Under the Ragged Thorn by elfscribe

Emissary from Aman

Read Emissary from Aman

The mountain throws a shadow,
Thin is the moon's horn;
What did we remember
Under the ragged thorn?
Dread has followed longing,
And our hearts are torn.
~William Butler Yeats. From poem Love’s Loneliness

"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."
~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, Lothlórien. Haldir speaking.

“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”
~ Rumi

****************

Second Age 1600

"Are you sure it's him?" Erestor said.

He sat in Círdan’s wood-working shop, surrounded by swan figureheads in various stages of completion. Earlier that morning when he’d disembarked at Mithlond, he had received disturbing news, and had decided to confirm it at the source.

“Aye,” Círdan said. He shifted his long body in the chair and fingered the white fringe on his chin. “The ship had the trademarks of Telerin make, inlay of pearl and telpe in the gunnels. It came from Alqualondë.”

“And he looked the same as you remember him?”

“He did, curious as that may be,” Círdan said. “Perhaps less sure of himself than of old, but that might well be expected . . . after what he’s been through. I believe it will take time for him to become acclimated to a different world than the one he knew.”

“Could it perhaps be a Maia taking on his likeness?” Erestor wondered. “You know the one I fear. Likely he’s hiding in Middle-earth but he could be anywhere. I’ve only heard rumors so far, suspicious activity within the confines of the Ephel Dúath, heightened sightings of orcs and other foul creatures. It’s making my skin itch.”

“I think I would sense if our mariner were a Maia masquerading as an elf,” Círdan said. “Although he did seem other-worldly. Not exactly the man I remember.” He picked up a scraper and resumed smoothing the beak on one of the figureheads.

“Did he say why they sent him?”

Círdan shook his head. “He didn’t speak much at all. Just looked around as if recovering from a blow to the head. I sent him to the king’s household three days ago. Hopefully the king has had more intelligence from him than that. But if I know you, you’ll not be satisfied until you’ve investigated for yourself.” He offered a slight smile.

“Hmm,” Erestor said. He chewed his lip, then stood. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll take the ferry across. They should be boarding soon.”

Círdan looked into Erestor’s eyes. “The past is just that,” he said. “Do not let it control you or rule your actions.”

“You didn’t see him fall,” Erestor replied. And he left to make his way down to the quay.

The overcast sky rendered both the sea and the land in varied shades of water-colored grey. Erestor drew up his hood, wrapped his cloak about himself, and stepped onto the small ship piloted by several of Círdan’s apprentices. En route across the choppy strait, as salty breeze spat in his face, Erestor rested his forearms on the gunnel and watched the hills hosting the king’s walled compound with its guarded towers grow larger, while Círdan’s landing withdrew behind him. He’d spent the better part of over sixteen hundred years suppressing memories of the mad escape up rocky Cristhorn Pass, illuminated red by Gondolin’s fiery death throes below, and his anger at himself for not having seen Maeglin for what he was. He’d vowed to never allow such a calamity to happen again, and then it had, over and over. During the peace of this current king’s reign, he’d been able to put aside the memories. But they were there still, subversively contributing to a hollow ache in his heart that had never quite left. No, this news was not welcome.

**************
Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably in his chair and rolled his sword arm, made sore by the morning’s sparring session with one of the king’s guard. He was out of practice, which tasked him greatly. The archivist whispered to someone, the sound like shivering leaves. Glorfindel looked up from the map spread before him on the polished wooden table. One of Gil-galad’s servants had entered the library. Dressed impeccably with long dark hair curling over his shoulders, and a touch of rouge on his cheeks and lips, he stood in a dancer’s pose, one foot at right angles to the other. He then bent at what Glorfindel had learned was an appropriate inclination to one of superior rank. What was his name? Oh aye, Darthor.

“My lord,” Darthor bowed. “I believe you received an invitation to the party tonight, did you not?” He flexed his wrist as if extending a card.

“Um, aye, I did not know it was mandatory to attend,” Glorfindel said. Ack, his shoulder really was painful.

“Not as such,” Darthor replied. “But the king missed seeing you today and was concerned you had not received the invite. So I’m here in person. The king put it thusly, ‘I believe Lord Glorfindel would be well served by some relaxation and society.’

“I’m perfectly relaxed,” Glorfindel said. “Right here.” He waved at the echoing library with its multiple shelves of books and scrolls that reached up to the high ceiling. In fact, Glorfindel relished the peace and quiet of this place as opposed to the bustling corridors and many eyes in other parts of the king’s sprawling household. Since arriving in Mithlond three days ago, he’d found himself unusually high-strung as if he’d drunk too much tea. He’d wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He glanced back at the map that detailed drastic changes in geography since . . . aye, since that terrible war, which had only been rumored in the Halls. But here in black and red ink was the result of the Valar finally, after many ages of sitting on their hands, sending an army after Melkor. Now half the territory he’d known was drowned deep in fierce seas. It was putting him out of sorts.

One of the very helpful archivists plunked some scrolls he’d requested on a nearby table and then coughed and waved her hands at the ensuing cloud of dust.

