Dust in Desert Winds by Raiyana

They were summoned to the study on a balmy spring evening. Erestor – who had a good idea of the topic of the upcoming meeting – remained silent when he fell into step with Glorfindel, letting the warrior fill his ears with chatter as uncomplicated as the scent of the lilacs blooming overhead. It was one of admittedly few things he truly enjoyed about the Captain of their defences; his ability to keep a steady stream of conversation going without Erestor needing to think overmuch on his own contribution, Glorfindel simply chattering for the sake of chattering, not to ferret out information or deliver same in subtle ways.

“Sauron may have been driven from Mordor,” Elrond said quietly, “but we do not know how far his arm stretched from Barad-dûr… and Gondor is not as strong as it might have been.” Elrond looked at Erestor, then, a question unspoken hanging in the air between them.

The Chief-Counsellor straightened under his gaze, nodding almost imperceptibly.

With a pang of longing, he thought of the three books he had recently found for the Library, new acquisitions from the Library in Minas Tirith, written by a Faithful who had seen the rise of Sauron and the Fall of Númenór. It would be some time before he had time to read the accounts properly.

“I accept,” he said quietly. It was a role he had learned well in Lindon. “Shall I be going alone?”

“Wait, going where, what?” Glorfindel said, making Erestor almost smile at his earnest confusion.

“Spying, Glorfindel,” he murmured.

Elrond made a face. He never had liked the word. “Call it a diplomatic mission,” he said, “I, Elrond – the brother of the first King of Númenór – wish to learn of the realm of his descendants.”

“And you will send your chief librarian to compile a mountain of books and a museum’s worth of cultural paraphernalia, I take it?” Erestor quipped, trying not to laugh outright.

Elrond grinned lightly, clearly well-aware of Erestor’s hidden mirth. Glorfindel stared wordlessly between the two of them.

“Well, our sections concerning the East are woefully empty,” Elrond replied, turning to Glorfindel next. “Erestor is fully capable of this type of mission,” he began, “and although I cannot order you to go, I should consider it a great favour if you would accompany him – just in case.”

“I’ll need someone to carry the books, at least,” Erestor said, feigning nonchalance.

“But… you?” Glorfindel protested, “A spy?”

 “Who do you think gathered all the intelligence Gil-Galad so skilfully used to keep Lindon as safe as possible?” Erestor wondered, frowning at him.

Glorfindel blushed.

“But you’re… well…” he trailed off, the glow in his cheeks turning brighter.

Erestor mastered the impulse to pinch one of them. Glorfindel was uncomplicated – there was very little guile in him, if any – and Erestor quite liked that; Glorfindel’s smalltalk was a soothing babble to the mind, allowing him to think freely on other matters while seeming engrossed in the warrior’s chatter. Erestor had used that babble of inconsequential things before, in Lindon, to cover up his own listening ears, his true focus on far weightier matters than the cherry-blossoms or whatever else Glorfindel was nattering on about – being perceived busy with one person allowed him to scrupulously listen in on the conversations of others, gathering small morsels of knowledge that the High King needed to hear.

“I am a highly skilled intelligence operative,” he said, shrugging off his bruised pride. “Capable of gathering and arraying information, spotting patterns and formulating counter-attack plans.” Studying the glow in those cheeks – had Glorfindel truly never suspected he was more than the aide he had portrayed? – Erestor added pointedly, “After all… that was my purpose in the court of Lindon.”

Glorfindel had no reply to that, it seemed, though a new kind of respect had appeared in his gaze; unsettlingly unfamiliar but also warming to the core in a way that was almost more unsetting altogether.

Erestor did not quite like the feeling.

“Then it is arranged,” Elrond said. “You shall be well provided for.”

Erestor nodded acceptance at Elrond; his mind was already drawing lines of travel along the maps he still kept in his study. “We shall journey east a bit,” he mused, “then turn south skirting the foothills of the Hithaeglir.”

“You will need to choose a new horse,” Elrond pointed out, his voice too gentle to make the reminder truly sting, “Glorfindel has Asfaloth, but your mount was slain in the war, Erestor.”

Erestor nodded tightly, the loss of his brave companion still raw.

“How long will the journey be?” Glorfindel asked, for once sensing that a topic was not going to be discussed further – a pleasant change from councils in Lindon where Erestor had often prayed for patience to deal with his brash demands for knowledge better left alone.

“If we take sail from Pelargir, we should land at Umbar during the most pleasant time of year – no Habagat to curl your hair, Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor teased, feeling an odd sense of sorrow when Glorfindel’s eyes once more revealed his familiar light contempt.

Part 1: Travelling to a port – Dol Amroth or Pelargir – secret pining

Erestor liked things to make sense, though he had come to know that people were rarely sensible – but he could understand them, if he put his mind to it; that was the single most useful skill he had discovered in his life that he possessed, an innate ability to figure people out.

And yet Glorfindel seemed impossible to make sense of.

He was guarded, which Erestor understood, sharing the experienced warrior’s vigilance, but he was also playful, as though peace had made him giddy like wine, and liked to tell jokes. Most of them, granted, Erestor had heard before in one version or another, but Glorfindel told them with such joy that he wanted to laugh anyway. He did not, of course; it would hardly be dignified, and he’d never liked the way he laughed either.

Dignity.

He had wondered why it mattered to him, beyond the slightly bruised but also satisfied pride that Glorfindel’s bafflement at their assignment had caused, but eventually decided that it was a need to prove Glorfindel wrong – and the rest of those who thought his position in Elrond’s House and Lindon before it was won without merit.

The thought had made him snort out loud when it appeared in his head, dismissed almost immediately, but the sound had coincided with yet another of Glorfindel’s glib observations about their journey and Erestor had not had the heart to tell him that it was not amusement but introspection that made him react.

The pesky thought had returned much later, in the private darkness of his own sleeping-bag, and Erestor liked it no more then than he had on the back of his new horse.

Riding through the gloomy chill of late Firien, the incessant drizzle promising a cold night ahead, Glorfindel reflected on his taciturn travelling companion.

Erestor was clever; he’d known that in a sort of detached way before, silently amused by his biting wit and keen intellect in council meetings, but he had not before considered whether the Chief Counsellor was capable of surviving in the wilds in the same manner that he had had to learn himself to survive patrolling for stray orcs.

Erestor was pretty; he had not realised that, before, had not really looked before, but he had come to enjoy looking at him. The sharp cheekbones reminded him of Turgon and Aredhel, leaving him wondering at Erestor’s family; the dark hair and the grey-blue-silvery eyes only reinforced the notion that Erestor was of Noldorin descent.

For some time, Glorfindel considered whether Erestor was a relation of Elrond’s, but he dismissed the notion even though he could not explain why.

In truth, he reminded him of Gondolin too much to be truly comfortable, a few of his mannerisms almost familiar in the way Glorfindel associated with the memories of his first life that were still a tangled jumble of impressions at times and better left to unwind on their own.

Erestor was also a little annoying – he had a tendency towards being a bit of a know-it-all when he spoke – and seemed ill-at-ease in Glorfindel’s company during the evenings when they halted their trek. That was unexpected – even before he had died and become a hero of legend only to be reborn and watch his legend grow tenfold, Glorfindel had been well-liked by most of the people who met him.

Somehow, the fact that it had taken him more than two weeks to realise that Erestor was not his biggest fan actually made Glorfindel more confident in the success of their upcoming mission. After all, he reasoned, he was an elf, sharp-eyed and well-versed in reading Elven expressions; if he could not discern Erestor’s true feelings, what chance did mortal Men have?

“We shall cross into Eregion soon,” Erestor said, staring into the gloomy drizzle with an unreadable expression and jolting Glorfindel out of his thoughts. As his thoughts had at that precise moment been more concerned with the delicate shape of Erestor’s ear – he wished he’d brought paper for sketching, suddenly, but he had not thought about finding artistic inspiration during a mission where he was for all intents and purposes a glorified bodyguard – Glorfindel blushed brightly. Once, he had been considered a fine artist, but now his art felt like something that lay very far in the past. His fingers, once constantly smeared with charcoal and pigments, had been turned to play with weapons for too long; peace had been too short to restore that special way his eyes had once seen the play of light and shadow as more than evidence no enemy was hiding in the darkness.

Erestor tilted his head slightly, those keen eyes – what colour were they, really? They seemed to shift in hue with each glance – boring into Glorfindel’s soul as though he could read every thought floating to the surface of his mind.

Glorfindel’s blush deepened. There were some thoughts he had had about the Chief Counsellor that he would much prefer Erestor didn’t discover.

“You ride well.”

The comment did not startle so much as surprise him, making Erestor glance at his blond companion who had been silent for some time. The golden hair was hidden but for a few curling tendrils beneath his green hood; they were both dressed more like King Thranduil’s Silvans than their normal gear, but Erestor had vetoed a lot of the armour Glorfindel had intended to bring. Plate might be suitably imposing for a supposed bodyguard, but he was well aware that letting the Glorfindel cook himself in the heat of the southern realms would not be well-received news whenever he returned home.

“As do you,” he replied, a little miffed at the unspoken assumption that had coloured the words. “Though I credit Asfaloth for that; a smoother gait I have rarely seen in any horse.”

Smirking at the resultant sputter, caught somewhere between reprobation for his slight and preening for the sake of Glorfindel’s beloved horse – Asfaloth himself gave a whinny that clearly conveyed amusement – Erestor mentally awarded himself one point even if he had no real idea why – or of what – he was keeping score. He had realised that he enjoyed surprising Glorfindel – snidely or not – more than expected.

“I meant simply that I had not seen you ride before – that I recall, at least,” Glorfindel finally said.

“Have you spent much time observing my various activities, my Lord?” Erestor quipped, genuinely amused at the turn of the conversation. Glorfindel scowled at him from beneath his damp hood.

“I have witnessed most of the inhabitants of Imladris on horseback over the years,” he returned, “and those who consider themselves warriors more than most.”

“I do not think of myself as a warrior,” Erestor pointed out, “rather I am a lover of knowledge – in Eregion I was an Ingolmo for Lord Celebrimbor; words were always my passion.”

“And yet you have been a warrior,” Glorfindel pointed out, “wielding both words and blades with equal skill, I wager.”

The compliment made Erestor feel a little burst of warmth in his heart. “Are you looking for a sparring match, my Lord?” he asked, curious now. “Or did you simply wish to make idle conversation about my new horse?”

“As much as it might be fun to cross blades with you,” Glorfindel said, the scowl turning into a smile that made the light drizzle disappear from Erestor’s thoughts for a moment, “I did only mean to compliment you on your mount – she was well-chosen.”

“Yáressë is a well-trained steed,” Erestor agreed, for a moment confused by Glorfindel’s proud smile at the compliment to the mare. His mind caught up a few moments later. “She’s one of yours?”

“I enjoy the training of horses,” Glorfindel demurred, “but why have you named her Yáressë?” He frowned lightly. “I did not realise you spoke Quenya.”

“My parents lived in Gondolin – I was born there; Quenya is my mother-tongue – why not name my horse in Quenya?” Erestor chuckled, patting Yáressë’s neck gently. The brown mare huffed gently, her breath misting in the chill.

“But ‘Once upon a time’?” Glorfindel asked, still sounding bemused and continuing with the safer topic. Erestor pretended not to be relieved that the mention of Gondolin had not spawned a barrage of questions – there were things he preferred not to dwell on, particularly surrounded by the ruins of his second lost home. “Although,” Glorfindel continued thoughtfully, “I suppose it befits the mount of a Loremaster…”

“Do not all good stories begin with a good mount?” Erestor quipped. “I consider beginning this one with such a companion the best omen for any journey I might undertake.”

Glorfindel’s laughter in response made his heavy heart seem a little lighter, the drizzle and the chill of the air forgotten for a moment.

Riding through Eregion would never not be sorrowful, Erestor thought, feeling the echo of memories stirring, quickening his blood with the sound of young elves laughing, of music being played that had adopted some distinctly Dwarven notes over the years – more so since Narví’s arrival – and the glad sound of hammers ringing in the distance of centuries past.

The holly copses and glades surrounding the path felt like welcoming old friends,

He shut away all memories of blood and screams, the smell of homes burning and the laughter of orcs; he had no wish to remember the last days of Eregion, though he knew his dreams would show him regardless, already dreading the crimson spread of his sister’s blood flowing warmly over his hands.

He chose instead to focus on the happiest days he had lived in these lands and preparing himself for the next stretch of the journey.

“You lived here, did you not?” Glorfindel blurted, a snippet of memory surfing the tides of his mind and spilling from his mouth without conscious command.

“I did.” Erestor’s voice was clipped and cool, his demeanour shifting into inapproachability swifter than the weather in the mountains and turned his profile hard, his mouth drawn into tight lines.

Pain, Glorfindel realised, cursing himself. That was pain on Erestor’s face and he felt guilty for painting it onto those sharp features, the rest of the memory coming to him in that moment.

It had been a long trip from Lothlórien, the land of the golden mallorn, to Lindon, and Glorfindel was unsurprised to see Elrond’s aide – for so he had known Erestor, then, even though he now thought that title little more than a smokescreen for his true purpose – waiting for the satchel of letters he bore. He had been surprised when Erestor opened the bag, snatching not at the letters from Galadriel – arguably the most interesting of the lot – but for one Glorfindel did not even remember putting into the bag, sealed by a holly leaf embossed on a star; the seal Lord Celebrimbor had designed for his personal use as the Lord of Eregion. Erestor’s fingers trembled when he tore the letter open, but when his eyes had finished darting across the sparse lines – it was written in letters unlike any Tengwar Glorfindel had seen, and he couldn’t read it upside-down – he smiled more brightly than Glorfindel had ever seen before. To him, a comparable stranger at the time – he still wouldn’t say he knew Erestor, even if more than a thousand years had passed since that day in Lindon – the smile had been marred by the tears in Erestor’s eyes though not dimmed, as though the news he had been brought were at once a source of grief and relief.

