfindel comes to the paper-wrapped parcel. He pulls at the twine single-handedly, and Erestor realizes with a looming guilt that he doesn’t have full use of his left hand. Still, Glorindel manges to undo the bow and pushes aside the brown-paper wrapping to reveal a small stack of books.

They are clearly not from Imladris’ Library, nor Erestor's personal collection: clumsily bound, with mismatched covers of cloth or paper and dog-eared pages. The words inside are printed not in the curving script of Tengwar but angular Mannish letters. Glorfindel flips to a page at random and skims its contents. Erestor watches with equal parts dread and amusement as Glorfindel’s eyes go wide and his ears turn pink.

“Erestor,” Glorfindel says, voice pinched. “Did you get me… salacious books?”

Erestor summons up a grin. “They’re on loan, technically.” He gives Glorfindel a pointed look. “You will need something to fill your time while your Lieutenant takes over your duties for the next three weeks.”

Glorfindel slams the book shut. “Three weeks?!”

“Three weeks,” Erestor repeats, crossing his arms. “I have already notified your soldiers and filed all the appropriate paperwork.”

Glorfindel’s jaw twitches. Erestor watches the argument brewing in his eyes. It is one of the things Erestor has come to respect about him: his commitment to his duties here in Imladris. He takes to idleness about as well as Erestor does. Normally, it is a laudable quality. Right now, it is maddening.

“Glorfindel,” Erestor says, a bit of his own helplessness leaking into his tone. “Please.”

Glorfindel’s mouth snaps shut.

Erestor so rarely asks for things. He makes demands, he negotiates, he informs. But he never asks, let alone says please, and they both know it. Erestor watches the weight of it wash over Glorfindel. His eyes soften, and he relaxes against the pillows.

“As you wish,” he says.

The relief is almost palpable. It is Erestor’s fault Glorfindel is injured in the first place. If he’d strained himself going back to his duties too soon, Erestor is not sure he could have lived through the guilt.

“There’s one last gift in there for you,” he says, to change the subject. He pulls the last item out himself, holding it out for Glorfindel’s inspection: a fresh set of robes made of soft linen, designed to drape loosely, with toggles that close in the front, so that it can be pulled on without needing to lift the arms overhead and done up one-handed.

When Glorfindel sees it, he throws back his head in a laugh. The sound quickly curdles into a groan as the movement of it aggravates his ribs.

Erestor is at his side again before he can think, robe tossed carelessly to Glorfindel’s lap. He clucks and feels at the bandages, making sure nothing has torn or slipped out of place. When Glorfindel tries to raise a hand to stop him, he slaps it away.

“Leave it,” he says. “Or do you want me to drag Elrond in here to stitch you back up again?”

Glorfindel falls obediently still and lets Erestor fuss over everything within reach: the bandages, the covers, the pillows. It feels good to fuss. Keeps his hands and mind busy enough that he can’t waste time worrying.

His hands stall over the bare expanse of Glorfindel’s chest not covered in bandages. If he lingers for a moment too long, just to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat and assure himself that Glorfindel lives, well that’s no one’s business but his own.

Glorfindel’s own hand, scraped raw at the knuckles but otherwise unmarred, settles over his. “I am fine.”

Erestor nods. There’s a sudden knot in his throat and a stinging behind his eyes. “Of course. I was merely…”

“Worried about my attire?” Glorfindel says, after the silence sits between them too long. “Rest assured, I’ll put a proper shirt on just as soon as our Lord gives me leave to stand from this bed.”

“I—” Erestor begins, and then snaps his mouth shut. A hundred confessions teem in his throat. “See that you do,” he says at last.

Erestor stands before he can do something foolish, like cry or scream or admit that he has never been so afraid in his life. He gathers his composure like a mantle and allows himself to hide behind the expectations of his role. Duty, at least, is something Glorfindel will understand. “I must go. You would not believe the amount of paperwork this whole debacle has caused me.”

But his hand is still clasped between Glorfindel’s. Even wounded and bedridden, he is still stronger than Erestor, and holds him in place.

