milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Today there is a mythological creature hogging the couch. Glorfindel has spread his fletching supplies over the coffee table, and is in the process of dismantling and remaking worn arrows. If he had his druthers he'd wait until the passes cleared and hand them over to the Galadrim while on some mission or other, they always do the best work, but the snows won't melt for months, and there's only so many arrows in his quiver.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ganymede doesn't often destroy his arrows--in fact, he hasn't lately--but he does turn the metal heads Teja makes in the forge into fletched arrows, if he has nothing else to occupy him.

And today, he doesn't. He's also chewing gum while he works, resulting in the occasional small bubble that gets popped against his teeth with a snap.

The noise gets a moment of attention, and the person who made it a slightly longer moment of scrutiny.

Young. By his standards, if not for anyone else. But definitely old enough to know better. Skilled enough to not be the village idiot.

Glorfindel continues his self-appointed task, but he may be eying the rafters thoughtfully, plotting out projections and angles of attack. Who do you think influenced the twins? Not Erestor, that is for certain.

He's right on most of those counts, and Ganymede is perhaps young for Glorfindel's standards, even counting his actual age. However, living among gods as mercurial in mood as the Greek pantheon has taught him to be aware of his surroundings.

And especially the people in them. The gum snaps again with a much more definite sound as Ganymede watches the elf with a placid gaze. "Finding something to your interest?"

Deliberate, then. Brash, defiant, if only passively... boring. Not worth the effort, alas - he has no need to prove himself against children.

He blinks back at him, ageless and distant.

"Why should I find something of interest?"

"You tell me, you're the one staring."

There's a soft clink of metal on plastic as the hanging ring on the collar around his throat slides under one of his shirt buttons, as Ganymede turns his head. There's something in the way he looks back at Glorfindel that conveys many more years than Ganymede could possibly have, the way he looks.

"You are the one asking, unprompted." He returns, with a faint shrug, the sharp little blade in his hand neatly stripping the tattered feathers. Of course the boy has years on him, as if that should be a shock in a place like this. Quite a few creatures here are older than they look. It's almost shocking when Glorfindel finds an actual, normally aging human.

"I needed a prompt?" he asks with a tiny laugh. "That's new."

"Indeed?" The elf asks, carefully easing the knife under the bindings of a new arrow.

"Indeed," he answers. "Bored archer?"

"Is that your reason? Or perhaps a question?" An elegantly arched eyebrow accompanies the reply, though his hands do not pause.

"Question. I am no archer, not regularly," he says. "I am just another man now."

He eyes the bindings the 'man' is putting on, and does not comment on that, pointedly.
"And why should I be bored, to prompt a question like that?"

"Well. You can always get fresh arrows from the bar, unless you are either bored or commissioned to repair them."

There is a long pause, while Glorfindel stares at the boy, aghast.

"Not an archer." He agrees, fervently. There is very little chance, unless in desperate last straits, that he would ever trust an arrow that was not made and fletched by either himself, or someone he trusts.

"It has been several centuries since I considered myself anything close to an archer. I have changed with the times."

Go on and guess Glorfindel's opinion of forgetting something so basic - or his opinion of whether the boy bothered to learn it in the first place.

Odds are, as the mysterious Eight Ball says, not in your favor.

"Mmm." He hums, going on with stripping the shafts clean with swift, efficient movements.

He is being judged. Amiably.

(The wood Elf in question has just flopped [if one could call anything an Elf does "flopping," this is. He has the advantage of youth] into a chair across from Glorfindel's couch.)

The Noldorian in question flicks spent feathers off the edge of his blade at the insolent wood-elf prince.

And of course he flopped. He is young, he has not yet become elegant enough not to flop. Or, at least, so says the Noldorian. Where said wood-elf's somewhat touchy father cannot hear.

Legolas laughs, brightly.

"Was that, perhaps, a cry for help, Lord Glorfindel?"

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, princeling." Glorfindel chastises, idly flicking more feathers in Legolas' direction.

Legolas laughs, again, but obediently keeps his tongue behind his teeth. Keeping it civil is perhaps a touch beyond him. He grasps one of the feathers as he straightens, and plays idly with the poor worn thing.

The not-talking moment doesn't last very long.

"Should you wish it, I'd be glad to offer," he admits, cheerful. "'Tis certainly better than returning to my papers."

"Dodging matters of state?" Glorfindel asks impishly, but nudges the half-full quiver of spent arrows in the elfling's direction. "Should your sovereign father ask, I have no idea why you are so behind in your duties."

Legolas brightens, pulling a small knife out of his belt as he picks out and arrow.

As he begins to clean it, deftly: "If he should trek so far as to ask, I would thank you for your discretion."

"Discretion?" Glorfindel laughs, setting aside a clean shaft and starting on another, "Hardly, elfling. He would have my head for contributing to your delinquency."

"Or mine, allowing myself to be so corrupted," Legolas agrees, slightly morose.

"Thankfully, he's unlikely to learn of it, as neither of us are apt to tell him."

"Your head? Hardly. You will need that. In fact, most of your body parts would be free from harm, as you are needed to continue the royal line. But I think, perhaps, it would be a long time before you left the cave your kind calls home." He points out, entirely too cheerfully.

"I should find my way to escape," Legolas laughs. "'Tis not that difficult to sweettalk the guards, and my good king has few willing or able to deal with the Men of town."

He sets the clean arrow down on the table, and picks another.

"We could lend you Erestor." Glorfindel notes casually, even though he knows this never happens. "He does well dealing with the sundry races of men who come to Imladris."

"Do business dealings please him?" Legolas does not know Erestor well, beyond the knowledge of his competence. He travels less than Glorfindel.

"All officialdom pleases him." Is the flippant reply, which is somewhat untrue. Erestor is a tracker without peer.

He also does very very well with paperwork, which Glorfindel loathes.

"Perhaps I should ask him for his advice, next time I find myself in Imladris," Legolas admits. "It would be a much kinder fate, if I found any joy in it."

The look of unholy glee in Glorfindel's eyes is probably a bad sign, as is the low laugh as he continues stripping his arrows.

It's entirely possible he's looking forward to asking Erestor how he got on with the impulsive elfling.

Legolas will take it as encouragement!

He begins to hum a rowing song, as they continue to work on the arrows. It goes quickly, between the two of them.

Soon they are left with a pile of cleaned arrows, and Glorfindel slips the knife back into its sheath so he can move on to the next step. He has a bag full of supplies - smooth feathers, balls of thin sinew, and a small metal pot stoppered closely.

"Your feathers are never so fine as ours," Legolas comments, mournfully, inspecting them; he is jesting, slightly, as they're in good condition -- but he is also honestly convinced that the birds of North Mirkwood provide some of the best fletching.

"Bah, stuff and nonsense, elfling. Our birds must have thicker plumage to keep them warm against colder winters, and our birds are not harassed by overgrown bugs." He retorts, taking the pot to warm it over the fire in the hearth.

"If the thickness is all in the fluf, it does not well help," he points out, logically. He does not touch the comment about spiders; they are not much of a laughing matter.

"You slander our hard-working birds." He huffs, settling the now-warmed pot in a nest of the bag. "Now, the Galadrim's birds..."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only