“News, Erestor?” Elrond had asked quietly, coming to a stop beside his friend and putting a hand lightly on his arm, fleeting comfort between friends.

Erestor nodded. “The Holly-Star,” he murmured, tracing the lines of the seal gently, “I have missed the sight of it.”

“You could wear it, still; I do not fool myself into thinking you have forgotten Eregion or the loyalty you gave her Lord,” Elrond replied gently, but he did not object when Erestor shook his head briefly, turning on his heel and walking away briskly, the letter still clenched in his fist. “Erestor was Lord Celebrimbor’s trusted friend and counsellor,” Elrond explained at Glorfindel’s questioning glance, “the loss of his Lord and his home pains him greatly.”

Looking at Erestor now, Glorfindel realised that the loss of the realm they would cross into in the morning still haunted his companion.

They did not speak much that evening, curled up beneath damp cloaks and listening to the droplets falling from the branches above their heads.

Glorfindel wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible to get to know someone as guarded as Erestor.

He did not yet know whether the attempt would be worth it, but his walking dreams seemed to centre on Erestor, replaying that bright smile of grief-mingled joy and turning it happier, trying to see what Erestor’s face would be like in the more joyful times to come.

He thought he would like to find out

“This is where we wait,” Erestor told him, coming to a sudden halt in a copse of trees that looked no different from the others dotting the land that had once belonged to Eregion – Glorfindel could feel the songs of his people running through the air and the ground, surrounding him with the feelings of peace and joy they had once felt here, before the Darkness had descended. He had not remarked on the feeling to Erestor, who seemed at once to tense and relax when they first crossed the borders of the land.

“Wait?” Glorfindel wondered, though he did not mind the pause. Beneath him, Asfaloth snorted lightly, stamping one hoof against the soft ground, wet with the drizzle that had soaked them for the better part of three days. Sheltering beneath the trees made little sense, as everyone was already wet through, but Glorfindel dismounted and led his horse under the branches anyway. He had already resigned himself to a damp and uncomfortable night – they had small tents, but the moisture hung heavy in the air and the constant drizzle meant no chance to dry out their gear. He had expected Erestor to complain – the Chief Counsellor was among the neatest of the Elves he knew in Rivendell, nary a hair out of place – but instead he had been the one biting back complaints as the humidity made his hair curl and frizz, while Erestor’s turned into a wetly gleaming sheet of black silk beneath his hood.

“Yes, Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor replied, seemingly ill-at-ease. “Wait.”

“And why, pray tell, are we waiting in this… wetness?” Glorfindel asked, trying not to be snide but probably failing; their people were largely unconcerned with cold, but it did not mean he enjoyed being clammy and chilled any more than one of the Edain.

“To be lead,” a new voice replied, laughing. Glorfindel whirled, his sword springing to hand as though it had a mind of its own, placing himself between Erestor and danger without conscious decision. He stared.

Blue eyes glittering with soft amusement met his gaze frankly. Her hair was light, a shining pale gleam in the low light; silvery-blonde, but different than Celebrían’s starlight hair. Finely pointed ears poked through a mass of braids, a few hanging loose to frame an oval face, the petal-pink lips stretched in a happy smile. She was dressed for travel, though the fur-trimmed clothes and her deep blue cloak were not decorated in the usual manner of elves; the swirling vines and leaves so common to ladies of their kind – for she was a Lady, he thought, dressed so richly – replaced with angular shapes and patterns creating a surprisingly pleasant if distinctly Dwarven whole.

Glorfindel boggled. The elf-maid – for she must be – was short, short enough he’d have called her a girl still, if not for the maturity in her eyes and body.

He did not see the elf move, but suddenly an ellon was standing in front of the Lady, longsword – wickedly keen edge managing to glint even in the low light – raised in ready defence. His stance proved him a capable fighter, Glorfindel thought, and then marvelled at the way the elf before him shared his companion’s Dwarven clothing.

“At ease, Captain!” Erestor snapped sharply behind him, his gloved hand landing heavily on Glorfindel’s arm and lowering his sword. Erestor stepped past him, hiding the sharp pinch he delivered to the inside of Glorfindel’s elbow and ignoring the light yelp he couldn’t quite hide in response.

The dark-haired ellon stepped aside easily, his grey eyes flashing a warning at Glorfindel.

“Erestor!” The strange elleth’s smile widened, her hands emerging from the indigo cloak to grip Erestor’s.

“My Lady,” Erestor bowed, pressing his lips to her gloved fingers. Glorfindel felt a flash of jealousy at the open smile on Erestor’s face; more relaxed than he had seen his companion since before they entered Eregion. “I am most pleased to see you.”

“As I am you, Ingolmo,” she replied, “you are late in your coming here.”

“We thought you lost,” the ellon teased, “if such a fate could ever befall you.”

“I see years of dwelling inside mountains has not curbed your tongue, sister-son of mine,” Erestor chided. Glorfindel’s jaw dropped. He had no idea Erestor had a sibling – let alone a nephew!

“In truth, I fear it has simply sharpened it,” the ellon replied, “but we are being impolite! Who is your companion?”

“Ah. My Lady, this is-” Erestor began, but the Lady spoke first:

“Lord Glorfindel of the House of Golden Flowers,” she said, “you are known to me through my Father, of course.”

“Allow me to introduce Princess Norindel,” Erestor offered quietly, “daughter of Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion.”

Glorfindel tried not to stare; she looked a bit like a Fëanorian, perhaps, the eyes, maybe, but he had never heard talk that Celebrimbor left behind issue, and surely someone would have mentioned that at one point or another during the centuries since his arrival on these shores.

And then Erestor continued his introduction and for the second time in two minutes, Glorfindel lost his jaw, staring at the strange elleth:

“And of Narví, Lady of Eregion and Princess of Khazad-dûm.”

The Dwarrow were reasonably polite, Glorfindel decided – he hadn’t had much to do with them in the War, though he had fought beside some throughout the centuries since his arrival and had cause to experience their valour first hand – even if they watched him with some suspicion.

Erestor, however, they seemed to consider a friend as far as he could tell, if his experiences with Eldar or Edain body language could be translated into the motions of these short stocky people who possessed far more hair than could reasonably be expected.

They had constructed an amazing underground city, however, he had to admit, walking through the vast spaces and colonnades their guide led them by, passing mithril waterfalls and gem mosaics of such skill and intricate beauty that Glorfindel was reminded of his home in Tirion and the murals his mother had commissioned for the walls there, great maps of the stars made from diamonds and precious gemstones.

The beauty and bright light obtained by the skill of Aulë’s Children in this stronghold did not, however, make him forget that there was a whole mountain over his head, and the longing for the sky made his enjoyment of the journey less.

Asfaloth seemed perfectly at home walking through the stone, and Glorfindel watched him with some envy, wishing that he shared his serenity.

“Your Lord Glorfindel does not say much,” Norindel remarked softly on the third day of travelling; they were almost at the central Palace of Durin, where they would be meeting the King himself, passing the letters and gifts Elrond had chosen to send along for his friend and neighbour.

“I believe Glorfindel to be pensive, my Lady,” Erestor replied, “not unappreciative. He has not seen the inner halls of the Dwarrowdelf before, of course, nor much Dwarven architecture I imagine…  – I remember, Norindel, when your Ammë first allowed our people to see the works done here, how awed we were at the skill of the ancestors of those who craft here now… and the Children of Aulë have not grown poorer in skill since those days.”

The Princess Norindel – she might not go by that name within the Mountains, but Erestor would always remember a small toddler begging for stories and tugging on his robes until he gave in, secretly spoiling the girl she had been with all the tales he could remember learning – grimaced slightly.

“It is my hope that this new Age will prove to be one of greater friendship between my peoples,” she said quietly, “though I admit that I fear that once Uncle Durin dies this time, the Longbeards will become even more reclusive within these fortresses of stone – the losses of the Great War weigh heavily, here, and pebbles are few.” She did not have to tell him that Glorfindel’s uncustomary silent appraisal of their home was less likely to endear the Eldar to the Dwarrow at large, but Erestor heard the words regardless.

“We shall be souls of courtesy,” Erestor promised, nodding solemnly, part of him wondering if he’d need to scold an actual Lord of Gondolin for his manners.

He did not look forward to that eventuality… much.

In the end Erestor’s worries were pointless; Glorfindel knew how to be charming and courteous to a fault. His unease at being beneath so much stone was slightly ameliorated by their short guide taking them up what he was informed was Durin’s Tower; a wonder of stonework crafted by her mother’s hands, in fact, which still threw him at times, realising that Fëanor’s grandson had married a Dwarf – and had a daughter by her, however that was even possible.

He’d have liked to know what the High Prince of the Noldor would have had to say about that – or Curufinwë, for that matter! – and the topic kept him entertained for more than an hour of walking up the stairs that were surely not made for Elven legs; the steps were too low for comfort but taking two was equally uncomfortable.

Glorfindel suffered in silence, amused by the deference Erestor showed this slip of an elleth, whose face reminded him more than a little of her grandmother, the venerable playwright Telperína; her hair might have come from that Telerin influence, too, though there were white-blond strands in the silver locks, which he had never seen in an elf. Her legs, too, seemed too long for the steps to be comfortable although surely not so much as her silent companion, the elf that Erestor called nephew – and that was another strange thing to be surprised about; Erestor had not struck him as a person with siblings. Their race had so many only children it was more surprising to learn that Erestor had had a sister than Glorfindel would have liked – it spoke ill of his ability to read his companion, which meant he should spend more time studying Erestor before they reached Umbar; going into battle with an unknown quantity beside you was a recipe for disaster. For a moment, he sorely missed Ecthelion, but then he was once more distracted by the silvery – not silvery like Lady Celebrían’s, though close – hair of Princess Norindel.

“They call it mithril hair,” she told him, catching him looking, “the gift of Zantunalkhul’s daughters.”

Glorfindel startled slightly; the lady had not spoken much to him beyond pleasantries.

“Zantunalkhul was Durin I’s wife,” she added, fingering one of the long braids that framed her face. “Her hair was said to be mithril and gold – I always pictured it rather like cousin Galadriel’s, in fact – passed her hair to her daughters and daughters’ daughters. The eldest daughter of a direct matrilineal descendant has mithril hair; if there are others they will be golden like my mother’s – her older sister died very young.”

“I wondered simply that you look much like your father’s mother,” Glorfindel replied, well-aware that he wouldn’t be able to claim he hadn’t been looking, still confused by the fact that he had never heard of Celebrimbor’s daughter – surely, such a child ought to be as well-known as the Peredhels? A Half-Dwarven Elf seemed far less likely than a Half-Mannish Elf, after al – Glorfindel did not think he had heard of a coupling like her parents’ even in the First Age. “Who was of Olwë’s kin.” He was not entirely certain how Telperína connected to the Telerin King’s House, but it hardly mattered.

“I have my mother’s nose, I think,” Princess Norindel replied, “but Atto used to say the same.” She smiled, then, and Glorfindel did not question how Curufinwë – whom he remembered as a solitary ellon absorbed in his work and too reverent of his mighty father – had fallen in love with his playwright.

He smiled back, almost without meaning to.

“Your mother who made these stairs?” he asked, managing to keep the word ‘interminable’ unvoiced through skills he had once honed in the Lords’ Councils of Gondolin and perfected in various councils of war since.

The sparkle of amusement in those blue eyes told him the Princess – he had realised that this must have been the one Erestor and Elrond had meant when they spoke of sending word of the journey – was in no way fooled by his bitten-off complaint. Turning her face upwards, following the stair case that wound around and into itself in a mass of stone that confused his eyes, she smirked, her eyes bright despite the gloom. Dwarven eyes somehow seemed to glow slightly in the darkness of their underground homes, and Norindel’s eyes shared that gift, reminding him of Pallando in human form with a slight shiver.

“These are the Endless Stairs,” she told him, eyes glittering in the low light as she reached out to run her fingers softly over the carving – the image might have made more sense to a Dwarf, but the craftsmanship was superb, “part of a gift from my mother to King Durin II – my uncle – upon his 200^th Name Day. It is carved with the history of my people from the Waking of the Seven Fathers – the Stairs are extended downwards with each opened mining level and carving it is a great honour among the Clan.”

“But we’re heading up,” Glorfindel said, suddenly experiencing a moment of vertigo and doubt; they had been climbing the steps for so long he’d half-forgotten ever doing anything else.

“Stairs go in either direction, my Lord,” she quipped, and Glorfindel had to smile at the way she perfectly copied Erestor’s tone, including the familiar tilt of the head that he was certain she must have picked up as a child in Eregion; it was clear to him that Erestor had been her teacher at one point, which was only natural now that he thought about it. “Far above us is the great Zirakzigil – Celebdil, in Sindarin – where Durin’s Tower was built to allow the King to look upon all of his realm from above.”

“We’re heading to this tower?” Glorfindel asked, trying to calculate how many steps they had already taken and how many could possibly be left. He did not like any of the estimates.

“You have been beneath the Stone for some days now, Lord Glorfindel – do you not long for the stars?” she returned teasingly, skipping ahead with a light laugh. “Don’t worry – the way down is far less arduous. Even for an Elf.”

Suddenly, as though her words had awakened something in his soul, Glorfindel felt a strong desire fill him, clamouring to look upon the cool light of Varda’s heavenly creation, to feel his fëa bathed in their glow.

