Dust in Desert Winds by Raiyana

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Chapter 1

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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