第 120 页

“Thel, where is your flute?”

“Ría!” Ecthelion bolted upright, throwing the sheet over Glorfindel. “What do you thing you’re doing?”

Ríanellë took in the two of them naked on the bed and dutifully clapped her hand over her eyes. But she didn’t leave. “Listen, we really could use it. Is it in the closet?”

Ecthelion sputtered, apparently too appalled to form words. Glorfindel chuckled and sat up, hoisting the sheets around his waist. “You didn’t lock the door?”

“It doesn’t lock,” said Ríanellë, standing on her tiptoes to peer onto a shelf. “What on earth, Ecthelion, you threw out everything you’ve owned since 2009 but you still have a decaying Furby up here?”

“What?” Glorfindel was laughing, and a flush burned on Ecthelion’s high cheekbones.

“I must have overlooked it. Ríanellë, if you don’t leave right now – ”

“Did you find it?” Maglor wandered into the room. “Come on Ría, we’re so close.”

“That’s what he said,” said Glorfindel cheerfully, as Ecthelion buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, hello, Glorfindel,” said Maglor, respectfully covering his eyes as well. He peeked through his fingers. “You uh, have a little something stuck to your – ” He gestured, and Glorfindel glanced down to pull free the condom wrapper that was stuck to his chest. “Ecthelion, Ríanellë says you have at least one flute around here, I assume you took your good instrument to the USMC, but if you have one here we could really use it for this thing we’re trying.”

Glorfindel, who had started grinning broadly at ‘instrument’, wrapped his arms over his shins and rested his chin on his knees. “What kind of thing?”

“Don’t encourage them,” said Ecthelion. “Ría, my flute is in the case on the bottom shelf, take it, get out, and please never return.”

“Hey, my brother mentioned something about some of your old teammates,” said Maglor, addressing Glorfindel. “But it sounded too crazy to be real. Did one of them really stab the other almost to death? But like the stabbed one isn’t even pressing charges, and they’re still buddies? That’s not true, is it? Tyelko is such an unreliable narrator.”

“It’s true, your brother isn’t lying,” said Glorfindel, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Beleg’s still in rehab but from what I’ve heard, Túrin is over there every day he can get away from Thingol and Melian. And yeah, Mablung makes it sound like Beleg isn’t holding a grudge, which seems in character. Mablung might be holding a grudge for him, which is also in character.”

Ecthelion gave Glorfindel a pleading look, as Ríanellë settled down on the floor with the flute case in her arms and an intently listening look as Glorfindel went on.

“They’ve been trying to get ahold of Túrin’s mother, I think, but they’re not actually sure where she is.”

“My brother said something about a foster father Túrin had at some point?”

“Mîm. Yeah. He’s been kinda in and out it sounds like, but he and Thingol don’t get along great, you know, there’s some bad blood there.”

“You have all the details,” said Maglor, rapt. “I should have tapped you for gossip ages ago, how do you know all this?

Glorfindel shrugged. “I was their captain, I knew them pretty well. I’ve tried to stay in touch and in the loop on things even after I graduated, especially since the team was in such uproar after last year.”

“So were they really in a gang of – ”

“There’s an entire bottle of lube overturned under the bed,” interrupted Ríanellë, who had been avoiding staring at Glorfindel's bare chest by examining the rest of the room. “Gosh, Thel, you slob.”

“Okay, that’s it. Get out.” Ecthelion jumped up, his movement pulling the sheet off Glorfindel entirely. Glorfindel raised his eyebrows as Ecthelion, a blanket wrapped haphazardly around his hips, pointed furiously to the door. “I don’t like to raise my voice, but if you don’t get out right now, I am going to grab my utility knife and gut you like a salmon.”

Ríanellë and Maglor fled, and Glorfindel, naked and unflustered on the bed, looked at Ecthelion, impressed. “I’m not going to lie, that was pretty hot.”

“I miss the barracks,” said Ecthelion, and dropped down on the edge of the bed, covering his face with his hands.

Glorfindel scooted over to rest his chin on Ecthelion’s shoulder and wrap an arm over Ecthelion’s chest. He nuzzled against Ecthelion’s short black hair, and kissed the tip of his ear. “Do you really?” he murmured.

“No.” Ecthelion dropped his hands and turned to wrap his arms around Glorfindel’s neck as Glorfindel pulled him into his lap. “No, not even slightly.”

