Dust in Desert Winds by Raiyana

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Chapter 4

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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.