Posted: 8/25/16

Words: 2,164

16: Minister MacBeth

Minister MacBeth liked to think he was a patient man. None knew this better than his husband, for whom MacBeth had waited faithfully for fifteen years while the former completed his post at the International Compound on Mars. And it was, in fact, to his husband Theodore that the minister's thoughts now turned.

Because Theodore, being descended from a long, proud line of Texans, would not have hesitated to backhand the smug redhead sitting on the other side of the conference room table.

"…a resource that should be shared with everyone," Weasley was say smoothly. Despite his eloquence, there was an element to his voice that MacBeth found almost sickening.

"I believe I understand your position," he replied diplomatically. "But your concerns would be better raised before the I.C.W. tomorrow."

"Many call you the voice of the I.C.W.," the man countered. "I merely wish to ensure that the woman does not corrupt your thoughts."

"By trying to corrupt them yourself," MacBeth rebuked. "You have never been to this other world, or at least so you profess, so your council on it can, as yet, carry little weight."

Weasley opened his mouth, but the Minister cut him off.

"I have an appointment in two minutes; I thank you for seeing yourself out."

Without another word he stood and exited the conference room, pausing only to speak to the guard outside the door.

"Make sure he goes straight out. No stopping anywhere near any offices."

Hermione woke up first, to an unaccountably stiff neck. Some slight shifting in an attempt to stretch it revealed only that her head was resting on someone's shoulder and that someone's arm was around her waist. Some further contortion revealed the glowing hair of her Elvish companion.

She settled back down but her movements had apparently woken Glorfindel a little, because he released a deep breath and turned towards her, tightening his grip on her waist. If he had not pressed his face into her hair, she might also have heard his quiet murmur of melleth nîn.

As it was, Hermione giggled a bit, but her head was lifted into an uncomfortable position so she pressed her hands to Glorfindel's chest and shook him a little.

"Glorfindel," she said softly to no response. "Glorfindel!"

He made a wordless grumble and buried his face deeper in her hair.

"If you don't get up now, you will never see your natural hair color again," Hermione declared.

There was a brief pause, as if it had taken a moment for him to process her words, and then he sat up with such speed and force that he knocked himself off the bed.

"I'm awake!" Hermione heard a muffled announcement from the floor. Chortling to herself, she shifted towards the edge of the bed to make sure he was alright, and leaned over just as he was sitting up, placing their faces just a hairsbreadth apart.

Hermione had a moment of distant panic as her lungs apparently stopped working; distant because the majority of her brain was suddenly occupied wondering how she'd never been this close to Glorfindel and really they were almost kissing and she couldn't believe she'd never kissed him before and why not start now?

The elf seemed to be thinking much the same thing, if the quickening of his breath and the way he was staring at her were any indication.

"Good morning," the Automated Butler announced pleasantly. "This is your wake-up call. It is eight o'clock in the morning. Your first appointment is in two hours in Mongol."

Hermione startled at the sound and tumbled off the bed in a flurry of blankets, narrowly missing a collision with Glorfindel's face. He chuckled; she poked him from underneath her pile on the floor; and everything seemed to return to normal.

Yet Hermione, as she went through her morning routine in the bathroom was having a profound revelation.

Morgana fucking a squirrel, she thought to herself. Arwen was talking about Glorfindel.

(After another moment of thought, she realized, It really was quite obvious.)

She tried to pin down a time or place for when Glorfindel's regard for her had changed; her first thought was of his return from Mandos, when he had sought her out at the newly won kingdom of Erebor. Bur no—he'd been too happy to see her even then; in fact, she recalled, he had come directly to her after his return from Aman.

It must have been before the fall of Gondolin, then. Perhaps even soon after they had met in Vinyanmar, Turgon's city by the sea.

It hardly did any good to wonder, she decided eventually as she tried to tame her hair into a French braid. It warmed her, though, to think that he had thought so highly of her for so long.

Suddenly Glorfindel's behavior months ago, when she'd hidden from the twins by his pillar, took on a new dimension. She resolved to remind him at the nearest opportunity that Turgon would never forgive him if he killed Elrond's children.

"Merlin's here," called the elf from the other side of the door.

"Out in a minute!"

Merlin was in fact present, and bearing gifts.

"Good morning," he greeted them cheerily, and handed a box to each. "Since you arrived in such distress, I took the liberty of getting you clean clothes."

They opened their boxes to find two sets of robes each from their rooms in Rivendell. One set was in their usual styles—leggings and over-robes, with a tunic of varying length. The others were highly formal full robes, Glorfindel's white with embroidered golden flowers, the emblem of his house, and Hermione's plainer (though no less fine) and red.

"An hour until your meeting, now," Merlin said. "You've got half an hour until we leave; I'll apparate us all close but you should walk part of the way so the cameras can get a good look at you."

They nodded and moved into different rooms to change into their tunics.

"What can you tell us about MacBeth?" Hermione asked as they gathered once more and prepared to depart.

"He's a quiet individual," Merlin began after a moment of thought. "He'll make up his mind quickly, and he does not appreciate cunning so much as bluntness. He values manners and logical thinking; he will not accept emotion as a substitute for facts."

"I like him already," she declared, pleased. "And I imagine Voldemort doesn't."