Looking out across the Hithaeglir like this – a view not offered many Elves, Erestor knew, and only granted to them because of their Royal guide – was breath-taking. Leaning against the stone buttress, he felt the wind whip at him, howling around the tower as the stars shone calmly far above them, still so far though it felt like they ought to be closer, here, at what he believed to be the highest point of Middle Earth. The cloaks they had carried – Nurtalëon had quietly discouraged him from leaving the heavy garment behind with the horses that had been given into the care of a Dwarf who seemed to speak no language Erestor recognised, even though Norindel understood him perfectly. It was not Khuzdul as he knew it, bits and pieces picked up during trade negotiations – or Narví cursing at an uncooperative slab of marble, admittedly – but the dwarf whose hair had been gathered in a multitude of tiny braids and then clasped in an intricate pattern seemed friendly and knowledgeable enough about horses that Erestor did not worry overmuch for Yáressë’s wellbeing.

Erestor’s dark hair blowing in the wind, the stars whirling above him, the backdrop a collection of craggy snow-covered mountain peaks made Glorfindel’s fingers itch for charcoal and paper. The stairs they had traversed, wrapping around a massive central pillar carved with patterns he could have spent days studying had not held this level of fascination.

“You like him.”

Glorfindel was certain that his still limbs did not give away the sudden clarity of vision – Erestor’s hair wrapped around his fingers or spread out on pillows as he posed for Glorfindel’s canvas, holding one of his ever-present books negligently in one hand.

“He is a boon travelling companion,” he replied instead, turning his head to look at Princess Norindel, whose smile had grown knowing.

“Oh, yes, Erestor is very good at travelling…” Raising one eyebrow, she considered him keenly, something in her sapphire eyes softening slightly. “You will keep him from harm, Lord Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel found himself nodding before he had even decided to do so. Obeying the same tone of command that had once fallen from Turgon’s lips felt only natural, even if the request had not been one he would do his utmost to fulfil regardless, suddenly more than aware that his own heart was at stake in the answer.

“Upon my oath, Princess.” Bowing lightly, Glorfindel rose with a nod.

“No oaths,” she replied softly, “I will accept your promise, Lord Glorfindel, but I shall have no oaths sworn in my presence. In that, I am my Father’s daughter.”

“Then I promise to do my utmost to safeguard Erestor on our journeys,” Glorfindel said, and even if it was not an Oath, still it was in his mind as good as sworn. The Princess smiled, sadness lingering around the corners of her mouth, and nodded once.

“Thank you.”

“I did not know how to tell you of her,” Erestor confided shortly after they had descended the Endless Stairs – at once exhilarating and terrifying in a way that made Glorfindel both want to try the slides along the Stairs once more and forget they ever existed at all. “Most Elves believe she is a myth – some think she is an abomination, some sorcery of Fëanor’s devising, perhaps, or Dwarven witchcraft.” Erestor’s expression spoke eloquently of his assessment of the intelligence of anyone who thought such nonsense, which made Glorfindel want to smile despite the serious topic. “Her life was never easy; those of us who know, now, tend to guard her from afar, as my sister-son guards her from up close.”

“I would not have believed you if I had not seen,” Glorfindel admitted, feeling slightly sheepish, “but I see her kin in her – there is more Telerin than Noldorin, perhaps, and a good part of what must be Dwarven mannerisms and traits – but there is no doubt in my mind that she is Celebrimbor’s daughter… by a Dwarf.” Turning, he smiled at Erestor, amused by the slight worry his companion could not hide. “Is it not a wondrous world that such a union is possible? A Dwarf with an Elf – and a child to boot!”

“Wondrous, yes,” Erestor agreed, giving him a soft smile that made Glorfindel’s heart warm along with his cheeks.

The aging King Durin greeted them happily, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Princess Norindel whom he called Geira and pressing his forehead against hers in greeting. It was odd, Glorfindel thought, to see one of their kin embraced so wholly by the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm even if she was one of them. As they journeyed, he had noticed distinctly Dwarven traits in the Princess, even if she still looked mostly like a short elleth, her youth belied only by the age-old eyes in her fair face.

The ship Erestor had chosen left port on a drizzly autumn day. It was neither the largest nor the grandest of the ones in the harbour of Pelargir bound for Umbar, but he’d insisted and Glorfindel had not bothered to argue; his own sea-voyages could be counted on one hand, after all.

Glorfindel stood on deck, staring at the stone roofs of Pelargir growing smaller in the distance and tried not to remember the last time he’d been sailing, watching the familiar disappear in the horizon in order to once more serve his people. The Valar had been as kind as they knew how, he’d eventually decided, even if Glorfindel thought the jumble that was his mind in the first many years – centuries, for some parts – less than kind. He had been told that his memories would return, and although most of them had there were still gaps in the tapestry of his first life; he had learned to work around them, barely noticing the blank spaces most times, but he knew they were there.

“Are you well?” The voice asking the question belonged to Erestor, though the colour of his long-sleeved cloak made Glorfindel hear a different voice asking the same question, half-expecting to look upon the kind brown face and the unsettling golden eyes of Pallando’s chosen body – becoming a lady of Man based solely on descriptions from others had not gone quite as expected for Alatar’s friend. Alatar himself had fared slightly better in crafting his physical body; his eyes, at least, were not akin to gold and able to see the truth in the hearts of those who gazed into the swirling depths.

Shaking off the memory of his first sea-voyage, Glorfindel turned, offering Erestor a small smile, still not certain how much he should entrust to the self-proclaimed spy.

“A memory stirred, no more,” he replied softly. “Once, an old friend asked me that question as I gazed my last upon the shores of Aman… I was simply struck for a moment by the similarity in architecture the Men have achieved here – the Ship-Kings must have learned much from the Teleri, or from Círdan’s people…”

“To me it bears more marks of the airy but solid nobility of Lindon,” Erestor mused, “but if you wish to see Mannish forms of Telerin architecture, my Lord Glorfindel, I shall take you to the hamams of Umbar and show you the bathhouses… it is one custom I miss from my journeys in these lands; Imladris cannot match the experience… we lack the warm sulphurous springs.”

“Sulphur?” Glorfindel asked, staring confusedly at Erestor. “Men of Umbar bathe in waters that smell like putrefied eggs?!”

Erestor laughed, and for a moment Glorfindel felt his spirit soar in enjoyment, that rich voice sliding down his spine like tingles.

“Oh, now I am definitely going to take you to a bathhouse – consider it a part of your cultural exploration duties.” With a wink, Erestor walked away, still chuckling lightly. Glorfindel’s eyes followed him along the swaying deck of the ship until Erestor disappeared up the small set of stairs leading to the helm, then he caught himself and turned back to look at the dwindling port city, disappearing beyond view even to elven eyes.

“So, you’re his warrior, eh?” One of the sailors asked, nodding after Erestor and slinging a coil of rope over his shoulder.

Glorfindel flushed lightly.

“On my part,” he admitted softly.

The sailor gave him a commiserating grin. “I feel ya.”

Umbar was hot – hotter than he remembered, Erestor thought, but he always thought that whenever his tasks took him East and made sure to dress appropriately.

The long necklace was made from a waterfall of golden plates; each one etched with a mystical symbol or mark with significant meaning. Erestor, obviously, remembered what they symbolised, but to the Men around him they were mystical, marking him as ‘other’ – as a conjurer of magicks or a scholar of knowledge; the distinction between a hoarder of facts and stories and one of superstitions and ‘spells’ had never been made here. They called him ‘Sâpthan’ – wise man – in the Adûnaic tongue, and Erestor had learned more than enough simple remedies and colourful sagas to pass whichever way the title was meant.

The necklace, however, was not all; his fair skin would tan quickly, but his dress would be incomplete without the cape made of colourfully embroidered swathes of fabric, each one a reference to a tale of magic – not necessarily magic he had performed but certainly stories he could tell. The cloak had been made for him centuries before and Erestor had faithfully cared for it, learning the techniques used in the stitching so he could create a new version when necessary. The loose trousers hung low on his hip, revealing the small gem-studded bauble that decorated his bellybutton – at once emergency funds and a statement of both wealth and protection – the pattern-woven fabric made by a Haruze tribeswoman whose cow he had once cured.

The lines around his eyes had taken him some time to learn, but no Eastern traveller would be seen without; the glare of the harsh Sun was said to be eased by the cosmetic, and while Erestor had never discovered if there was actual truth to the claim, the kohl liner had become part of the way he presented himself in these lands, trying not to stand out any more than his pointed ears already made him.

The clothes and jewellery he had brought from Rivendell, securely stored in his bags, and when he stepped out of the room that Amihan had so kindly lent him for sleeping after their late arrival, Erestor looked very different to the Elf known as the Chief Councillor of Imladris.

“You look like a Sâpthan,” the little girl eating breakfast told him solemnly. “Ammê said she brought one, but Uncle Bagyo said they brought a Sun-Warrior.”

Erestor tried not to smile at her description of Glorfindel – had he not thought the same? – liking him to the legend of the warriors of Sun that had come from Ar-Pharazôn’s ranks.

“You need not fear,” he replied, “the Sun-Warrior belongs to me; he is here for my protection.”

The girl nodded, eating another spoonful of her food.

Erestor picked up a piece of melon, eating the juicy fruit with relish – he had not tasted such things for long years and felt slightly surprised by how much he missed the food only found in the East.

“You must be Huni,” he said, swallowing happily, “your Ammê spoke of you on our journey.” The Adûnaic words flowed easily off his tongue, remembered even though the look on her face told him his speech was dated – centuries out of date, to be exact – and Erestor made a plan to visit the marketplace, soaking up new accents and phrasings.

“Yes.” She tilted her head, “And you’re one of the Nimrî. Have you come to tell us stories or eat us?” The question was asked fearlessly, but her expression so resembled her mother’s fierceness that Erestor for a moment wondered where the girl’s blade was – if his answer was wrong, there would be retribution, he was sure, even if she could not be more than seven years of the Sun.

“I am a Nimrî Sâpthan,” he said, cutting another slice of melon, “I am here to listen to stories – and maybe tell a few of my own.” Giving her a smile when Huni nodded – a bargain struck, it seemed – Erestor felt amused by the girl’s bold frankness.

He had heard the stories of child-eating Nimrî luring unfortunate travellers into desolate places before, of course – a surprisingly persistent leftover of Sauron’s Cult of Morgoth in Númenor.

Suddenly, their task seemed that much more difficult.

Glorfindel had left the house early in the company of Bagyo intending to prove to Erestor– and himself – that he was capable of the necessary subterfuge required for their task. First port of call had been the marketplace, oddly quiet in the early hour, as though the space itself was waiting to be filled by the loud calls of the hawkers and merchants.

Bagyo, however, steered him towards a narrow side street, the windows of the houses on either side shuttered against the brightness of dawn and set too high for anyone to look in besides. Knocking on a finely carved door – a depiction of Uinen with some handmaidens, Glorfindel thought, based on the fish tails and the vast swathes of hair – Bagyo smiled sunnily at the person opening it, gaining admittance into the world of an Umbar clothes-maker, it seemed.

The air was slightly dusty, somehow muffled by the massive bolts of cloth in the small storage room they were led to by a silent servant. Glorfindel’s eyes adjusted to the gloom of the room, catching the deep gleam of finely dyed silk and quietly wondering at the different people Bagyo knew. This place hardly looked fit for the rowdy sailor whose usual garb seemed to consist of loose trousers and little more – aside from his carefully maintained weaponry, of course – but it seemed the elderly proprietor knew him well by the tone of his words and the warmth of their greeting.

Glorfindel didn’t understand a word.

Languages had never been his forte – Ecthelion had spent years trying to teach him Sindarin – and even since his return the fluidity of foreign tongues continued to elude him. He’d become used to Sindarin, though some phrasings and words still caught him off guard, changed as it was from when he had first learned, but he had never made a study of Adûnaic – if they even spoke Adûnaic here?

He ought to ask Erestor for at least basic lessons, Glorfindel decided, feeling a little warm at the thought of that – Erestor would have to sit close, his focus entirely on Glorfindel, and that voice patiently sounding out foreign words… Perhaps he’d be better off asking someone else, really.

“We need Glorfindel here to look a bit less foreign,” Bagyo told him, shifting back to the common tongue, he accent more notable now that Glorfindel had heard him speak the somewhat rougher sounds of Adûnaic. “Gonna be travelling with a Sâpthan, for protection.”

“A warrior, hmm?” the tailor replied, his voice dry as paper as he blinked myopically at Glorfindel. “He’s rather pale… you ought take him to the herbalist.”

With that less than flattering assessment, the old man turned around, walking with the aid of a cane towards the vast shelves of cloth.

“But I have…” Glorfindel did not know the word he used, but the deep red colour of the cloth he unrolled was magnificent, “…for warrior. Sun-hair.”

Bagyo grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the low light, the dark tattoos that spiralled over his chest and shoulder seeming almost alive when he moved to help the tailor pull the bolt from its stack.

Erestor stared, the bread-roll left forgotten on his plate while his dalandan bounced once on his thigh before rolling across the floor unheeded.

“What are you wearing?” he asked, flabbergasted when Glorfindel walked through the door. He looked like an Umbarian pirate, lacking the intricate story-telling tattoos of a true Eastern warrior, but the golden hue to his skin was enough to make Erestor swallow, his teeth watering.

The trousers hung low, revealing a light dusting of golden hair trailing down from Glorfindel’s navel, a sash of some kind tied around his hips in the style common to the warrior class of sailors from Umbar. The sleeveless shirt gaped below his breastbone, only loosely tied with a criss-crossing cord of leather. Glorfindel flexed, lifting one hand to run it through the loose strands of his wavy hair, not yet braided back in his usual manner.

“You said we would need to blend in!” he protested. “And Bagyo told me warriors here wear things like this – we visited a tailor by the marketplace!”

