This takes place sometime before the events of Ossë's Gift:
He was not Erestor, this pale elf who eyed him longingly over the glass of claret. He did not possess a sweep of ebony hair or glittering eyes, nor a haughty tilt to the chin that, charm as he might, Glorfindel could not cajole or soften. He did not dance like a fox or eat strawberries with a frisson of longing. He could not vivisect some foolish fop with honeyed words nor curse like a wounded soldier. He did not glare when Glorfindel’s hand slid over his willing arse. He was not Erestor. But he would have to do.