Anor and Ithil by Haeron

Chapter 1

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Small, white flowers floated upon a clear stream, moved by a current that was neither fast nor slow but resolute in its destination. The petals had become frail and translucent but the water threatened not enough to submerge them entirely. They floated as small vassals; Erestor watched and knew a disquiet in his chest, made lesser for watching their small journey, silent on calm waters.

There was an echo of something being wrong when it should have been so right. The nature of the malady was evasive and Erestor’s will to grip the problem with two hands and bring it to full attention even more so. Elrond had noticed his counsellor’s distraction and had pressed as both friend and Lord to divine its cause, but Erestor could give none beyond simple it is my own fault. Both elves had left the presence of the other feeling most discomfited and the issue was never raised again, openly, at least.

But this small corner of the valley, outside the walls and boundaries of the Homely House, cared not for the inner tumult of one unremarkable elf, and there was a peace in the thought that the branches that bent in the wind would cast no wary glance at him. Erestor stood on a bank of grass on an early morning risen with cold air that pushed the clouds across softening sky. Winter hastened towards them, but the grass was yet green under his feet.

Something was not right, nonetheless, and the brisk sweetness of the morning was marred by a lurking trepidation as a hand hovering over a bare arm, barely brushing the soft down of hairs to raise the gooseflesh. His heart was thudding an irregular drumbeat in the cavern of his chest and Erestor was spurred thus to movement lest he become as rooted as the oaks. When he began walking the edge of the bank, his steps fell without purpose or direction. He might have walked to the Sea itself had not Glorfindel called out for him not to stray too far away.

And his voice was not one Erestor could feign deafness to, nor disobey.

Glorfindel walked behind him and Erestor turned to meet his eyes for a single moment and no longer. Not enough time to discern the expression etched upon fair, ancient face and yet long enough to sense the tension rising, pressed to a profound chthonic pressure in the body. Glorfindel; slayer of demons, defender of the innocent, golden flower and gentle creature - there should have been no awkwardness between them.

Two ardent long-term friends they were: but therein was the problem. Erestor flinched at the thought and traced a delicate, thin path along the riverbank, one foot neatly placed in front of the other with much attention to exact placement. Sometimes the water would splash up and he would feel a drop of it on his hand; a mild kiss. Glorfindel followed.

Erestor knew the truth of his heart as well as he was sure Glorfindel knew. Theirs were not emotions nor motives they could conceal from one another and neither was the notion of insufficiency. Friendship was divine, more so when forged as theirs had been in strife and sorrow, but lacking. The time for spontaneous solution or declarations of unending affections had long since dwindled along with countless seasons that had risen and died and seen decades pass into centuries. The wounds they bore were identical and as yet untended for.

Blood spilled from them both from hands clasped over chest to stem the flow; and it was the blood of the heart.

What an absurd metaphor. It was all absurd, really. Erestor indulged the thought and felt Glorfindel’s approach. His steps were light over the grass and Erestor turned in the face of the wind to face a Lord of gold and light. Glorfindel’s face seemed sterner today and different from his usual chirpy countenance, but perhaps it was just the weather they found themselves suffering.

Glorfindel placed his hand on Erestor’s shoulder for a minute, unspeaking as words came to nought between them. His hand was large and warm and Erestor brooked not the touch he would have forbade of any other, save his peredhel companions. The air and wind and whirling magic of Manwë took away the possibility of empty silence and whipped hair over faces and rippled their robes. He could hear Glorfindel breathing, so close, and other sounds were made redundant.

‘Perhaps we need to talk?’

‘Perhaps?’ Glorfindel said, the word forcing a genial smile to his lips and just the barest raising of a brow. He let his thumb brush Erestor’s neck, a fleeting touch, before retracting his hand and walking a few paces past him to the river’s edge. Erestor did not turn to follow immediately, rather he exhaled a breath he seemed to have been withholding since the awakening of the Eldar.

And when he did move to follow, his heart was gladdened. Erestor watched his golden hair shimmer this way and that as he walked. At his side I was born to walk and lie, and one day it will be so. A thought overly romantic, overly optimistic and assuming - but it was hope, that rare thing that came only to the elves as herald of its own inevitable loss.

‘Talk we must,’ Glorfindel said, to the leaves on the trees, the songbirds and the petite Noldo following behind him. ‘but one must listen, too.’