Too White, Too Dark by wind rider

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Too White, Too Dark

Too White, Too Dark

 

Erestor looked gloomily out of the kitchen window, contemplating the cranky weather outside. Winter this year was particularly harsh, an anomaly in the hidden valley, and not even the *(1)Woodland Folk settling on the borders of the valley found anything to make merry about. Today topped all else, however, and a resigned look on Elrond’s face that he had spied on his way to the kitchen indicated that even Vilya could not save them from all foes.

 

In fact, he had gone to the kitchen in hope of ruminating about it in silence while fixing something to eat for himself and settling down before the large cooking fire. However, now that he found Glorfindel and Ellelótë – the only Noldorin female cook Erestor had encountered so far – taking his intended seat and doing his intended activity, he floundered. He felt much like the leaves torn from the trees and swivelled about in the harsh, keening winds outside together with the snowflakes, and he certainly felt as desolate.

 

A particularly-vicious wind whistled past, and in the distance he could hear the sharp bang of thunder and the ominous cracking sound of a tree falling.

 

And behind him, two sets of breaths choked.

 

Startled and confused, he turned around and regarded the two other Elves with a measure of uncertainty and skepticism. Surely they were not afraid of the sounds? Ellelótë had valiantly defied the lores of her society to be a cook among men, also defying the ban of Quenya speech and names enforced by Thingol in the drowned Beleriand, building a good and fierce reputation in the kitchens and respected by even the noblest of people for her skills; surely “the Queen of the Kitchens” would not be bothered by some natural cricks-and-cracks? And – Glorfindel! He had never seen the golden-haired ellon so pale and sporting a pinch look on his face; the famed Balrog-slayer, the fierce and skilled defender of Imladris. What had brought this around? What had toppled these people so, of which the cracking sound had reminded them?

 

Not being much familiar with Ellelótë and not interested in the cold bread rolls sitting untouched beside her, he sidled carefully to her side, towards Glorfindel, and crouched beside the said ellon’s stool. Still more carefully, he reached out a hand and lay it atop Glorfindel’s knee in a gesture of concern.

 

Not a moment later, he had to scramble back as Glorfindel reflexively lashed out with his fists and feet, half-rising from his seat. “Uncle!” he yelped, referring to their old relationship a long time ago in the lost Gondolin, desperately hoping that Glorfindel would recognise him in that way.

 

Seeing that the said ellon returned to his normal sitting position and buried his face in his hands, Erestor’s aim had been true. But it did not answer the question he had been wanting to ask, and he intended to pursue it till the end. So, with a great deal of caution, he returned to the spot beside Glorfindel and crouched there, looking at the finger-covered face. “Uncle?”

 

The familiar cornflower-blue eyes peeked out of the gaps of the fingers, then the hands retracted fully, uncovering a wanly-smiling face which was too palid for Erestor’s liking. “I apologise, little one,” Glorfindel whispered. But not even the age-old exasperation of still being called a little one moved Erestor to smile now.

 

“What is wrong?”

 

“Nothing, child, nothing. Just an old memory,” the golden-haired ellon murmured, looking away towards the dancing flame in the grate.

 

Rising up slightly, Erestor braced his weight on his knees and leant towards Glorfindel, encircling the other ellon’s waist with his arms and resting the top half of his body on Glorfindel’s lap. That honorary uncle of his could truly still make him feel like a child he had been when Gondolin still stood.

 

“Tell me?” he implored softly, widening his eyes in silent plea. Judging from Glorfindel’s half-hearted chuckles, he could still make a dent on the warrior’s armour like he had that long time ago.

 

Sadly, before either Ellyn could say anything more, Ellelótë spoke up, her voice croaking slightly. “Do not bother him of what you do not know, Erestor. That memory is best left untouched and unspoken. I just… I hate this storm. We lost oo many people already, and *(2)Sauron seems gleeful about reminding us of it.”

 

Erestor unwound his arms from Glorfindel’s waist, about to straighten and retort to the hard tone of the cook if not her confusing words; but Glorfindel seemed to have suspected what he wanted to do and captured the younger ellon’s arms on his lap, trapping him. “Do you not feel the fell power that has been coating this winter, little one?” he asked softly, caressing the younger ellon’s temple tenderly with his knuckles. When Erestor nodded mutely, he sighed and looked away, back towards the crackling flame. “I vowed to Amarië that I would protect her cousin with all costs, but I lost her in the end anyway. Elenwë was a sweet child, sweeter than even her cousin, but fate spoke differently. She was by no means the first or last person I failed to safe, however. It was snowing very hard, and the wind blinded us with the snowflakes. We could not see the way and hear the warnings. Our only warning was the ice cracking and shifting under our feet, but then it was too late.”

 

Glorfindel’s other hand joined with Ellelótë, a gesture not so much of affection as it was of the terrible fate shared together.

 

Erestor’s bafflement turned swiftly into horror, and he recoiled. Elenwë… Ice… Snow…

 

“We are the only Exiled ones left in this valley, child, and Laurefindil here is not even an Exiled anymore,” Ellelótë murmured, giving him a wan smile similar to what Glorfindel had given him. “You might not have expected such a flashback, then. Please pardon us for being all gloomsome and scared like Elflings. We shall endeavour to do better if there is a next time.”

 

She was trying to be light-hearted for him, he knew, but he was not someone to be coddled away from the truth. Still, it was rather unnerving for him to be in the same room with living relics of the journey across the Grinding Ice while trapped in this weather, so he quickly excused himself and fled outside. Being so near to the merciless onslaught of the blizzard was better than trapped inside with no way out.

 

The landscape was so white, coated with ever-piling snow, but dark winds swept overhead, and dark clouds cleft occasionally by lightning hung threateningly over the valley. Cracks could be heard at times, near and afar, from thunders and unfortunate plantlife both, and he imagined the whistling and keening winds as shouts and screams and grieving wails…

 

He shivered and hunkered down. Belain – please make it stop!

Chapter End Notes

Footnotes:
*(1) Green-Elves, Wood-Elves, Laiquendi, Nandor/Avari… well, either.
*(2)There was a disputed evidence that Sauron could control weather; and the Witch-King, purported to have caused the Fell Winter somehow, was his underling. I think it was once mentioned “the Dark Lord’s arm was long and far” or something like that, and I assumed it was Sauron. Please correct me if I’m wrong

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