Anor and Ithil by Haeron

Chapter 12

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Some of the candles had burned low. The flames dancing on the wick cast fading shows on the wall and Erestor still could not discern the painting that hung there, but whether because of the gloaming light or tears unshed in his eyes - he knew not. He lay against Glorfindel’s chest who was sat at the headboard, stroking his hair and pressing chaste kisses to his raven crown.

He made noises of happiness; light sighs and gentle words of affection. It made Erestor’s heart glad and yet broke it, too. Would that they had found one another’s arms in happier times, if such times had ever existed. Erestor was warm under the covers of Glorfindel’s lordly bed. He was warm lying against his strong, broad chest. He was warm hearing the soft song he sung, under his breath with husked voice.

‘In old city bless’d, a silent sweet choir.

A place for deep rest beneath a white spire.’

A song of Gondolin. Erestor wondered what voice had first sung it to Glorfindel that he remembered it so keenly.

‘Two arms for a cot and so fall soft away,

where sorrow comes not, o, long live it they say.’

A silent tear rolled down his cheek but Glorfindel saw not for his eyes were closed. It was the sweetness of doom, hope found amidst war - the life of the Eldar was no longer strewn with peace but with blood of body and heart and soul. It weighed on Erestor, the concerns of the world and the concerns of his own small heart. But though his regrets were many and varied, he regretted not the warmth they had shared tonight.

Even if it would dissipate on the morn.

‘Weep not, my heart’ said Glorfindel, quietly, with eyes open and saddened. Erestor returned the small smile. There were few words to exchange now, now that there were only long days for them to endure apart.

‘Do you not desire sleep?’ Erestor asked. He wished to sleep on Glorfindel’s chest or if he could not, at least to simply rest there. The room was a place of peace and light; Mandos had ever put the distrust of the dark into Glorfindel but Erestor liked the candles. They made lights behind his eyes. They were life imperishable.

‘My dreams have become dark as of late, and horribly twisted. I fear they will only grow worse on nights of storm and rain.’

And parting? Erestor understood and nodded. He joined his hand to Glorfindel’s and watched as their fingers laced. Was it wrong of him to kindle such hope between them on the very morn of his departure? Was it all entirely false?

Glorfindel was kissing his temple, breathing him in and something profound within Erestor told him that no hope, no matter its origin, could be entirely false. He believed it. He needed to believe it.

Hope was alive.

And a thing of gold.

‘I will return. Wait for me.’