* * *

Galadriel finished folding the last of the jewel tone peasant blouses and laid it carefully on top of the pile. She stepped away to re-hang a maxidress that been put away in the blazer rack by accident, and a young woman drifted over to rifle through the pile of blouses that Galadriel had just neatened.

“They’re all the same,” whispered Galadriel to the maxi-dress, as she twitched its skirt straight. “And they’re sorted by size… There’s really no need to look at every single one… But yes, yes, do it anyway.”

The girl looked up from the disordered pile she had just created, frowning, and Galadriel clamped her lips shut and busied herself amongst the dresses. The girl moved on to rifle through the next neatly sorted pile, and Galadriel moaned faintly.

“Can you take a turn at the dressing rooms?” One of Galadriel’s coworkers appeared at her shoulder just in time to prevent her from collapsing into the dress rack.

“Yes,” said Galadriel in relief, and hurried over to the changing rooms.

Soon bored, she lingered by the changing stalls, turning discarded clothes right-side out.

“What do you think of this mini?”

“Oooh, it’s cute. How do you feel about the cinching though?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’m into it. I love that top you have on!”

“I know, isn’t it great?” The girl pivoting in front of the mirror hitched at the top she was wearing. “Do you think I can pull it off? The straps are a little – ”

“They’re not designed for anyone with a bosom over an A cup,” said Galadriel wisely, from behind her pile of clothes. “Very little in this place is. Sometimes you can make the tailored stuff work for a curvier figure, but honestly, the abundance of spaghetti straps and tiny bodices makes this an incredibly unaccommodating line.” She leaned closer, not noticing the look on the customer’s face. “If you want better quality clothing that looks good on more than a nine year old frame,” she whispered conspiratorially, “The shop across the way has some excellent dresses…”

“Galadriel.”

“So while you can’t pull that one off – Seriously, I promise you’re going to take it home, put it in your closet and then never wear it again because the fit is absurd – if you look at the spring line at Yavanna’s you are going to be so much happier.” Galadriel straightened up, and caught her manager’s eye. “Yes?”

“My office. Now.”

In her supervisor’s office, Galadriel straightened her skirt and blinked at the manager, who was rubbing her temples.

“Headache?” asked Galadriel helpfully.

“Yes, you. Haven’t we talked about this? Keep your mouth shut if you can’t consider ‘Can I pull this off?’ a rhetorical question! Customers don’t want honesty, they want encouragement.”

“But she never would have worn that,” protested Galadriel. “It was obviously a bad choice.”

“Who cares? We’re not here to read people’s minds, we’re here to sell clothes and an experience.”

“I gave her an experience, surely,” said Galadriel. “I mean and technically all interactions are experiences, though I know you’re wielding a phrase there.”

“Yes, you did give her an experience. Namely, the experience of never wanting to come into our store again.”

Galadriel thought about this, then bowed her head, conceding the point. “That may be true. Fair enough.”

“It’s not fair enough! You can’t keep making our customers uncomfortable like this; we’re losing sales because of you.”

“Better a sale made in earnest than one to someone who will never wear or feel good in the clothes,” said Galadriel wisely. “Genuine comfort in an outfit is a far better advertisement than – ”

“Right. You’re fired.”

Galadriel blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her manager smiled humorlessly. “You’re usually so good at reading people, Galadriel, I shouldn’t have to repeat myself. You’re fired, dear.”

* * *

Galadriel sat on a bench outside the mall and pressed her phone to her ear. There were a number of faint rings, and then a click.

“Hello, friend, you’ve reached Celeborn’s voicemail. I’m afraid I’m not answering the siren song of my pocket herald right now, but leave your name and star sign and I’ll get back to you. What? That tickles, Artanis, stop whispering. Oh! Yes, leave your number too. I’ll – ”

Galadriel hung up and redialed.

This time, the call was picked up after the second ring. “Hello?”

“It’s me. I need you to come pick me up.”

“Pick you up where? Aren’t you working until 8 today?”

“Yes. I was. But then I got fired.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then, “No, you didn’t,” said Aredhel briskly. “You don’t get fired. You are not one of us.”

“Ireth.”

“You are not of the feckless and fireable, you are the impressive and overqual – ”

“Ireth.”

“Yes?”

“I am not messing around. I am telling you I got fired from Forever 21.”

There was another long pause. “Was it because they found out you’re actually 23?”

