Dust in Desert Winds by Raiyana

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Chapter 5

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“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.