Erestor sighed, trying not to feel annoyed that Glorfindel had gone to Bagyo for advice rather than himself. He didn’t manage to quell the surge of jealousy, however, though it never appeared on his face, long centuries of schooling keeping his expression politely interested.

“You certainly look more ‘local’, I agree,” he replied mildly, storing the image of those well-shaped arms – would it be possible to introduce this style of shirt in Imladris? – in his mind for later perusal. “Hungry?”

The question was meant as a distraction, heading off Glorfindel’s annoyance before it became anger, and worked… perhaps a little too well, Erestor had to admit, watching the way the light fabric clung to Glorfindel’s backside when he bent to pick up the small round greens-skinned fruit the locals called dalandan that Erestor had dropped in his surprise.

“Famished,” Glorfindel admitted, aiming one of his heart-stopping smiles at Erestor, the kind he wished meant more than they really did. Then he noticed Huni who had finished her breakfast but remained to listen to one of Erestor’s tales of life in the far north, laughing at his humorous description of Elrond hunting rabbits. “and who is this?”

“This is Huni,” Erestor introduced, pouring a glass of fresh juice for Glorfindel so he wouldn’t have to look at that smile, “Captain Amihan’s daughter.”

“Where is our host?” Glorfindel wondered, attacking the dalandan with a small knife and managing to squirt some juice into his own face. He cursed loudly, biting off the word with a guilty glance at Huni’s small face and amended his expletive to something far more innocent than what he’d probably intended.

Erestor quirked a soft smile, the resultant brief flutter of his heart being entirely ignored in favour of rescuing the fruit, peeling the green skin away to reveal the tasty orange innards.

“Amihan’s kindly gone to sort out procurement of our mounts for our journey into the desert,” he offered, “she’ll be back shortly; we ought to return to the marketplace ourselves though, procure supplies and whatever else we might need.”

Wandering through the marketplace, Glorfindel noted the subtle signs of respect afforded Erestor, who looked surprisingly comfortable in his get-up, he colours reminiscent of his favourite robes – how did he know which were Erestor’s favourite robes? – even if the cloth was different and the embroidery far less cohesive – and yet strangely so – than any robes Erestor would have favoured in Imladris or Lindon before it. He wasn’t quite sure how comfortable he felt himself – the trousers only came to slightly below his knees and were made of such baggy fabric that air moved quite freely over his skin beneath the covering – even though the lack of sleeves felt quite freeing. The loose cut of the tunic also allowed for the slight breezes to cool him down, but Glorfindel felt quite under-armed, missing the weight of his broadsword. Erestor had made him leave it at home in favour of a pair of long-handled daggers of a sort that he recognised as the kind the Nandorin favoured; they seemed popular here, too, noting the intricately tooled hilts hanging at people’s sides. Erestor himself seemed unarmed, though Glorfindel had seen the small sheath strapped to his lower back, hidden by his trousers and cloak, but within easy reach. Hanging from one shoulder, Erestor carried a large sack, adding travel staples he bartered from the merchants using their incomprehensible tongue like he’d been born and raised to it.

Fingering the small pommel – dulled gold, edged with a band of leaping porpoises that Bagyo had explained as a custom of tribute to Ossë and Uinen that all Umbarian sailors followed, wearing porpoises for luck at sea – Glorfindel’s eyes rowed across the gathered throng of the busy marketplace. People of all descriptions mingled here; he even spotted one or two bearing the mark of Gondor’s new King. A cacophony of voices and strange dialects filled his ears, but in truth it was not so different to markets elsewhere, he thought, thinking back to strolling through Gondolin with Ecthelion complaining about his hangover all the way to their favourite food vendor. Erestor had gone over coinage and denominations with him over breakfast, and to prove himself helpful, Glorfindel stopped at a fruit stand managing to purchase some more of the tasty small fruits they’d eaten for breakfast, adding the small bag to his own sack after liberating one for eating.

“Want some?” he asked, poking Erestor, who shook his head, distracted by a gold-seller’s wares. Glorfindel shrugged, piercing the tough skin with a nail as he looked over the glittering display. Seeing Erestor’s bare chest decked out with the small gold plates of his necklace had distracted him all morning, watching those flat brown nipples peeking out through the gold when he shifted. Dropping the peel, Glorfindel bit into his fruit with a happy hum just as Erestor picked out another small rectangle, handing over a few coins and slipping the plate into his purse.

When Glorfindel choked, spitting out something with a violent curse, Erestor’s head snapped up, scanning their surroundings for danger as his heart hammered in his chest.

“What’s wrong?..Oh.” Looking down, he tried not to laugh, failing at the look of utter betrayal that Glorfindel shot the small round fruit he had dropped by Erestor’s foot. “Why did you buy calamansi fruits?” he wondered, chuckling as he watched Glorfindel hiss and spit. “Here, rinse.” Handing him a small skin of water, Erestor shook his head, soothing the agitated vendor with a joke that made him laugh at Glorfindel’s mistake and wave them off.

“They were nice this morning!” Glorfindel protested, glaring into his sack of fruit. “But now it’s horribly tart.”

“It’s… not the same fruit, Glorfindel,” Erestor said, still trying not to let his mirth take over – he had made that mistake once, too, after all – “this morning you ate dalandans – you’ve purchased calamansis – they’re similar, but …” Giving in to his laughter at the look on Glorfindel’s face, Erestor leaned against the nearest clay wall, staring at his red-faced companion and wondering if Glorfindel had ever looked more kissable. Eventually, Glorfindel began chuckling at himself, too, those blue eyes losing the stormy edge to lighten with amusement.

“Perhaps you’d better purchase things,” he laughed, leaning against the wall next to Erestor, the errant sunbeams catching in his hair making him look even more kissable. Lifting the skin, he took another long drag, washing the tartness out of his mouth with a please moan.

Erestor nodded, his throat dry and his heart beating quickly, watching a single droplet travel down Glorfindel’s neck, ending in the hollow of his collarbones, perfectly framed by the shirt that left more than enough room for someone to lick away that small bead of water.

Erestor groaned at himself, shifting against the wall.

This infatuation is only growing stronger. Valar help me.

Glorfindel forgot all charitable thoughts about the practicality of his new clothes when he saw the two… things… that the otherwise eminently sensible Amihan had purchased for their trip to Harad.

Feeling a strong sense of longing for Asfaloth, his mind travelled back to his beloved companion with ease – Asfaloth and Yáressë had been securely stabled in Minas Tirith – comparing the two.

The animal giving him a suspicious look from beneath its long lashes had four legs and a saddle – he believed it to be a saddle, at least – but that was as far as Glorfindel was willing to credit that the creature could be used as a ‘mount’. The rope harness it wore was tied to a small pole and the thing he believed was meant to be a saddle looked like a colourful blanket with handles of some type. Turning, he glanced at Erestor, but the other elf was no longer standing beside him. Instead, Erestor, with his dark hair unbound and his story-telling cloak, looked like he had been born to this part of the world, murmuring in a low voice to one of the beasts chewing placidly on whatever they ate as he rubbed its neck.

“What are they?” he asked, dropping his sack next to Erestors and moving cautiously closer to the long-necked tawny animal that huffed on his hair, the giant teeth showing for a moment in a grin.

“Camels, Glorfindel,” Erestor replied, ducking under the neck of one to inspect the other, running his fingers down each leg. “They’re a good way to travel in the desert – see the feet?”

Glorfindel looked down, suddenly fearing for his toes when the camel he had been petting shifted its weight.

“The toes splay slightly, giving it better grip on sandy dunes,” Erestor continued, turning back to Glorfindel’s camel and scratching its neck. The camel’s big brown eyes half closed, and Glorfindel could only envy the pleasure it must be to have Erestor’s clever fingers playing over your skin – even for a camel!

“And you mean for me to ride this… camel?” Glorfindel wondered, looking at the height of the saddle above ground and wondering how Men managed to swing themselves up there.

Erestor nodded, giving him an encouraging smile, and turned to pick up both their sacks.

“We’ll set off in the morning,” he called, pushing aside the bright piece of fabric that covered the doorway.

Glorfindel followed, exchanging one last suspicious glance with his so-called mount.

He missed his horse.

Spending the night under Varda’s stars with the person I am in love with should have been a pleasure, Erestor thought, lying in the darkness of night and listening to Glorfindel's soft breathing, pretending that he shared the warrior’s serenity.

It was anything but. Serenity seemed as far away as his bed in Imladris.

Firstly, he was in love with an oblivious idiot who had no idea what his golden smiles did to Erestor's poor heart.

Secondly, his oblivious idiot happily flirted with everyone he met, man, woman – even dumb beasts liked him!

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Glorfindel had shown no inclination in his direction whatsoever, cursing Erestor’s heart to pine for the warmth of those smiles until the Remaking; never did those ocean-blue eyes land on Erestor with that spark of genuine interest that drew people in like moths to a flame. Glorfindel burned bright and beautiful, and Erestor rather felt kinship with the moths in the analogy, drab and dull in comparison, no matter how brightly he was dressed.

Scoffing at his maudlin mental imagery, Erestor scolded himself harshly. Why should Glorfindel desire him? He was not much like the warrior's lovers back home, however infrequent Glorfindel’s dalliances might be. Erestor knew he was pleasing to the eye, but he was too still a water for a force of nature like Glorfindel to ever notice… let alone find him interesting as anything but a friendly companion.

He should forget this foolish desire… and yet it persisted, impurgable, in his heart, tormenting him with every smile aimed at another, every glance at that handsome face with its colours of wheat and gold only deepened by the Haradian Sun and made more vivid by the deep red colours of the clothes Glorfindel had purchased in Umbar, contrasting brightly with his own accustomed darker blues and purples.

He didn’t blame himself for falling for Glorfindel – there wasn’t even any point in blaming Glorfindel, who couldn’t help being his lovable idiot self any more than Erestor could help the stirrings of the heart he’d long believed unclaimable.

In a way, it was only fitting that the one who could claim it was the one person completely unreceptive to his flirty remarks and invitations.

Sighing at himself, Erestor stared into the starlit night without seeing the beauty of their surroundings as his bleak future loomed in the corner of his mind’s eye, an implacable storm-cloud growing larger by the hour as he fell deeper. Turning over on his side, his back towards Glorfindel, Erestor told himself to go to sleep or at least to wander into a dream more pleasant than the doomed yearning of his waking hours.

Darkness hides many sins, Glorfindel thought, pretending to be asleep so his clever companion would not suspect him of dreaming of anything untoward. This infatuation of his was becoming a problem – and not just because of the mishap that had resulted in him sharing a tent with the object of his affections – even if he had so far managed to hide any undue fondness from the sharp eyes and keen mind of Erestor, Master of Lore.

He was beginning to think that Erestor would remain uninterested, no matter what he did, no matter that Bagyo had sworn that he had acted contrary to that assessment when Glorfindel first employed their scheme of gauging Erestor's heart. Jealousy was a powerful motivator – had he not wanted to kill that man in Pelargir who had made Erestor laugh with his historical joke? – but apparently Erestor saw nothing in him worth claiming enough to take it for his own. He had tried to use his charms on Erestor himself, of course, but the other elf was harder to crack than granite, and Glorfindel’s luck with conversation seemed to be a miss more often than not, the small chuckles and smiles his jokes – far more historically accurate than any Man’s, ha! – elicited never followed by the deeper smiles or sweet glances he was used to seeing in someone who was interested in him.

Glorfindel was tired of flirting with everyone they met, his gregarious spirit almost exhausted by this charade of himself – and fending off the unwanted results of his… flirtations without alerting Erestor to the ruse was more hassle than he had ever expected.

Perhaps it was time to give up, to relegate the feeling of Erestor's delicate lips against his own to the realm of impossible dreams.

Of course, thinking about Erestor's mouth on his own only made the fire in his blood burn hotter, filling his loins with a sweet throbbing that no amount of palming would sate. His hand drifted down anyway, imagining lying beside an Erestor who wanted him with the same desperate desire, picturing kisses interspersed with moans, warm soft hands gripping his cock with surprising strength and deftness, or rutting against that perfectly taut arse, outlined in unforgettable perfection in his memory by dusty blue fabric as Erestor's mount overtook his own, letting Glorfindel stare without fear of being caught.

A horrendous sound shattered the calm of the evening.

Glorfindel shot up from his bedroll, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, one hand grasping at the hilt of his dagger.

The sound came again.

Beside him, Erestor groaned something unintelligible in Adûnaic and covered his eyes with his forearm.

“What…” Glorfindel managed, before the loud… he could pick a term for it, groan was somehow not strong enough for the sound that reminded him terrifyingly of a Balrog’s roars. Jumping to his feet, he reached uselessly for the comfort of his familiar sword, left wrapped in his sack of luggage and not on its stand beside his bed like at home, ever-ready for danger.

Erestor’s slender fingers, pale in the moonlight, wrapped around his forearm, the weight light but solid, grounding him in the present as the horrendous noise continued outside their small tent, only barely tall enough for him to stand up. Glorfindel needed air.

“Becalm yourself,” Erestor murmured soothingly, the heat of his body coming close, not quite near enough to touch, but enough that Glorfindel could feel the tiny hairs on his arm stand up. “There is little danger to us, Glorfindel.”

Ducking past him, heedless of the way Glorfindel’s hands reached for him, yearning to pull Erestor back behind him, back to safety, Erestor undid the knots keeping the tent closed. Stepping aside, his form no longer obscuring the starlit heavens, a rush of cool air filled the small tent, making Glorfindel suddenly aware of the cold sweat trickling down his back and chest.

Those fingers returned to clasp his wrist, tugging him outside. Glorfindel went, not even sure what he expected to see when he dared turn his head towards the source of the racket.

“Your camel…” Erestor explained dryly in the next lull, “is rather happily mating with mine…”

Glorfindel blushed.