“Erestor,” he says. His name hangs in the air as they stare at each other. Glorfindel opens his mouth, as though he has more to say. In the end, he merely squeezes their hands together.

I know, it says, and perhaps It’s alright, or, I wish I could promise it will not happen again.

But Imladris is the Last Homely Home, and Glorfindel is its sworn protector. If it is a choice between his own safety and that of Imladris and its people…

Glorfindel will sacrifice himself every time.

*

Five: Midwinter

Five: Midwinter

The midwinter feast has long since ended, but the revelries have not. Bonfires dot the night, and the voices of elves throughout the valley can be heard even here, in the highest tower of Imladris, singing of winter’s end and sun returning echoing through the valley.

Erestor's blood thrums not with wine, but the satisfaction of a job well done: of a successful midwinter feast, stores enough to last them through the cold of winter, and the promise of new life thereafter. Erestor has done his job well, and the people of Imladris can celebrate and make merry because of it. He has no need to join them; he is glad enough to watch from afar, in solitary peace.

“Wynter wakeneth al my care;

Nou this leves waxeth bare.

Ofte y sike ant mourne sare

When hit cometh in my thoht

Of this worldes joie:

Hou hit goth al to noht”

Erestor’s ears perk at the sweet baritone that drifts down the winding stairwell, dulcet notes echoing off the stone.

After all their years working together, Erestor could pull Glorfindel’s voice out of a cacophony of thousands. The sound has no right to thrill him, and yet as he listens, his blood begins to thrum with something more than satisfaction.

“Nou hit is, ant nou hit nys,

Also hit ner nere, ywys!

That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:

Al goth bote Erus wille;

Alle we shule deye,

Thath us like ylle.”

Erestor steals up the steps silent as he may. There is no wrong, he reasons, in enjoying a friend’s song. He falters at the last step, caught at the sight of Glorfindel seated over the window’s ledge, luminous in the moonlight, voice lifted in song.

Erestor stares helplessly, drinking in the sight of him. Glorfindel is still clad in fine velvet hose from this evening’s feast, but his golden robe and jerkin have been shed, exposing the powerful shape of his body to the night’s air. The jewels across his brow and braided into his hair glimmer like starlight, drawing out the unnatural brightness of his eyes. His ears and cheeks are tinged pink—from drink or cold? Erestor wonders. His eyes follow the path of the blush where it spreads from Glorfindel’s cheeks and neck down the dip of his chest.

Where else might he blush? asks the treacherous part of his brain. Erestor tries to silence it, but can’t manage to banish the thought. Where else, given time and touch, might he make Glorfindel blush?

He should go. If Glorfindel wanted company, he’d have found it by now in any of the dozens of elves singing and dancing around the valley.

“Al that gren me graveth grene;

Nou hit faleweth al bydene

Manwe, help that hit be sene,

Ant shild us from helle,

For Y not whider Y shal,

Ne hou longe her duelle.”

Glorfindel’s song comes to an end, and Erestor realizes too late that he is still standing in the silence of the hallway, mouth agape like a lovestruck fool. He thanks the Valar no one else is here to witness it. Erestor takes a step back to slip away into the shadows—

And trips over the edge of a rug and stumbles across the floor.

“Oh!” Glorfindel says.

Erestor swears under his breath and takes back any gratitude he ever gave to the Valar, who clearly hate him and want him to suffer. The sight Glorfindel makes goes from merely arresting to downright devastating as he turns the full weight of his smile onto Erestor. “Blessed Midwinter, Erestor!”

Erestor makes an undignified noise at the back of his throat and quickly ducks his head to hide his face. He makes a show of straightening his robes while he tries to master his expression into something approaching normal. “Blessed Midwinter,” he says to the floor. “Pardon my intrusion.”

Glorfindel waves away the apology. “Come,” he says, producing a bottle of wine from somewhere. Well, at least that answers one of Erestor’s questions. “Drink and watch over the night with me.”

“You’ll catch a cold,” Erestor manages. “You ought to put a shirt on.”