“I can see you are well ensconced,” said Darthor. “Which is commendable. The king added that it would be a chance for conversation, to get to know some of the other citizens of this realm. They are, er, curious about you, my lord.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel said again, feeling grumpier than ever. Never one for politics in Gondolin, though by necessity he was good enough at it, he was in no mood for polite babble amongst courtiers, who, no doubt would have questions to which he had no good answers. He was still having trouble acclimating to the weather, the changes in language and landscape, new names and faces, new manners, and well, everything. In truth, ever since stepping out of the swan ship onto the quay at south Mithlond, he’d felt out of his element entirely. But, then he’d had the same reaction upon being disgorged from the Halls onto the winding road leading towards Valmar, hearing many bells in the distance. He had no idea how long ago that was. Viscerally, it seemed as if he were still sitting in his ship being rocked by waves. And there were still these brief bouts of dizziness.

He rubbed his temples. “I expect many are curious about the newcomer? Wondering if the rumors be true.”

“Perhaps, my lord,” Darthor replied. “I’m told an appearance, merely to quell the rumors, is the wish of his Lordship. Besides, he keeps a wonderful table, has employed the best cooks from leagues around. I was in the kitchen earlier, and ah, the smells of fresh-baked bread and roasted goose . . . just delightful.” He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

At this, Glorfindel’s stomach complained. It had indeed been quite some time since a perfunctory breakfast this morning. And if he admitted to himself, he was rather curious about his new surroundings. He liked exploring, or at least he did before Gondolin’s fall, even if he’d prefer to scale a mountain, rather than engage in verbal repartee. But it wouldn’t hurt to try to be sociable. He said, “Very well then, I’ll do as the king wishes.” He pushed the chair back and stood, realizing as he did so, that he was more than a head taller than the servant.

Darthor’s eyes lifted, then flicked over Glorfindel appraisingly. “My lord, if I may be so bold, I’m sure that your current raiment is perfectly suited to perusing documents, but might I offer my help with choosing suitable attire for a semi-formal party? I’ve been told to open the king’s wardrobe to you, although you appear somewhat taller and perhaps slimmer built than he is, but with a few well-placed stitches, I think we can manage. What do you say?”

He offered a smile and Glorfindel noticed that the servant was not ill-favored. His dark hair looked soft . . . he flashed on a memory of stroking a lock of silky black hair between thumb and forefingers. It gave him pause.

As far as appropriate dress, the servant was correct. The Valar had not exactly equipped him with much in the way of clothing. In fact, only a leather overcoat and a change of a tunic and trousers. He found he missed his finery from Gondolin. And in Valmar, he couldn’t quite remember what he had worn, just that it was serviceable. He sighed. “Very well, I am persuaded.”

Darthor smiled broadly. “Very good, my lord. I know the king’s wardrobe well and I’m sure we can find something that will suit.”

“Perhaps, it would be better if you could lend me some armor instead.”

Darthor glanced up at him. “Are you planning to go into battle, my lord?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Glorfindel smiled.

Darthor grinned back, all teeth and gums. “Ah, I understand. But I think rather than presenting an outwardly warlike demeanor, you need something more subtle, softer, but still devastating. And we can do something fancier with that hair, such a gorgeous color, the tales do not do it justice. Intricate braiding is all the fashion. Follow me.”

“Hunh,” Glorfindel replied. He beckoned to the archivist. “I’m done for the day. Could you leave these out for me until I can return tomorrow?”

The archivist came over, some books cradled in her arms and gave him a shy smile. “Of course, Lord Glorfindel, you are always welcome.”

************
Wrapped only in a blanket, Elrond stood at the large glass window in the king’s bedroom, looking out over the sprawling household towards the misty harbor and from there across the straits to the faint towers of the southern Mithlond landing. The sky threatened rain. His liege came up behind him and drew Elrond’s dark hair away from his eyes. “You seem preoccupied,” the breath husked against his sensitive ear.

Elrond turned to kiss his lips. “I am. Just wondering what the Belain have in mind, sending over a reborn warrior, who turns out to be none other than Glorfindel, the hero of Gondolin and incidentally my father’s savior. I am positively in awe. I’ve seen paintings but of course never met him myself. I can’t help but think it’s very odd he should show up now.”

Gil-galad nodded. “Well, I was quite young when Turgon hid his people away in Gondolin, so we never met either. But Círdan knows him and has sent word that he is indeed who he says he is. He certainly looks the part. It is curious though. I'd say you have reason to be concerned about what this portends. I, too, have many questions to ask. But when he arrived, he had the dazed look of someone who has come from battle or perhaps was walking in his sleep. I wanted to give him some time before pressing him too hard.”

“I believe he has had sufficient time. He seems awake and curious about his surroundings; he’s been practicing swordplay with Balthoron. And I hear he’s been studying maps and wandering about the household and grounds. So, after the banquet this evening we should take him aside and conduct a friendly interrogation. Perhaps he will be more communicative.” Elrond turned to face his beloved, reveling in the sight of his angular face, so typical of their families, his mouth, quick to laugh or to frown, his hawkish grey eyes, and his waterfall of hair, glistening like mithril. “We’ve had a number of concerning reports of late, especially from Ost-in-Edhil. Something is stirring.”