When Glorfindel’s stance relaxed slightly – he still tensed at each mating groan from Abrazân – Erestor breathed more easily. He had not considered the possibility when he’d taken a male and a female camel along, but part of him thought it was really just his luck – or perhaps someone’s idea of a cosmic joke. Wry amusement filled him, squeezing Glorfindel’s wrist gently and feeling his pulse slow beneath the pads of his fingers.

“That sound…” Glorfindel shuddered, the muscles beneath Erestor’s fingers tensing for a moment as another bleated groan shattered the night’s peace, the grunts of both Abrazân and Bêlbatân continuing unfazed by their audience. “I…”

“I know…” Erestor replied, though the memory was much less potent for him, the passage of time having dulled the terror of the boy he had been, clinging to his sisters back as they fled the burning city of Turgon to the accompaniment of roars much like the groans he now heard – though the Balrogs had been underscored by sinister glee, crackling flames, and the screams of the dying. Erestor shuddered once, not even aware that he had moved his hand until Glorfindel’s fingers squeezed around his.

“How… err…. How long will they…” Glorfindel tried, staring with disgusted fascination at the reams of slobber hanging from Abrazân’s mouth.

“Some time, yet,” Erestor admitted, letting go of Glorfindel’s hand with equal parts regret and relief, feeling his heart speed up for an entirely different reason.

“I think I’ll… patrol the perimeter,” Glorfindel said quietly, snatching up his sword and leaving Erestor to stare sadly after him, wondering if he should follow, but feeling rooted to the cool sand beneath his shoes.

When he was done cursing himself for a fool, thinking Erestor’s comforting touch meant more than it did, Glorfindel had not heard any more mating noises for a while; the peace of their desert camp was restored, a few sleepy grunts all the reaction his return caused in their mounts.

Glorfindel stopped dead.

The tent, light enough to be airy, but large enough for two and close-woven enough to keep the biting chill of the desert night from its occupants, had been lit from within by a single lamp.

That was not what arrested Glorfindel’s thoughts and drew his mind to a grinding halt as it froze his feet to the ground.

It was the silhouette visible against the backdrop of light.

Erestor, obviously, had lit the lamp to light his way back in case he got lost, part of Glorfindel’s mind rationalised, but that voice was small and easily drowned by the vision before him.

Erestor was naked, or near enough it made little difference to his shadow, the outlines of his form shifting with the candle flame but clear to see for Glorfindel’s sharp eyes.

One arm stretched behind him, keeping his balance where he sat on his bedroll. The other… the motion was mesmerising, moving steadily, strokes fluid and unhurried, running along what appeared to be a well-shaped cock in intimately familiar ways.

Up, down…up…down.

Pleasuring himself, Erestor’s head fell back, and Glorfindel could picture him so clearly, face relaxed, mouth a little slack with lust and that hand, those fine long fingers playing over blood-engorged flesh, gleaming slickly in the candlelight.

Glorfindel wondered if he would be able to see that, if he could creep back to the tent just for a glance, storing such an image away for later perusal no matter that it would only increase his lust for the prickly chief councillor.

But perhaps…. Perhaps he would be allowed to… join in?

Taking another step, mouth dry, Glorfindel stared at the image outlined in light on the fabric, Erestor’s hand increasing its speed slowly.

A small dry twig cracked beneath his foot.

Glorfindel cursed.

Erestor froze, his speedy hands changing their purpose in an instant that made the warrior want to weep at his ill-luck.

“Glorfindel?” Erestor called, his head poking out of the tent. “Oh, there you are,” he said, voice perfectly level and giving away nothing of what he had just been doing. “Good. There’s still some time before sun-rise if you want a little more sleep.”

Glorfindel nodded, moving dumbly into the tent and lying down on his bedroll, turning his back on Erestor and cursing himself a fool thrice over. Behind him, Erestor murmured something, closing the tent flap and returning to his own bedroll.

Glorfindel’s groin throbbed painfully, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart, visions of Erestor dancing before his eyes and following him into dreams when he determinedly went to sleep, trying to forget no matter how impossible; he knew that the thing he had called infatuation had bloomed into something so much deeper.

So much more painful.

The morning dawned brightly, and with only a touch of lingering awkwardness between them. Erestor once more seemed entirely oblivious and Glorfindel did his best to be his usual sunny self in the face of his torn heart as they packed up camp, loading up the camels who seemed no worse for wear after the night’s exertions.

Their destinations that day was a small oasis drawn on Erestor’s map where they might be able to find one of the more powerful of the many nomadic Haruze tribes; the Chieftain of Nas Krassat – the People of the Red One – functioned as the de facto ruler of most of the Haruze. Erestor had explained that the Nas Krassat would be the most important voice to hear – if a war against the North loomed, the Nas Krassat would either be a large part of it or know more than anyone in Umbar. If Nas Krassat’s Chief wanted peace with the northern neighbours – the Haruze territories stretched all the way to the Poros Crossing – there would be peace.

The trouble was finding one tribe in an area larger than Beleriand with only a vague notion of where he might be; the nomadic tribes had some travelling routes through the desert, but they shifted with the sandy dunes and the seasons. They had got an outline of a route from a trader in Umbar but Nas Krassat might be found anywhere between Umbar and Khand, as far as Glorfindel had understood.

Erestor did not plan to go as far as Khand if they could help it, but his maps stretched all the way to the Orocarni Mountains, home of the Stiffbeard and Blackfist Clans of Dwarrow.

They rode in silence, Glorfindel trying at once to put the images of last night out of his mind and cling to them with all his might for fear they might disappear like morning dew if he did not work to keep the memory.

His attention remained mostly on himself and his thoughts, and so it was Erestor who pointed to the horizon where a small dust-cloud could be seen.

“Nomads,” he said, squinting against the bright sunlight, the dark lines of kohl around his eyes making them look sharper than usual. The lean camels the strangers rode were decorated with stripes of paint and colourful woven saddles in bright oranges and red hues. “Haruze by the fabric. A raiding party – if my information is correct they’re Nas Krassat…” he trailed off.

“Is that good or bad?” Glorfindel wondered, trying to keep the tribal customs straight in his head. The scarcity of water made the scattered oases almost sacred; attacking someone there was bad form of the highest order… but they were not at any oasis, simply a pair of travellers stumbled upon by a band of well-armed warriors. Some of the stories of the mercurial tempers of the desert dwellers that Bagyo had regaled him with during the crossing from Pelargir, holed up in his cabin and pretending to be in the throes of lovemaking, had made his blood run cold and he felt the chill return now, looking at the riding party who were effortlessly familiar with their mounts in a way he envied greatly. He and Erestor were dressed in an Umbarian style more than any of the tribes of Harad, so they shouldn’t provoke hostilities through trying to pass as something they were even less than they were Umbarians, he knew, but Erestor’s drawn expression did not bode well.

Glorfindel loosened his dagger in its scabbard, a soft command making Abrazân come to a halt next to Bêlbatân.

“Depends,” Erestor sighed warily, glancing at him, “they might just be a raiding party, but it is too large, and I can see more women among them than I’d expect for such… We are travelling in their territory, which would not normally be a problem except I cannot see their shaman – their spiritual guide or healer.”

“So? They don’t look sick,” Glorfindel replied, looking over the impressive array of gleaming weaponry that the nomads carried with some envy.

“No… but I am dressed like a Sapthân,” Erestor murmured, “and desert customs allow them to take me from my tribe in times of need…”

Glorfindel’s hand tightened on the hilt of his long knife.

“No.” He stated flatly. Erestor’s fingers landed lightly on his clenched fist.

“It may not come to that. As it stands, we must be gracious and attempt to avoid bloodshed. See what we might learn from them; you know how important their chieftain is.”

The fingers disappeared, but Glorfindel did not feel any more reassured by the welcoming smile on Erestor’s face or the cheerful way he hailed the front rider.

Glorfindel was right to worry, Erestor thought wryly, watching him sit across the fire in the company of two women who spoke a broken dialect of Westron, and cursing himself that he had not been more diligent in teaching Glorfindel the local tongue beyond a word of Adûnaic here or there.

The reason for his disquiet leaned in closer, one hand resting on Erestor’s thigh – still a few inches from inappropriate, but less so from being possessive – and handed him the skin of the local alcoholic drink – a mixture of camel milk and fruit left to ferment – giving Erestor a bright smile that did not hide the avaricious glint in his eyes.

For the first time in his travels in the East, Erestor regretted adopting the guise of a Sapthân. Usually a protective identity, worthy of respect and admiration among these people whose histories were rarely written down, he now cursed his luck.

He had been right that the tribe was a healer short, but he had not really thought that they’d try to take him instead.

He had been wrong, even if what was essentially a kidnapping was being disguised as a marriage proposal by the chief of the tribe, whose gold jewellery showed him to be a wealthy man by the standards of the desert – and cunning enough to keep his position even though he was older than most of his warriors by now.

“I cannot wed you,” Erestor tried, nodding towards Glorfindel who seemed deep in conversation with an admittedly beautiful woman. “I am already wed.” He thought he managed to keep the longing from his voice at the falsehood spilling from his lips, but the man’s grin only deepened.

Erestor had never before wished that he had studied ósanwë, but the gap in his education was screaming at him now, trying to make Glorfindel look at him and smile one of those stupid smiles that made Erestor’s heart flutter at him.

It did not work.

“Clearly, he does not appreciate what he has,” Chief Behnam told him, and Erestor did his best not to nod in agreement at that, “for you…” The hand crept a little higher on Erestor’s leg, running back down to his knee and then returned even bolder as Behnam breathed softly into his ear, “I shall challenge him.”

Erestor shivered.

Picking up a gold-hilted dagger, Behnam threw it with terrible precision, the blade sticking into the dry ground right between Glorfindel’s feet.

Erestor jumped up, but his warning came too late; Glorfindel picked up the ornate weapon, looking at the Chieftain.

Behnam smiled, the roar of laughter from his warriors making Erestor’s blood chill.

“Come with me!” he hissed, catching Glorfindel’s arm and towing him away, heart hammering wildly. He was not so much afraid of Glorfindel losing – he was not thought the greatest warrior of Elf-kind unfairly, after all – as he was of what might happen if he won.

“Erestor?” Glorfindel asked, almost running to keep up, “Erestor! What’s going on?”

“You have been challenged to a duel,” Erestor hissed, striding towards their tethered camels, “for me.”

“…What?”

Whirling, Erestor glared at Glorfindel, suddenly filled with anger.

“Behnam – the Chieftain – wants to marry me, and he’s challenged you for the right!” he hissed, pulling at the straps on Glorfindel’s sack.

“He – but why?” Glorfindel hissed back, and Erestor felt a keen sting pierce his heart at the incredulity of his tone.

“Because I could replace his late Sapthân – and because he finds me pleasing to the eye,” Erestor grumbled, yanking the sack down.

“But you can’t marry him!” Glorfindel exclaimed. “You’re…” he didn’t finish the sentence. Erestor whirled on him.

“I don’t want to!” he yelled.

“And why is he challenging me?” Glorfindel asked, catching Erestor’s shaking hands and undoing the straps himself.

“Because…” Erestor’s cheeks flamed, “Because I told him I was already wed… to you.” Glorfindel’s jaw dropped, a look of such disbelief in his eyes that Erestor had to turn away, hiding his face against Abrazân’s neck for a moment. “Behnam is a powerful leader and he has challenged you to a duel – and you were stupid enough to accept! – a duel to the death!”

“I don’t plan on dying, Erestor,” Glorfindel said, his warm hand landing on Erestor’s shoulder and pulling him back towards him.

“I know,” he whispered, “but if you kill him… the rest of them are allowed to challenge you and – Glorfindel it would be murder! – we could start a war; for all they know, we hail from Umbar, even if you look like a Northman.” His heart hammering loudly in his throat, Erestor stared at Glorfindel’s dear face, trying not to picture it slack in death, or his golden skin rent and bleeding. “I should just…” He looked back towards the fire, where chieftain Benham was being prepared by two of his warriors – most likely his sons, Erestor knew, swallowing hard.

“Erestor…” Glorfindel said, and his name had never sounded quite like that, soft and sweet. “I can’t let them steal you – not even to avoid a war; there must be a way around this.”

“The challenge was made,” Erestor replied numbly, “and you accepted its terms whether you knew it or not – that type of blade only has one purpose… death.”

“I won’t let it come to war, Erestor, I promise,” Glorfindel murmured gently, one hand rising to squeeze Erestor’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Behnam was naked from the waist up, aside from a massive golden arm-ring and the gemstone stud in his nose and eyebrow. The dagger had been picked up, and the keen edge flashed menacingly in the light of the torches that marked the fighting circle, surrounded by tribesmen looking on with obvious delight that Erestor could not share. They had come here to assure peace… and now it looked to him as though they would be the ones starting the war.

“You should be proud,” a woman told him, eyes gleaming with pride, “Behnam does not challenge lightly.”

Erestor nodded dumbly. If this had been a century or two ago, he would have been proud – although he would have felt little guilt for skipping out on the winner – but now he felt only dread. Trying to convince himself it was not fear of watching Glorfindel be hurt rather than fear of instigating a war proved futile, and part of him was worried by the anxiety his face could not hide; he had never had trouble portraying emotions he did not feel nor masking the ones he did… before.

“It will be good to have a Sapthân again,” his companion confided, “I do hope you have a flair for medicine…”

“Your former Sapthân did not train an apprentice?” Erestor asked, frowning. Life in the desert was hard even under the best of circumstances and a tribal Sapthân without one or two apprentices seemed almost impossible to him.