“You’ve spent too long tutoring those Secondborn nephews of Elrond’s,” Glorfindel says with a chuckle. “Elves cannot catch colds.”

Erestor gives a long, pointed look, tracing from Glorfindel's bafflingly bare chest, to the open window he’s chosen to straddle, to the waters of the Bruinen that burble far below.

“They can, however, slip and fall.”

Glorfindel seems unbothered for someone who has, in fact, fallen to his death before. His smile softens into something unbearably sweet. “Ah, but you would not let me,” he says, in the guileless tone of someone who has had too much wine to be anything but completely honest.

Erestor swallows against the sudden knot in his throat. “I would not,” he agrees.

Glorfindel wiggles his eyebrows and the wine bottle at once. The effect is either stupidly adorable or adorably stupid. “Come, drink! You’re too beautiful for such a sober night. Or, hm. Too sober for such a beautiful night?”

Erestor feels his ears heat. “It seems you have drunk enough for the both of us.”

Glorfindel gives him a pleading look. “You wouldn’t abandon me on a holiday, would you? I know Elrond gave you the rest of the night off.”

Of course even a drunken Glorfindel would have Erestor’s schedule memorized.

Erestor crosses his arms and gives an unimpressed look. “How do you know I don’t have evening plans with someone else?”

Glorfindel’s eyes go wide, as though it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Erestor might want to spend Midwinter with anyone other than him. Glorfindel looks around, as though there might be a third elf hidden somewhere in the empty hallway or the open air of the night, before his eyes fall back to Erestor, wide and imploring. “Do you?”

The expression is too much to stand; Erestor feels as though he’s just kicked an (absurdly large, faintly glowing) puppy.

“I do not,” he admits and watches Glorfindel relax, that easy smile returning. Something in Erestor’s chest squirms. He uncrosses his arms rather than acknowledge the feeling, then holds out a hand.

“Well?” he says with an arched eyebrow, when Glorfindel does not immediately respond. “Do you want me to drink with you or not?”

Glorfindel’s smile could put the sun to shame.

The wine is heavy, dark and sweet on his tongue. It’s the very best of Imladris’ stores—and Erestor would know, he catalogued them himself. It is the kind of wine made to be savored in small sips, shared with a loved one in front of a warm hearth. Erestor blinks his eyes open, takes one look at Glorfindel, golden and spread-legged and staring right at him and chugs.

Glorfindel erupts into laughter and applause, apparently delighted by Erestor’s show of impropriety. If only he knew half the thoughts that went through Erestor’s head on any given day.

Erestor takes a moment to clear his throat and sets the bottle down delicately on the edge of the window. It takes more focus than it should. He licks his lips curiously; already, they buzz pleasantly with the effects of the wine.

When he looks up, Glorfindel is staring at him, eyes intense. Erestor’s stomach swoops. Perhaps he should not have drunk so much so quickly.

“You have no idea the treaty I had to negotiate with Greenwood for a cask of this.”

Glorfindel leans close with a chuckle. “Oh, I believe it.” His hand comes up to fiddle with the embroidery at the neckline of Erestor’s robe, his touch blazing like a fire even through the layers of wool and silk. “We both know you’re the real reason Thranduil hasn’t shown his face on this side of the mountains for at least a century.”

Glorfindel trails his fingers down the front of Erestor’s robe, before dropping them away to find the neck of the bottle set between them. Erestor should be relieved, but instead feels a keen chill at the loss. He has to focus not to lean in, to seek more of that touch.

Glorfindel watches him as he brings the bottle to his lips for another drink, gaze never leaving Erestor’s. Erestor feels trapped like a rabbit in a snare, caught by the wine-stained fullness of Glorfindel’s lips, the way his throat bobs with each swallow. Erestor’s face feels hot suddenly, his whole body prickling with nerves. It’s the wine. It must be.

A stray drop has escaped the bottle. It clings to the corner of Glorfindel’s mouth before leaving a lurid trail of red over the edge of his jaw and down his neck.

Erestor’s eyes hone in on it, watching its descent with maddening focus.