Galadriel sighed deeply. “Just come pick me up, please.” She poked through the bag at her feet. “But I have a last pile of employee discount clothing that you can have for your trouble. How do you feel about spaghetti straps?”

* * *

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

To: “Nerdanel M.” <nerdanel@istarniëstudios.com>

From: “Irmo L.” <irmo@gardenofloriengallery.org>

Subject: re: re: re: URGENT: third missed deadline

Nerdanel, dear,

The 5th has come and gone. Long gone, in fact. As I said when I sent you an email on the 7th, and again on the 10th. Either you have forgotten the concept of deadlines, or you are ignoring my messages, but either way, I find myself at rather a loss.

I’ve been incredibly patient with you over the last couple months, out of respect for our longtime association and my faith in you as an artist. I know that there has been a certain amount of turmoil in your family life, but after the understandable leeway I granted you after the new year, I expected to see things stabilize somewhat come Spring. I do not think either of us need to be told that this has not been the case, yet still, my patience continued.

But I have a gallery to run, and this is no longer acceptable. You have missed four deadlines at this point, and the last draft work you sent to me was nowhere near your usual standards and frankly unrecognizable. Where is the artist whose sculptures were so lifelike that businessmen used to hit on them by accident? The artist I knew had a command of gesture and form that could reduce even the most jaded to tears. What charlatan is submitting these sloppy homunculi in her name? I’m concerned about you, Nerdanel, but I am also out of second chances to give. This cannot be working any better for you than it is for me.

Consider our contract for the April show terminated (in truth you effectively voided it back in March by failing to meet the second deadline), as well as any handshake understandings we may have had about future work. Out of respect for our friendship, I will not be levying any penalty fees against you, but I do expect the return of any equipment the gallery has loaned you, as well as the keys to the back room. Should the artist I once knew and respected return to her former greatness, let her know I will be eager to talk.

I hope you get your house in order, dear.

Sincerely,

Irmo

PS While Aulë still has the market covered when it comes to disappointing protégés/recipients of his patronage, I am newly sympathetic to his plight.

Chapter End Notes

1. So Snartha made a single, jokey, off-hand comment to me about Finrod’s hook-ups in his office after I got this anon, and I ended up writing the first 2k words of this chapter as a result; her influence is either impressive or annoying. Lucky for me, she did some art to balance it out, which I include here.

Party with an eye on the door

Chapter Summary

“Is everything okay?” Fingolfin called.

“Just some Fëanorion drama, apparently,” Finarfin called back.

“Typical,” said Fingolfin cheerfully

Chapter Notes

0. Since this update is posting on my birthday, I thought it appropriate to include a small party :) The bonus awkwardness and melodrama is my BIRTHDAY GIFT TO ME

1. (Me and Fingon are both 27 now!) (I know this because I finally gave the characters birthdays just so I could verify who's my age at this point.) (I will just say that it inadvertently made some people older than I had been thinking, and some people younger.) (Sorry Orome, Celegorm was even younger than you thought when you first slept with him, all because I decided to give him a May birthday WHOOPS)

2. Anyway, Warnings: Some booze consumption, Curufin at his least easy, and a Council of Seven.

Fingon tucked his hands into his pockets and loped along at Fingolfin’s side, walking quickly to keep up with his father’s long strides.

“What do you think?”

“Of the downtown campaign headquarters?” Fingolfin’s dark hair was getting ruffled by the wind, and he ran a hand through it to keep it out of his eyes. “Well, it’s certainly…efficiently sized.”

“Small is good,” said Fingon, grinning. “I know we could utilize some of the resources of Finwë Corp, but I want to maintain some distance.” He stared thoughtfully down the street, as if he was measuring the distance between the two buildings in question. When he spoke again, he had slipped unconsciously back into the voice he used when addressing their staff. “We’re not going to hide your professional background, but we don’t want to be the campaign backed by a large corporation. We’re trying to prove your bona fides beyond the business world and harness some of the energy of young people and more of the grassroots movements. It’s really important for us to emphasize that we’re not like the big moneyed interests. You were always a different kind of businessman. You’re doing this in good part to fight the kind of policies lobbied for by Utumno Industries and their ilk, and we need the power of the people as much the power of the boardroom. And the people I want aren’t in your conference rooms, they’re downtown. Besides, I’ve spent too much time in that building.” Fingon shuddered, and he sounded more like his usual self again. “No offense, Dad, but I’ll take the backroom behind a falafel shop any day over Conference Room D, even if it does have a good view.”