“He trained several… they all died treating agannâlu,” she offered sadly, one hand wrapping around the small golden token hanging around her neck. “And now Arash has it…”

“Death-shadow?” He had heard whispers of a black cloud in Umbar, but no more than hushed whispers of dread; in truth, Erestor had believed it to be the cloud of dark dust and ash that the destruction of the battlements of Barad-dûr had caused.

“Agannâlu came from the North, from Dôlguzâyan… bringing sickness with it. You can live with the Black Cloud in your lungs for some time, turning the skin to ash and blood to fire… but Zigûrun’s revenge will kill.”

Poison, Erestor thought, Sauron’s revenge…

He shivered.

Wishing for Elrond’s calm competency – healing was a skill he had learned but never his true passion; devising curative measures for a poison of the blood and lungs seemed slightly beyond his skills – Erestor’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud cry of attack, turning his attention away from the woman in an instant.

Behnam opened, his dagger describing a deadly arc that Glorfindel dodged with ease, the fluid moves Erestor had admired when he sparred with a sword evident even with the shorter blade. He was a study of light and shadow, burnished golden by the sun and lit by the shifting hues of fire as he danced around his opponent. If the stakes had been less grave, Erestor would have enjoyed watching the display of skill, the glistening muscles tensing and releasing with every graceful move.

Part of him felt entranced by the way the glow of the fire turned Glorfindel’s golden hair into reddish hues of flame, and part of him felt curiously liberated by the experience – for once he did not feel a need to hide the naked admiration he felt from anyone watching.

The fighters were well-matched, though Erestor thought Glorfindel was holding back – Behnam obviously believed the same, pressing his luck – but perhaps that was part of his plan?

Heart thudding loudly in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears drowning out the cheers and chatter around him, Erestor watched the ellon he loved fight for him. Telling himself that Glorfindel did not mean the words he spoke – he would not claim Erestor’s heart, not so fervently that it sounded almost truthful, for his own – was as futile as pretending he did not fear him getting hurt.

The dagger was probably not poisoned – the Nas Krassat considered poison a coward’s weapon – but the blade had been honed to exquisite sharpness. Another quick move from Behnam – for his age, he was surprisingly agile – and Erestor gasped loudly, the crowd around them erupting in cheers.

First blood.

Glorfindel growled, the dagger in his hand moving with deadly precision as he feinted right. The cut on his cheekbone was his own stupidity, underestimating the Man’s skill with his chosen weapon, but the warm blood trickling down his face did not distract him, even though the metallic taste in his mouth made him want to gag.

The duel was more like a dance – Chieftain Behnam was obviously skilled and fought with something approaching desperation that made Glorfindel wary – even though each step had deadly potential. Dodging a swing, Glorfindel sidestepped, but Behnam’s blade came around to parry his counterstrike almost as if that move was expected.

Any other time, Glorfindel would have appreciated the chance to learn from such a master, but now his heart was filled with dread rather than admiration, picturing Erestor’s slender body wrapped around Behnam’s in a twisted version of the view that had plagued his dreams since leaving Khazad-dûm.

“He is mine,” Glorfindel said quietly, utter surety filling his soul, “and you will not take him from me.”

It ended, predictably, in Glorfindel standing victorious, his hair in disarray and sweat beading on his skin, drawing back his blade just before he would have taken Behnam’s life. Erestor’s warnings managed to drown out the rush of blood in his head, managed to stop his arm short of the man’s throat. They did not stop him hissing one final threat, however:

“Mine.”

Staring into those dark eyes, Glorfindel felt viciously satisfied by his victory – until the sound of his own heart disappeared from his ears to reveal deadly quiet.

“They are waiting,” Erestor said softly, something in his voice making Glorfindel look at him, that dear face a mask of misery as he looked between Behnam and the blade. Glorfindel did not understand, feeling his own heart sink in response. “Will you claim his life?”

“Of course not!” Glorfindel replied hotly, drawing back his blade and offering Behnam his other hand. He had no wish to kill the Man – despite the part of him that revelled in this public display of his claim on Erestor – unless Behnam forced his hand. “So long as he does not claim you,” he added, staring down at Behnam.

The Man took it, getting to his feet slowly, warily, while his people looked on. One of the women broke rank, flying to Behnam’s side, her hands running over his body as she babbled something Glorfindel neither understood, nor cared about, lost in staring at Erestor.

He did not like the sad tinge to Erestor’s smile. He liked his next words even less, spoken in Quenya with a lilt he had not heard since the Fall. For a moment, he was reminded of Ecthelion’s bright smiles and silver flutes, and then Erestor’s words truly registered.

“I shall go with them.”

“What?!”

Erestor winced, walking towards him, wrapping his hand around Glorfindel’s wrist.

“I am going with them,” he repeated, “please. They… I know why they wanted – needed – me – and we- we must – Glorfindel, we have to help…”

“What?” Catching Erestor by the arms, Glorfindel shook him gently.

“It’s… Glorfindel there’s a sickness here,” Erestor said, the horrifying conclusion spilling forth without thought to his usual eloquence, “like some of our peoples got… when the tower fell, the dust, Glorfindel – it spread here!” Those cool eyes were unusually wild, something like guilt hiding in the silvery swirl of stars.

Glorfindel’s blood ran cold. “And no one… why did Elrond not know this?” he asked softly. “We found cures for the sickness of the black cloud…”

“Why would they have told us?” Erestor asked, his voice so terribly sad it broke Glorfindel’s heart. “We cared… so little for the people living here; why should they ask us for aid when what they know of us is… to the people closest to Mordor, elves are akin to orcs – brutal savage creatures set on a bloody path of destruction – Huni asked me if we were there to eat her because that’s what her great grandmother told her.”

Glorfindel reared back, incredulity stark on his face until it mingled with offense and anger.

“I am no orc!” he said. “We’ll need… does athelas even grow here?” Glorfindel frowned. He did not remember seeing the small plant in the wild since they left the banks of the Anduin behind.

“A-telas?” Behnam asked, making Glorfindel remember their audience with a slight start. Sheepishly, he let go of Erestor, nodding at the man. Erestor spoke to him, words Glorfindel did not truly understand, though the look on the man’s face when he mentioned the word Agannâlu made it quite clear what that meant. Grasping Erestor’s hand, the chieftain asked something that Glorfindel did not need to comprehend to understand.

Hope.

“We- I have to- have to try, Glorfindel,” Erestor babbled, his grey eyes begging for understanding and support. Glorfindel thought he had never wanted to kiss him more. He stood there, frozen in a silent moment of desire as Erestor’s words continued to spill from those inviting lips. “There must be athelas – at least south of Umbar, in the jungles – or we could harvest it in Gondor and send it here, but Glorfindel I can’t- can’t do nothing.”

“Of course, you can’t,” Glorfindel sighed, lifting one hand to cup Erestor’s face and smiling gently at him. “What do you need me to do?”

“If… can you find your way back to Umbar?” Erestor wondered. Glorfindel tried not to be swept away by the flood of longing he felt when Erestor leaned into his touch. “If we could get Amihan or some of the other captains to send word to Gondor, we could obtain supplies there; it would be swifter than going over land, I think…”

“No.” Every part of him spoke as one, vehement denial passing the guard of his teeth as his heart hammered in his chest. Glorfindel was reasonably certain that Erestor would not be harmed – and well aware that the Loremaster could defend himself if necessary. However, while he probably could have found his way back to Umbar with little difficulty – navigation by the stars was something he had long-since learned – he would not leave Erestor alone.

Who knew if Behnam would swoop down with another offer of marriage if he wasn’t around?

“I’m not leaving you,” he added, heart pounding harder in his chest at the thought, a small sliver of hope lighting his heart at the soft look crossing Erestor’s face in response.

“And you think this King will help the Haruze?” Behnam asked.

Erestor nodded. That was his hope, certainly, though he had also ensured that word of the plight of the South would reach Elrond’s ears; Isildur’s heir would be more likely to listen to the counsel of the Master of Imladris than taking the word of a sea-captain of Umbar even though he had every faith that Amihan would be able to obtain enough of the medicinal herb to tide them over – agannâlu worked slowly, insidiously poisoning the system until its victims were left gasping for breath, slowly drowning in a pool of their own blood seeping into their lungs.

“I do,” he said. “The North-King will be pleased to aid you in combating this remnant of our common foe.”

Behnam chuckled. “You remind me of the Lady Azarpari,” he murmured, shaking his head softly.

Erestor shrugged, turning his head to glance at Glorfindel, still a little insecure sitting on Bêlbatân. His smile was perhaps fonder than he’d have allowed himself even three days earlier, but Erestor did not much care, the memory of those warm hands wrapped around his arms enough to make his heart speed up, wanting more.

The Chieftain’s gaze still held some desire when he looked at Erestor, but it was not so desperate as it had been that first night; they had ridden with the warriors of Nas Krassat for two days now, travelling towards the oasis where the rest of the tribe was encamped – including Behnam’s only surviving heir, Arash, whose life was being slowly drained by the illness they called Agannâlu.

“You know, I did not believe you when you claimed to be married, Sapthân,” Chieftain Behnam said softly. “The Sun-warrior did not act with you as a man should his spouse…”

Erestor already knew he would have to be careful about maintaining their cover story; he had no interest in being tied to the tribe beyond helping them with the current situation and attempt to forge a lasting peace in the process. Fortunately, Glorfindel seemed amenable to the ruse, staying close by Erestor most of the time and making his foolish heart believe that he ought to hope to continue their ploy later – perhaps Glorfindel could be seduced into his bed, giving him a few fond memories to warm him once they inevitably returned to their real lives in Imladris where Glorfindel barely knew he existed.

“But he would not have fought so viciously,” Behnam added softly, “for one who did not hold his heart-” Erestor spluttered, but Behnam continued unfazed, “nor held you so tenderly.”

Glancing at Glorfindel, who was riding close though seemed absorbed in speaking with the woman he had talked to the first night before Behnam’s challenge, the setting sun making the gold in his hair blaze, Erestor felt his heart squeeze with longing at the memory of Glorfindel’s strong hands wrapped around his arms.

Erestor did not try to pretend that he would be able to go back to his former admiration from afar, not now that he knew what a passionate heart and quick mind lay beneath Glorfindel’s golden looks.

He wasn’t that skilled at deception or delusion.

Glorfindel was not at all aware that he was the topic of discussion among most of the outriders; some of the more hot-headed warriors still felt doing away with this Sun-Warrior would be their best option, claiming the Sapthân for their own, but the larger contingent of fighters agreed that he had won fairly and showed mercy beyond what anyone might have expected when he spared Behnam. Instead, they said, they ought to work on making both of them part of the tribe; clearly the Sapthân would not stay without his husband, nor look kindly upon those who brought about his death.

No warrior wanted the kind of curse an angry Nimrî Sapthân might call upon him, after all.

“How will you treat Agannâlu?” the woman who had been introduced as Himig asked, glancing past Glorfindel to Erestor, the wild hope his promise of aid had kindled burning as brightly as it had the night of the duel.

“In the North, we have a plant,” Glorfindel explained, glad that she stuck to familiar Westron – Erestor had taught him basic phrases in Adûnaic, but the Common Tongue here was an amalgamation of many languages, much like Westron itself, really, and still eluded his grasp. “We call it Athelas, the herb of Kings, and it is used in many medicines treating the wounds inflicted by the Darkness…”

“Hari halaman?” she asked, tasting the word – Glorfindel assumed it to be a translation of the name into her tongue; his descriptions of the plant had produced no recognition among any of the outriders. “We need this herb for Arash?”

“This is what Erestor believes,” Glorfindel replied, infusing his words with all the reassurance he could muster, “he sent your rider… Talim? – off to bring word of our need north.” Himig nodded, her smile bright with hope. “Hopefully he will find the herb we need in Umbar – they work better when they’re fresh – and people there can bring word to the King of Gondor to send some plants south.”

The colourful tents set up by the oasis seemed too cheerful in the brightness of the sunlight for the feeling the people moving about their daily lives exuded, Erestor thought, coming up over the final dune. Glorfindel’s camel shook his head, calling a greeting to the animals corralled below.

“Si loth a galadh lasto dîn,” Glorfindel murmured, echoing his thoughts.

“Then let us bring them hope of joyful singing,” Erestor replied softly.

The young man – old enough to go to war, by Erestor’s reckoning, though perhaps only old enough to have fathered one child – looked frail but smiled when they entered the large tent.

“I have found you a Sapthân,” Behnam rumbled, but the bed-ridden Arash paid him little attention, eyes only for Himig, tilting his head up to accept her kiss.

“He is her man,” Erestor mumbled beneath his breath, moving closer to the bed. He was not surprised by the confirmation – the way she had spoken Arash’s name before the duel began he had known she was more than simply fond of the sick man.

“A Nimrî?” Arash breathed, clutching Himig’s hand as he stared at Erestor and Glorfindel.

“Not the evil kind, Arash.” Behnam soothed, one large hand landing proprietarily on Erestor’s shoulder. Glorfindel glared at the back of his head. “This one is a Sapthân – he says he knows a cure for agannâlu from the North-Lands.”

“The Nimrî are masters of herbs and medicines,” Erestor offered gently, “I have sent for the things we need to treat you, but there are things I can do while we wait… if you will allow it?”

Arash looked past him to Behnam, who nodded brusquely once, squaring his arms over his chest. Arash nodded back, giving Erestor a wry glance, dark eyes sparkling with humour despite the pain written across his face.

“As you please, Sapthân,” he sighed, squeezing Himig’s hand. The dark-haired woman’s eyes blazed fiercely, but she surrendered her spot beside Arash to allow Erestor to begin his work with a hard nod, retreating to the far side of the tent. Behnam took a seat beside her, both of them keenly following each procedure as Erestor began examining his patient, stopping once to let Arash cough up a measure of black gunk.

