A/N: My reviewers on fanfiction.net chose Losgael x Erestor, so that's what I went with. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank them for inspiring me. I don't usually write romance. Of course, I couldn't have Glorfindel go without...

Summer came slowly, almost reluctantly, to Rivendell, dawdling behind the rains of spring like a weary horse pulling a laden cart. The trading expeditions had returned, and the merchandise was still being distributed.

In the sewing room, the ladies of Rivendell were already making plans to use the particular fabrics they had ordered. Losgael sat in her usual seat, staring blankly at the piece of blue silk she was holding. It reminded her of something. Of course! She had made a shirt for Glorfindel using a similar fabric. She had yet to see him wear it.

Festivals had come and gone in Rivendell, and he had yet to wear it. He had made a song for her to thank her for it, so she knew he was grateful, but Losgael could not help feeling slighted because he had yet to put it on. The thought weighed on her mind like heavy Man on a horse; the effort of carrying it around made her stop and want to cast if off after a while.

When Celebrían entered the room, Losgael seized the opportunity to speak with her mistress about the matter. “My lady,” she said hesitantly, “I wish to speak with you about Glorfindel, if I may.”

Celebrían smiled and moved a little closer. “What is it, Losgael?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet.

“You know how I have pined for him, longed for him...” Losgael trailed off.

“Yes,” encouraged Celebrían.

“Do you remember the shirt I made for him?”

“Yes I do. You put a great deal of thought into the making of it.”

“He has never worn it.”

Out on the practice fields, Maerdess was in earnest consultation with the warriors about their uniforms.

“Do your tunics give you enough freedom of movement?” she asked.

“Yes, they replied politely.

“Then why do you return sometimes with the underarms torn?” she pressed. “Surely it is from stretching more than the materiel will permit you.”

The warriors shuffled as their captain's lady scrutinized them.

“My desire is to help you,” she explained, “not to criticise you. If we changed the way we make the tunics and shirts you wear, you might find it easier to move.”

“That has occurred to me,” said a warrior, and boldly stepped forward. “I never spoke out, for fear of insulting the ladies of Rivendell, who work so hard to clothe us and to see to our comfort. If your desire is to help us, I have some ideas.”

“I would be delighted to learn whatever you can teach me,” she replied with a broad smile.

Glorfindel looked on, and pride swelled his heart. This was his lady, his good lady, whose one desire was to serve in Rivendell as a mark of gratitude for the safety she enjoyed. Were it not for the warriors standing around her, the foul servants of Sauron would no doubt have destroyed her and everyone else. Here she stood, demonstrating the respect and concern that was due to them. Who among the ladies of Rivendell, apart from Celebrían and the healers, truly understood what the warriors endured to protect them and to keep their enemies out? While the other ladies sometimes came to spar or to watch as the warriors practiced their deadly skill, none of them, not even the most considerate of them, had ever asked a warrior's opinion on her skills as a seamstress.

“My good lady, you are my Silmaril,” said Glorfindel, raising a hand to lay on her shoulder. He let it hover, and waited for her assent. The last thing he wanted was another slap.

With a smile, Maerdess moved closer to him.

Glorfindel's hand slowly lowered until it came to rest on her shoulder. No slap.

“And you are mine,” she replied, with a loving look in her blue eyes. She returned her attention to the warrior she had been speaking to. “Have you made any drawings?”

Glorfindel sighed. She was making him wait for the kiss. Very well, the proper rules of Elven courtship would be observed.

After dinner, Erestor made his way to the balcony where he was accustomed to meeting Losgael. Sometimes he would find her waiting for him, looking around to see if he was coming. It was an endearing habit, but he tried not to attach too much significance to it. It was not as if she had ever leaned close to him, her face upturned, expecting to be kissed. The day she showed herself willing to receive the touch of his lips on hers could not come quickly enough. He longed to enjoy the touch of her silken skin against his own. The chances of that happening, though, appeared to be as remote as ever. Where was she?

In the sewing room, Celebrían sat with her lady-in-waiting and continued their discussion from earlier that day. “Are you still thinking about it, Losgael?” she asked.

“It is all I can think about,” Losgael replied. “My mind has fastened itself to this thought. It clings to it like a fly to a wall, unwilling to move until it is ready. I am embarrassed to say this, but sometimes I find myself glancing at him surreptitiously, hoping to see a flash of blue just above the collar of his jacket, but I never do. How can I rid myself of this?”

“I do not believe that these thoughts you find so disturbing are about the shirt you made for Glorfindel,” Celebrían told her. “They are about trying to find a reason for your continuing infatuation with him. But that is all it is – infatuation. There is no profit in seeking what you cannot hold. My Elrond's captors discovered that, and paid for it with their lives. One remains, we think, but he does not dwell among Elves.”

“How do my feelings for an Elf-lord compare to the suffering your husband endured?” asked Losgael.

“His suffering began the day your own did,” Celebrían reminded her. “The point is, they were in love with the idea, but unprepared for the reality. When they finally held what they desired in their hands...”

“They were found unworthy to hold them, for they had done great evil...” Losgael recited.

“No, Losgael. Not quite,” said her mistress, her voice grave. Fury sparked in her eyes as she considered the pain Elrond still suffered sometimes. “They could not bear to hold the jewels because, after everything they had done, all they had were the jewels. Yes, they were hot to the touch, but they could have wrapped cloths around their hands to protect them. 'Twas not the heat of the holy jewels that made them cast them away, but the weight of the blood on their heads. Who would befriend those outcasts after all they had done? Who would take them in and call them brothers? Their precious Oath had been fulfilled, but they had no plan for what to do next. There is no place in Valinor in which they would be congratulated for the murder of their kin! They had only the jewels, nothing more. How empty that must have felt for them! How lonely! The prospect of dwelling in penury in Middle-earth, afraid that at any moment the jewels they had worked so hard to gain might be stolen away, sparking another long quest for vengeance, was more than they could bear. That was why they cast them away, Losgael. It is the same for you, my dear. You are in love with an idea.”

Losgael sat back to consider this. “I suppose that, if he wore the shirt, it would prove that he loved me.”

“But he does not,” said Celebrían.

“I was hoping that he would,” Losgael replied. “'Tis the hope that he will that causes me to cling to this gossamer thread of a dream.”

“And are you hoping he will seize you and kiss you passionately as he did Maerdess?” asked Celebrían with a wicked grin.

Losgael frowned as she thought about this. “It is appropriate for your husband to treat you thus, as long as it is accepted conduct between you. I have never seen him do so. It is fit that he keeps such displays private.”

“Ai, Losgael,” declared Celebrían, “you have gone cold. What ails you?”

Losgael knew not how she felt. A sensation of numbness enveloped her being as she found herself wondering if she was able to truly love another. Whatever her feelings for Glorfindel were, they could not be described as love.

“Sometimes when I look upon him,” she replied, “I feel a rush of passion and long for his kiss. When I saw him seize my friend, though, I did not like it. Not because I was jealous of her, but because I dislike the idea of being manhandled thus in public. You are right, it is a dream, and the feeling I had before I discussed the matter are fading away. It is as though you have opened a locked door, and they have escaped.”

“Now you are free to meet Erestor,” said Celebrían with a smile.

“Ai, my lady, you are fickle!” cried Losgael. A blush warmed her face.

“Glorfindel has found his match,” she replied. “Now I wish for one for you, and Erestor seems to be the one for you.”

TBC...