"About that," Merlin cut in, looking a bit nervous. "Ron Weasley has been the Death Eaters' liaison with MacBeth. There's a greater than average chance we'll run into him today."

The smile dropped off of Hermione's face faster than Saruman off of Orthanc.

"We would have seen him in two days in any event, would we not?" Glorfindel asked gently. "Better to get it out of the way now, before we are presenting ourselves to your Council."

She took a deep breath and nodded at him. "You're right, of course."

"Ready to go?" Merlin asked, deeming it best to change the subject. They each placed a hand on his shoulder, and they were off.

The Anglican Ministry controlled, at that time, a relatively small portion of the world. Still, they were manufacturers and artists; a cultural center that had taken over from the Coalition of Eastern Communes after a disastrous rebellion fifty years prior. Many believed that MacBeth's predecessor, Anthony Pruett, had secretly instigated the revolution to bring down the previously incredibly powerful 500-year-old C.E.C.

Exclusively through patience, good manners, and Hufflepuff-esque persistence, MacBeth had finally managed to open an embassy in Mongol, bordering what remained of the C.E.C. It was outside of that building that Merlin brought Hermione and Glorfindel.

The sky was a pale bluish violet, as it had been since the sun grew so large that the earth became uncomfortably warm, and NASA (by then known as IASA, as it was no longer associated with one country) sent special satellites containing rune stones into orbit. The purposefully underpowered ward that resulted was just strong enough to keep out a portion of the heat. Still, it refracted the light in unexpected ways, and Hermione missed the clear blue of Middle Earth.

The group had appeared on an avenue lined with trees; above them cars flew in seemingly all directions in no discernable pattern. To the left and right were various embassies.

"This way," Merlin told them once Glorfindel had finished inspecting his surroundings. The elf offered Hermione her arm, remembering her not-quite-fully-healed injury, and she took it gratefully.

They came to the embassy quickly, despite Hermione's slower than usual pace, and were met at the door by none other than the Minister himself. He was a tall, slim man with dark hair in a military cut; his clothes fit him exactly and he carried himself with assurance despite the cane in his left hand. Dark eyes crinkled at them in a smile as they approached.

"Merlin, Ms. Granger," he bowed his head to the two of them, then looked expectantly towards Glorfindel.

"Minister," Hermione replied warmly. "This is Lord Glorfindel. He has been chosen as the representative of middle earth."

MacBeth bowed his head once more towards the elf. "Welcome to our world, Lord Glorfindel." He indicated the hallway to their left. "If you would walk this way, I believe we have much to discuss."

"Hermione?"

The witch tightened her jaw and tried to ignore the gentle knock on the door.

"Hermione?"

Her favorite elf was beginning to sound desperate.

"Please?" he finally added in a tiny voice, and she managed a faint twitch of her fingers to unlock the door. There was a short pause, then the quiet sound of the handle turning and the nonexistent sound of Glorfindel entering the bedroom.

He stood in front of her, hands twisting around one another anxiously, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"Hermione, you're not—" His voice broke, and he coughed, then cleared his throat and tried again. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

The witch's red-rimmed eyes widened and she was startled into making real eye contact with him.

"No!"

Her emphatic answer seemed to calm him slightly, and he managed to stop wringing his wrists. Her surprise gave her the energy to reach out and tuck her hands into his.

"No, Glorfindel," she repeated more softly. "You did the right thing."

The statement caused tears to well up again.

They'd run into Ron on the way out of the embassy. It caught them off guard, in high spirits after their successful meeting with MacBeth.

Glorfindel relaxed further at her words and managed to sit down on the bed next to her.

"What do you need?" he asked her softly, tightening his grip on her hand and sounding helpless. "I hate to see you cry. Please tell me what to do."

She shook her head wordlessly, tears coming faster now, and curled into him.

"The years have not been kind to you, have they, Mione?" The unexpected voice and nickname actually made her jump, and Glorfindel immediately adopted a defensive position.

Ron raised an eyebrow in a chillingly Voldemort-like mannerism.

"So you've got a new lapdog now, eh?" he sneered at her. "Wonder if you'll put out for him."

"He's gone," Hermione whispered once she regained some of her control. "It's one thing to lose a friend to death, but it's quite another to see them live to hate you."

"Such an insult would be considered a challenge in my country," Glorfindel cut in, hand hovering where his sword usually hung and grateful that his translation charm from the meeting was still working.

"What will you do, princess?" the redhead snickered at him. "Glow me to death?"

"I have faced foes much deadlier than you," Glorfindel said, drawing himself up and glaring, shielding Hermione at the same time. "And here I am."

"Betrayal can be more bitter than death," the elf acknowledged. Hermione took a deep breath and straightened her spine.

"I am glad we spoke to him," she declared, wiping her eyes. Glorfindel examined her face carefully, but found more resignation than bravado. "He is no longer my friend, and now that I have seen that we will have an easier time in front of the Council."

"There is no shame in mourning a friend, Hermione," he told her softly. She favored him with a watery smile.

"I have a better friend here with me now than I ever had in Ronald." He held very still as her face moved impossibly close to his, and a damp kiss was pressed against his cheek. Hermione lingered there for a moment, long enough to whisper, "Thank you, Glorfindel," before she stood and retreated to the bathroom.

Hearing her start the water, the elf remained where he was, his face burning where she had touched it, and smiled.