“What are you thinking?” Glorfindel asked later, standing by the edge of the pool where Erestor had come to a halt, staring blindly across the water at the setting sun.

“Arash is not the only sufferer, just the highest ranked,” Erestor revealed, his voice quiet and sad. “His illness came slowly – he did not breathe in so much of the dust as some; their old Sapthân died less than a year after the tower fell. His apprentices not too long after.”

“I did not spend much time in the Halls of Healing after the war, but these people must have lived with the dust in their lungs for much longer than any of our warriors…” Glorfindel wondered, moving closer a little closer, yearning to reach for Erestor, to soften that painfully straight spine with comfort and love. “Is there hope? Can you save him?”

Erestor sighed heavily.

“If I had the gardens of Imladris – or even Minas Tirith! – to hand, it would be easy…” he replied, one hand clenched around one of the small golden tokens of his necklace. “As it is, I cannot do much more than attempt to alleviate the pain… he might die before the athelas arrives!” Angrily, he kicked a small stone into the water. “I feel useless.”

Glorfindel reached for him, tugging on his wrist to make him turn around. He was surprised to see the sheen of tears in those grey-blue eyes, though he was even more surprised by how willingly Erestor flowed into his arms, accepting the comforting embrace that Glorfindel wished would never end. The light scent of jasmines seemed to cling to Erestor’s hair, making him think of that seemingly long ago afternoon in Amihan’s garden where he had spotted Erestor making a crown of the flowers while telling a tale to little Huni. The memory filled his heart with softness, mingling with the desire he always felt at Erestor’s closeness. Glorfindel sighed at himself. So much bravery was ascribed to him and yet he was too afraid to offer his heart to the one who had stirred it to such feeling as he’d only imagined experiencing listening to the minstrels of Turgon’s halls.

“Hey,” Glorfindel murmured, using one hand to tilt Erestor’s face up, lost for a moment in those eyes, lined with dark kohl and seeming brighter than the stars to him. “This disease was not your doing,” he added softly, “and I know you will do your best to help them.”

“You know,” Glorfindel sighed, “I am not sure Himig was wrong to call this Sauron’s revenge… but we beat him once – we’ll do it again.” Standing here, the soft flowery scent of Erestor’s hair oil filling his nose, Glorfindel believed his own words.

Erestor’s low chuckle was tired and worn but it was amusement and Glorfindel felt warm hearing it.

“I’m glad you’re here, Glorfindel,” Erestor murmured, moving away from Glorfindel’s arms with a small smile. “Thank you.” Stretching just a little, he pressed a kiss against Glorfindel’s jaw, gone before Glorfindel could think up an appropriate reaction beyond blushing.

Arash did not seem notably better, Glorfindel thought, walking into the tent three days after their arrival to fetch Erestor for dinner. They had carried a small amount of dried athelas in their supplies, but the potency of the remedy against the forces of Darkness decreased greatly when dried. Erestor had made Arash teas and steam baths to breathe in, helping him cough up more of the dust-coloured slime from his lungs, but the insidious bits of dark dust remained inside the Man, continuing to poison his system.

“Time for dinner, Erestor,” he said quietly, daring to put a hand on Erestor’s shoulder and squeezing gently. The shoulder beneath his hand felt strong, rounded like a warrior’s even though he had never seen Erestor spar with the soldiers of Gil-Galad’s forces. It was not the first time he had realised just how thoroughly he had been fooled by Erestor’s benign counsellor persona, but the realisation was less shock and more fond amusement these days – an odd sense of pride in Erestor’s abilities.

Himig, who had walked in behind him, took up her customary seat at Arash’s bedside, feeding him small morsels from a gently steaming bowl of fragrant soup.

“As you say,” Erestor sighed, adding something in Adûnaic to the two Men before turning to leave, giving Glorfindel a tired smile.

Glorfindel smiled back. Part of him wondered at Erestor’s sudden willingness to be touched, but he revelled in the way his prickly Loremaster remained close to him, their arms brushing with each step as they walked through the camp.

“You’re very different than I imagined when Elrond asked me to go,” Glorfindel blurted, cursing himself when Erestor stiffened beside him.

“How so?” he asked and Glorfindel could clearly hear a warning in the words.

He blushed.

“I don’t know…” he hedged, trying to put his odd pride in words that would not be taken wrongly, “you’ve always seemed such a proper person, quite stern, and a bit aloof, really, separate, somehow. Always with your nose in some book or scroll – but you’re… different, here. And you don’t mind when I touch you…”

Even if I daren’t touch you the way I want to touch you… Glorfindel hoped he didn’t blush.

“Should I mind the touch of my husband?” Erestor asked playfully, and Glorfindel suddenly realised how keenly they were being observed by the Men around them. Flushing, he shook his head.

“No, I guess not,” he replied, something in his gut clenching at the thought that Erestor was simply acting to the tale they had already spun. Glorfindel wanted reality, wanted an Erestor who accepted his heart in return for his own… but he would take this bubble of make-believe fantasy for as long as he could – perhaps he might show Erestor that marrying him would not be such a terrible thing. “I wouldn’t have married someone who disliked that… husband.” Glorfindel knew his smile was fake, but it didn’t matter, catching Erestor’s hand in his own and spinning the shorter ellon into his arms, claiming a kiss that blazed through his mind, burning all reservations to ash.

If this is what I can get before we go back to our real lives… I’ll take all of it. All of you.

Erestor was surprised by the kiss but it felt so good that he didn’t care that it wasn’t really born of love – had Glorfindel not just called him stiff and disinteresting? – meeting Glorfindel’s lips with his own once, twice, three times and again, feeling himself relax into those arms, desire clouding his brain as his hands roamed across miles of uncovered golden skin.

“Glorfindel,” he moaned softly, opening his eyes to stare into those blazing blue oceans threatening to let him drown himself, “please…”

Even Erestor did not know what he was pleading for, warring desires running through his blood at the sheer hunger he thought he saw in Glorfindel’s eyes.

And then it was gone, like a curtain drawn before the sun and Glorfindel was kissing his forehead gently in response, one hand remaining at the small of Erestor’s back as they continued on their interrupted path towards the cook-fires.

Erestor’s mind spun, his heart yearning for more. He stopped, wanting to yank Glorfindel back to him, finish what he’d started…

“Let’s get you some supper, husband,” the golden warrior murmured, the words like a bucket of icy spring water over Erestor’s head.

It’s just a pretence – who knew Glorfindel was such a good actor? – don’t read into it, Erestor. He’s just playing the part you asked him to play.

This ploy will be the death of me…

“I am so pleased you’ve made up with your husband, Sapthân,” the young woman who served him a bowl of stew said. Glorfindel had been stopped by one of the young men – he was keeping himself occupied by giving lessons in swordplay to anyone interested and riding out with Behnam’s hunters now and again – and did not hear her. Erestor flushed slightly.

“Thank you…” he tried, only the be interrupted by a scoff from the older woman by the pot.

“I you ask me, that warrior-lad of yours still looks mighty tense, boy,” she said, nodding at Glorfindel. “And you could do with a bit of loosening up too, I feel.”

“Mother Mara!” the younger woman protested, but the old lady ignored her completely. Erestor felt a little warm beneath the frank gaze of old Mother Mara.

“You know, I've had five husbands,” old Mara began, her fond smile revealing that she had only a few teeth left, “and I've always found that a great way to cheer them up was to use my mouth.”

Erestor tried very hard not to think about the place his thoughts immediately went, his body still singing with the joy of Glorfindel’s kiss. He failed abysmally, part of him wondering what delicious sounds he might be able to wring from Glorfindel’s plump lips.

“You... want me to sing for him?” he tried cautiously, deciding that ignorance was his best defence. He really did not want to discuss what occurred on in his bed – or did not occur, as it were – with the old crone. “I'm not a great singer, I'm afraid…” Of course, the direction of his thoughts could not be changed quite so easily and Erestor could not deny that the idea of filling his mouth with Glorfindel’s taste was a heady cocktail of lust washing through his system.

“Not singing, boy,” old Mara replied drily, giving him a wink. “Think about it.” Shooing him off with her large ladle, Mara turned to smile toothlessly at Glorfindel and handed him a steaming bowl.

Erestor blushed, finding himself a seat by the fire and determinedly not looking at the way the flames painted enticing dancing shadows across golden skin when Glorfindel joined him.

Erestor’s evening did not improve; old Mara’s advice had not gone unheard, and more than one person was keen to offer him other suggestions of ways to improve Glorfindel’s mood – and his own.

Hiding his blushes in his cup – continuously refilled by a young boy darting to and fro filling cups for the scattering of adults – did not make the tantalizing images of Glorfindel’s skin beneath his tongue – or being explored by curious fingers – disappear.

By the time Varda’s stars showed overhead, Erestor had had quite a lot of suggestion made to him – some he hadn’t even heard of before – and fended off more than one well-meant offer of a ‘demonstration’. He was beginning to think they were right – Glorfindel had been tense even before they left Umbar; perhaps it was the lack of regular bedmates that made him so tense?

He studiously ignored the jealous rage igniting in his heart when he thought of Glorfindel sharing his bed with anyone else. Of course, his own needs had been pushed aside like he usually did in order to focus on the work… but it had been so difficult not to notice the glimmer of sun in Glorfindel’s hair, the breadth of those shoulders or even the soft way he smiled sometimes when he slept, making Erestor’s heart melt with the boyishness of it.

Erestor wanted Glorfindel, mind, body, and soul, and the buzz of alcohol in his blood made the want stronger than his mind’s protests, the desire to taste, to feel overpowering all rationality until Erestor was little more than need, all his attention fixed on Glorfindel.

Glorfindel’s hands were making shapes fly through the air when he spoke, passionately gesticulating his thoughts to one of the younger outriders. Erestor was surprised but how much he seemed to enjoy the sweet fruity flavour of desert alak – the local wine. Taking another sip himself, he let the liquid flow silkily across his tongue.

Glorfindel’s skin – usually a pale creamy shade – had been darkened by the sun; the fire throwing moving shadows onto his body, outlining each muscle in turn. Erestor wanted to trace some of those paths with his tongue, discover the salty-sweet taste of Glorfindel’s skin for himself.

Those blue eyes seemed to blaze at him whenever Erestor caught them, promising all kinds of things that he did not dare examine too closely, reminding himself that Glorfindel was playing a role, nothing more. They were both just playing the roles he had written, no matter how much he wanted the fantasy to be real, wanted Glorfindel’s heart to truly belong to him.

Reminding himself once more that it was just and act, Erestor took another swig of the potent wine.

And still… why not take advantage of the roles they were playing to get what he needed – what they both needed?

Smiling to himself, Erestor abandoned his cup, following Glorfindel through the tents, catching up with him just as he bent to untie the flap of the one they shared. For a moment, Erestor stood there, committing the sight of Glorfindel’s arse outlined by the loose fabric of his trousers to memory.

Then he moved.

Coming to a stop beside Glorfindel, he let one hand run lightly up his spine to tangle in that golden hair, tugging gently until Glorfindel rose, looking questioningly at him.

Erestor smiled.

“Heading to bed, husband?” he purred, feeling a thrill of illicit pleasure thrum through him at the title. Not waiting for an answer, he leaned in, nipping lightly at Glorfindel’s lower lip once before kissing him with all the desire he felt, pressing his body as close as he could get to Glorfindel’s. Trailing one hand down the chiselled planes of Glorfindel’s chest, the soft skin beneath his fingertips hiding strong muscles, Erestor continued to kiss his love.

“…Erestor?” Glorfindel moaned, pulling away slightly though he returned willingly when Erestor chased his lips.

Glorfindel growled into Erestor’s mouth, his arms tightening around that slender body, one hand moving down to press him closer still, grind him against Glorfindel’s sudden erection.

Fuck it’s been too long.

Erestor’s slender fingers running over his body seemed bent on scrambling whatever mind the evening’s wine and those heady kisses had left him. Glorfindel’s mind reeled with questions, pulling away from Erestor to glance around them, wondering who Erestor was trying to convince of their ploy’s verisimilitude.

He could see no one.

Erestor is just as hard as I am.

The thought was gone in a moment, subsumed by the sudden flash of knowledge that Erestor was doing this because he wanted to, because he wanted Glorfindel – not because someone was watching.

Erestor mewled when Glorfindel’s hand found his arse, those fingers tightening in his hair to the point that Glorfindel hissed at the slight pain, nipping at Erestor’s kiss-swollen lips.

Erestor’s mind swam in a cocktail of intoxication; Glorfindel’s kisses and the way his hands squeezed rhythmically quickly won out against the slight buzz of alcohol that had lit the fire in his blood.

“Erestor…?” Glorfindel repeated, the syllables of his name running down Erestor’s spine like liquid droplets of fire. “What…”

Kissing his way up to Glorfindel’s ear and running his tongue along the sharp ridge stopped whatever question had been about to spill from that perfect mouth. Erestor smirked, the hand that had been playing over Glorfindel’s chest moving further down, cupping him gently, rubbing the heel of his hand slowly across the tempting bulge he found there.

“Come to bed, Glorfindel,” he murmured, hardly recognising his own voice in the roughened croak that escaped his lips and feeling the way Glorfindel shivered against him with a stab of satisfaction. The hard length in his hand twitched, straining against its fabric prison.

Moving away, his hand still rubbing in slow circles, Erestor used his free hand to push away the opening of the tent, ducking into the soft darkness with one last caress, seeing those blue eyes blaze in the light of the stars.

Tossing his cloak onto his bedroll, Erestor knelt facing the doorway, watching the fabric flutter in the night breeze.

“Coming?” he asked, proud that his voice did not wobble with the rush of sudden dread that filled his heart.

What if Glorfindel turned him down?