Glorfindel has stopped drinking. The wine catches in the hollow of his collarbone. Glorfindel is speaking. There is a sheen of moisture down the side of his throat that shimmers with every word he speaks. Glorfindel is saying his name. Erestor wants to eat him alive.

“Erestor,” Glorfindel says, again. “Erestor.”

“Hm?” Erestor manages.

Glorfindel laughs, collapsing back against the stone arch of the window. “I did not know you to be such a lightweight.”

Erestor scowls and steals back the bottle. “Hold your tongue.”

Glorfindel grins. “I’d rather you hold it for me.”

Erestor drinks rather than coming up with a response to that. Glorfindel is a terrible flirt at the best of times, let alone when he’s drunk on wine and glad tidings. He doesn’t mean anything by it, Erestor reminds himself.

One by one the bonfires in the valley begin to blink out, the songs on the wind growing fainter as voices drop off one by one and the elves of Imladris retire to bed. Erestor and Glorfindel trade the bottle back and forth between themselves as they watch the light of Earendil make its slow trek across the night sky.

“What were you singing earlier?” Erestor asks, when his tongue is no longer in danger of betraying him. “I did not recognize it.”

“You wouldn’t,” Glorfindel says. “It’s an old song…” Glorfindel trails off, his gaze somewhere far away in the deep of the night. Erestor knows him well enough by now to recognize his silences for what they are. For all the centuries Glorfindel missed, there are yet more he lived through but does not speak of, years before the sun was a thing to be looked for on a dark night such as this.

Erestor shifts, letting their arms brush together, his cloaked, Glorfindel's bare and somehow still blazing warm. “I suppose winters in the valley must seem mild in comparison.”

“They certainly have their merits,” Glorfindel says, turning to gaze at him. His breath rises in a soft white cloud between them. Erestor’s own breath stutters as he realizes just how close their faces are.

“Glorfindel,” he hears himself say, a century’s worth of longing held in that name.

“Erestor,” Glorfindel echoes back, then leans in to kiss him.

Glorfindel's lips are cool and taste of wine. Erestor licks into his mouth to chase the flavour, and Glorfindel groans in response. He cups Erestor's jaw with one hand, the other tangling in his hair, and pulls him even closer. Somewhere along the line the bottle is knocked over; it goes tumbling off the ledge, lost to the waters of the Bruinen below. Erestor can't find it in himself to care.

Glorfindel is the one who breaks away first. "We should not do this here," he breathes.

Erestor mouths along his jaw. "Now you wish to be reasonable?"

Glorfindel lets out a low noise of want. "If either of us falls, Elrond will be extremely cross."

"Then don't fall," Erestor growls, and nips at the skin just below his ear.

Glorfindel lets out a breathless laugh that turns to a moan and grabs Erestor desperately by the shoulders. "Don't make me be the reasonable one," he says. "I'm ill suited to it."

Erestor spreads a palm over Glorfindel's bare chest and revels in the way he shivers at the touch. "You should have thought of that before you kissed me."

Glorfindel catches his hand and draws it up to place a kiss on his knuckles, then the cradle of his palm, then the thrumming pulse at his wrist. The sky beyond the mountains has just started to blush pink with pre-dawn light, the first signs of sun returning. Glorfindel’s eyes shine, and Erestor thinks that the Trees, in all their glory, could never compare to this.

*

One: The Morning

Erestor wakes to the sensation of Glorfindel’s lips at the nape of his neck.

He rolls over and throws an arm over Glorfindel’s shoulders. The sun is already high in the sky, drifting in through the curtains. Fortunately Elrond had made it quite clear he did not expect either of them at breakfast this morning. Erestor chooses not to analyze that, and instead leans in for a kiss.

“Good morning,” he murmurs against Glorfindel's lips. His fingers curl into the soft cotton of Glorfindel’s nightshift. “You should take this off.”

Glorfindel chuckles, low and throaty, and pushes himself up onto one elbow to loom over Erestor in the bed. “Oh? But I thought it was—what were your words? Unseemly? Undignified? Unbecoming of my station?”

Erestor pulls him down by the collar and kisses him to shut him up.