Watching Erestor disappear into the tent, Glorfindel licked his lips, his hands remembering the give of the body he had just clutched. His mouth tasted of wine, sweet and tangy, though not quite so much as Erestor’s…

Fuck.

Ducking into the tent, Glorfindel’s well-meant enquiry disappeared like morning fog at the sight of Erestor kneeling on his bedroll, the colourful cloak abandoned on his own. The gold tokens of his necklace gleamed in the light coming in from the far-away fires, resting against warm golden skin.

Erestor woke early, his head a little fuzzy, but feeling comfortable where he lay, tangled with another body in sleep. He smiled, nuzzling against soft skin, content to doze in the softness of the moment. It was the slight soreness of well-used limbs that made him wake fully when he moved.

What… oh.

Opening his eyes revealed planes of pale skin, moving gently beneath his cheek every time Glorfindel took a breath.

Oh.

Erestor breathed deeply, the smell of sandalwood soap and Glorfindel a heady combination that he had come to adore over the course of the trip, desire stirring in him.

I want to wake up with you like this all the time, he thought, daring to trail one finger lightly across Glorfindel’s bare hip. Too bad it will only be a beautiful dream, my love…

Erestor sighed. He called himself all kinds of coward, but still he could not bear to stay, to watch Glorfindel wake to the realisation of just who had shared his bed. He preferred to think of him like he was last night, passionate and loving, making Erestor feel as though this was more than a sham they were portraying, more even than the simple search for release and pleasure shared between two elves.

He needed a bit of time to recreate the shields protecting his fragile heart from the truth of his reality, needed just a little distance from the dream of love he couldn’t truly have.

Bundling up his clothes with another heavy sigh, Erestor ducked out of the tent. One final glance back at the sleeping Glorfindel showed him a study of gold in the first rays of dawn that took Erestor’s breath away with its loveliness.

Glorfindel woke while Erestor was still asleep, tangled in blankets and a delicious combination of limbs that he wanted to savour, remaining in that half-state between dreaming and reality where it seemed possible that Erestor returned his affection, the gentle fingertips playing across his skin making him smile.

And then Erestor left.

Breaking the dream in a flash, Glorfindel’s eyes opened on a gasp, just as the fabric of the tent closed once more, shutting out the brightness of the sun – and leaving him alone with the misery of his thoughts, trying to hold on to the gentle love and comfort of the night before only to have it slip away like the finest sand, impossible to hold even in memory.

Arash was coughing up a storm when Erestor entered his tent, still chewing on the last spoonful of his breakfast. Himig was supporting him as he tried to expel more of the black slime and Erestor quietly fetched a bowl, studying the mucus with some interest. The dried athelas had had more of an effect than he had hoped – more dust had been cleared from Arash’s lungs, it seemed; the expelled goo was darker than when he had arrived, which Erestor considered hopeful.

“Hopefully,” he told Himig when Arash’s coughing had subsided into an exhausted doze, “Talim will return soon; if we can avoid fevers there is good reason to hope.”

Glorfindel did not take Erestor’s midday meal to the ring of tents where he looked after his patients, riding out just after breakfast with some of the young men in what he told himself was not a cowardly flight.

He wasn’t quite convincing enough, his mind distracted by random flashes of Erestor’s neck, pale except for the redness of his kisses when he threw his head back in a moan, or the way those soft delicate lips had stretched to accommodate his girth, sloppy moans making his spine tingle.

Abrazân seemed to notice his preoccupation, the camel delighting in all the antics of a much younger mount, and Glorfindel’s arse was only slightly less sore than his mood when he finally returned to the camp of the Nas Krassat.

Accepting his bowl of stew from Mother Mara, he failed to respond to her friendly greeting, instead retreating into himself, staring at the flickering flames and licking his wounded heart in peace. He remained undisturbed, the mighty scowl plastered on his face and the gossip of his terrible mood keeping even the most friendly of the tribesmen away.

How could I think one night of make-believe would ever be enough?

Erestor’s stomach grumbled, not-quite overshadowed by his bleeding heart, but impossible to ignore Glorfindel had not brought him food and encouragement, and that – to Erestor – felt like an even worse condemnation than any of the recriminations he’d been aiming at himself all day. Last night’s thought process had seemed so logical, but now Erestor was lost in a mire of misery and longing, tormented by agonisingly clear memories of Glorfindel’s hands, his sighs, that golden hair tangled around Erestor’s fingers…

He had been a fool to believe that he could solve the troubles with his heart’s desire by giving in to a moment of recklessness and longing – Glorfindel obviously did not feel for him anything more than the contempt his lewd actions had rightfully earned him.

Walking towards the cookfires, he saw the flames flicker in the distinctive golden hair, the last unspoken vestiges of hope fleeing at the sight: Glorfindel had not stayed away because he was away, he had stayed away because he did not wish to speak to Erestor.

Erestor turned on his heel, abandoning any thought of food – the roiling sensation of his guts told him it would be a futile endeavour anyway – and retreated to their tent, burrowing into his bedroll and closing his eyes in a vain hope that he would wake up just as happy as he had been that morning – was it really only that morning? It felt like centuries ago – when the next day dawned.

Glorfindel was well aware that he was moping – not even the sight of old Mara haranguing Chieftain Behnam for some reason or other, the large man cowering before his diminutive aunt like a young boy, could bring a smile to his face – but he found himself unable to stop. The flickering the flames seemed to turn into visions of Erestor’s long limbs wrapped around him at every second glance, their crackles transforming into soft sighs and moans that made him want to ignore the pain he was feeling in favour of repeating last night’s exercise in pleasure.

Growling darkly, he emptied the last of his bowl, returning it to the stack beside Mara’s youngest helper.

“Apologies, Lord Sun-Warrior,” the small boy mumbled, tugging on his sleeve, “but the Sapthân has not eaten… and he is not in the healing tents, either.”

For a moment, Glorfindel’s heart raced, despite his attempts to tell himself that he was foolish to care so much, and then the young voice continued:

“but Mila saw him go into his tent… but Mother Mara said I should not disturb the Sapthân – but Nimrî must eat?” he said, looking so anxious Glorfindel felt his heart twinge. Unbidden, Huni’s frank question appeared in his mind, retold in Erestor’s wry tones.

“I shall bring Erestor some food,” he sighed, reaching to ruffle the boy’s hair, “you need not fear he will eat any of you, I promise.”

The boy studied him – Glorfindel swallowed back sudden recognition, seeing Behnam’s calculating glance in the youngster’s face – and nodded. Swiftly refilling the bowl, he pressed the ceramic into Glorfindel’s hand, shooing him off – all the while looking as though he wasn’t quite certain he dared shoo an elf – towards their tent.

“Erestor?” Glorfindel’s concerned voice pierced the gloom of the tent, though its owner remained outside. Erestor buried his face in his blankets.

Please don’t be nice to me when the outline of your lips is still dark upon my skin…

“Erestor, are you in there?” Glorfindel continued.

Erestor groaned. He knew better than to believe Glorfindel would simply go away. Throwing off the blankets, he yanked the ten fabric aside, staring up at Glorfindel in a way that brought back a memory of the night before, stark and potent enough to steal the air from his lungs, even if the gaze in those blue eyes was mingled concern and annoyance rather than blazing with desire.

“Yes?” he replied pointedly, belatedly remembering that he had thrown off his cloak and necklace when Glorfindel’s eyes ran down his dishevelled form.

“Uhm…” he tried, but the words petered out.

Erestor sighed. He had known he’d have to have this talk – he’d just tried to avoid it for a little longer, staving off the ultimate crushing of the hope he still couldn’t shake off.

“They’ll heal soon enough,” he began, gesturing at the random darkened spots along his neck and chest that perfectly matched Glorfindel’s lips. “And you may forget it ever happened – chalk it up to a moment of insanity… something.” He sighed, unable to meet those blue eyes for fear of what he might see. “I apologise for attacking you as I did. I’m sorry.” I’m sorry you won’t feel for me what I feel for you… and I’m sorry I can’t settle for what transience you might offer me.

“Sorry?” Glorfindel boggled at him, the stew forgotten entirely. “Sorry?!” Did Erestor truly believe he could simply forget?

Erestor flinched, the pale light of the moon making the marks ringing his neck stand out even darker against his skin.

“Yes,” he repeated stubbornly, those silver eyes flashing with the beginnings of anger as he got to his feet. “You can forget it ever happened – I should appreciate that – no one need know.”

“No.” Glorfindel said, equally stubborn, and honestly offended. “So you slept with the brawny warrior; who cares?!” he ranted. “I’m not just going to forget, Erestor, even if you’d like me to!”

“You don’t have to, just – oh why does it matter, Glorfindel! –” Erestor tried, but Glorfindel interrupted him, grabbing his wrist and yanking him closer.

“Because- !” he tried, failing to find the words, feeling Erestor’s pulse hammer just as hard as his own, those silver-blue eyes wide and reflecting the starry night above when he looked up.

Glorfindel kissed him.

It was hard and unrefined, their teeth clacking together more than once. Erestor bit his lower lip, making Glorfindel hiss at him, dropping the bowl he still held in favour of Erestor’s hip, tugging him closer.

Biting and anger gave way to the same blazing need he had felt the night before, the small mewling sounds Erestor made when he set to darkening those marks further only spurring him on.

Erestor’s nails drew lines of pain along his shoulders even though the cloth and Glorfindel didn’t care, mindlessly rutting against him. Letting go of Erestor’s wrist, he grabbed another handful of that perfectly round arse, lifting him slightly to change the angle and growled against his throat.

It was glorious.

Erestor never wanted this to stop, humping against Glorfindel’s thigh, feeling those tough callouses through the fabric of his trousers when his fingers squeezed. Moving into the cool dimness of the tent, Glorfindel knelt on his blankets, keeping Erestor perfectly positioned in his lap, pressing against him in a way that made him mewl breathlessly. Rationality deserted him in an instant, giving way to soul-searing need. He whimpered, wrapping his lips around the tip of Glorfindel’s ear and biting when he sucked a deeper bruise into a spot that pulsed heat and pleasure through Erestor’s body.

“Yessss,” he moaned deliriously, fingers dancing across any bit of skin bared to his sight. “More, love, please… please!”

“Erestor!” Glorfindel groaned against his skin, hands locked tight around those bucking hips, moving in perfect rhythm.

Glorfindel froze, the moaned plea he had just heard replaying in his mind.

Love…

Flipping them, he stared down at Erestor’s flushed face, those silvery eyes blinking open to stare at him.

“Wha…?” Erestor moaned, his hips continuing to move for a moment.

“What did you say?” Glorfindel hissed, pulling away despite every part of him screaming in need, wanting to claim the ellon below him.

Erestor’s gaze skittered away once, pearly teeth marring the flush redness of his lip when he bit it, shaking his head.

“No-nothing,” he tried.

Glorfindel kissed him again, softly this time, keeping himself tied with iron bands of self-control when Erestor made another confused moan, his fingers scrabbling across Glorfindel’s back with a sigh of pleasure.

“Tell me,” he murmured, hovering just above those tempting lips, straining for more. “Please, dear one…”

Erestor blushed, visible in the small triangle of sun spilling through the tent opening. Glorfindel’s heart hammered in his chest.

“I love you…” he murmured, and then his expression hardened, those silver eyes sparking. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asked, pushing against Glorfindel’s chest. “Let me go!”

“No.” Glorfindel’s heart felt too light to contain his laughter, swooping down to pepper Erestor’s face in kisses. “Never.”

Erestor made an odd sound of half-protest, half-needy growl, hands clutching at Glorfindel’s clothes. “Stop!” he moaned, tilting his head back to allow Glorfindel better access to that spot on his neck that was quickly becoming a favourite, moaning deeply when Glorfindel’s teeth found it.

“Is that what you want, love?” Glorfindel purred, rolling his hips slowly, “Want me to stop?”

“Hnnn,” Erestor groaned, “…what?”

“Love,” Glorfindel continued, moving slightly to tongue at Erestor’s finely pointed ear, “my love, my Erestor, my husband…”

Beneath him, Erestor gasped, his hands flexing as Glorfindel kept rolling his hips, curious tendrils of fëa skittering across Glorfindel’s as though Erestor still didn’t wholly believe himself welcome.

Reaching out, Glorfindel stroked against him slowly, a sinuous wave of love and longing washing over and around the brightness that was Erestor and feeling the deep well of emotion opening beneath him in return.

Waking at the sound of shouting, Erestor stretched along the length of Glorfindel’s body, raising his head to return the softly affectionate smile on his face. With a soft kiss, Glorfindel’s arms released him, getting them both dressed swiftly and joining the upheaval outside.

“Talim is back!” Himig shouted happily when she spotted them.

Erestor broke into a run, Glorfindel following on his heels.

The athelas sent by the North-King steamed gently beside Arash’s bed, Erestor muttering something to himself as the heady green scent filled the tent. The herbalist that Amihan had found for Talim had brought several sacks worth of plants – her full harvest, Glorfindel assumed – and was busily working to make more fragrant teas and gently steaming baths, washing the potent medicine across fevered brows.

“It’s working…!” Himig exclaimed, staring raptly at her man, whose pallor already seemed improved, and helped him spit out more of the almost-black mixture that had terrorised his body. “It’s really working!” Her smile was brighter than the noon-day sun when she reached for Erestor, planting a firm kiss on his lips.

Erestor spluttered slightly, glancing at Glorfindel who shrugged. He smiled.

“It will take time for all the dust to be released,” Erestor cautioned, but no one was paying attention, a festive mood spreading through the gathered tribesmen despite the sounds of retching and coughing that accompanied the expulsion of mucus.

“We can worry about that tomorrow,” Glorfindel murmured, catching him round the waist and pulling him back against his chest for a quick hug, “for now… hear them sing.”