“I’ve learned to pay heed to your premonitions,” Gil-galad said. “Speaking of concerns, it’s come to my ears that Erestor returned this morning.”

“Yes, thank the Belain, finally back from his errand to Tharbad.”

“He was gone without word for far too long. I’ll soon want to hear his report to learn what delayed him. And I think he is just the person to involve in this case. After all, he was in Gondolin and escaped when it fell. Surely he knows our golden legend.”

“I expect so as Gondolin was a relatively insular community. But I don’t know for sure. Erestor has never talked much about it.”

“Well, then, there are mysteries to be solved,” Gil-galad said. “I shall send Bercalion to summon Erestor to attend our gathering. As he’s been out in the wet wilds, no doubt, he’ll enjoy a fire and some good food and company.”

“Most likely. I should perhaps get dressed.” When Elrond took a step to reach for his robes lying over the back of a chair, his blanket tugged off his shoulders and slid to the floor.

Gil grinned. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was standing on it.”

“Didn’t realize,” Elrond said fondly.

Gil looked him up and down, then gathered him into his arms, pressing the length of their bodies together. “I don’t apologize for wanting to look upon your beauty or to feel more of your skin against mine. We so rarely have this chance. I believe we have a few hours before the banquet, and I find myself with quite an appetite.”

“In your case, the appetite is insatiable,” Elrond laughed, as his heat-tingled loins pressed so delightfully against his lover’s.

“Only for you,” Gil said.

Chuckling, Elrond wrestled him onto the bed, where they rolled about laughing, until Gil got on top of him and took Elrond’s mouth in a deep kiss. As their tongues continued the wrestling match, Elrond reflected that the tasks he should do prior to the reception could well wait on the king’s pleasure . . . and his own.**************
 

---

Chapter End Notes

Yay! Notes about esoteric stuff:
Balthoron (S) Power eagle -- a guard
Bercalion (S) Bright pledge -- a servant
Darthor (S) Waiter/Endurer (Gender-Neutral) -- master of the wardrobe
telpe (Telerin) silver

In this fic, I’m going with Orodreth as the Gilga-dad, although it doesn’t come up.

On Gil-galad’s hair being silver. His hair has been described and depicted as dark so frequently in fandom and the media that it’s practically canon. Indeed that’s what I thought myself for many years, so I was surprised to read in The Nature of Middle-earth that Tolkien said, . . . “the name Gil-galad ‘star of radiance’ given to Finwain, last High-king of the Eldar, because of the radiance of his silver hair, armour, and shield . . .” J.R.R. Tolkien, Carl F. Hostetter (ed.), The Nature of Middle-earth, "Part Two. Body, Mind and Spirit: IV. Hair", p. 186.

On languages: Most of the characters in this fic are speaking Sindarin. This explains their use of the term Belain, instead of Valar. But this choice is complicated by the fact that the first language spoken by Glorfindel and Erestor (who is Noldor in this fic) would have been Quenya. Gondolin was established just a few years before Thingol's edict that forbade speaking Quenya. Therefore, I surmise that since Gondolin was an isolated community composed of both Noldor and Sindar, likely both languages were spoken and even mixed. And Fin has recently been in Valinor, so at the very least he's switching between languages in his head. But then there is the issue of readability. So, I'm using only Glorfindel's Sindarin name, rather than shifting between using Glorfindel when he's being addressed by the others speaking Sindarin, and the Quenya name Laurefindele when we’re in Fin’s pov. Uh! It gets complicated, doesn't it?

Tidings

Chapter summary: Erestor returns after an extended absence, with disquieting news for Gil-galad and Elrond.

Read Tidings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elrond sat on an upholstered chair next to a crackling fire, cradling a goblet of mulled red wine in his hand. His whole body still tingled delightfully from the exercise his king had put him through that afternoon. The reasons they had resisted the relationship for so many years, back when the king had hesitated bedding one of his retinue, now seemed trivial. After the past year, Elrond couldn’t imagine life without enjoying this intimacy with him. Gil-galad was dressed for the reception, his stunning silver hair pulled away from his face by a curved diadem sprinkled with rubies. Elrond remembered the feel of that hair gently brushing his thighs and once again heat rose. He shifted, a bit uncomfortably, and Gil winked at him. Almost as if he knew his thoughts.

“Shouldn’t we be heading for the reception?” Elrond asked. “We can talk to Erestor afterwards.”

“I want to prepare him and I want you to watch his reaction to the news. You are ever so much more attuned to emotions than I am,” Gil said.

“Nonsense, Gil,” Elrond said. “I never knew anyone who could read people as well as you.”

“Well, I’ve come to rely on your . . . foresight,” Gil said. He set a hand on Elrond’s arm. “As well you know, we exist in uncertain times.”

The door to the drawing room opened and a servant named Bercalion entered, followed by Erestor, still wearing his traveling clothes: a cloak of a nondescript grey over chainmail, the hood covering his head.

“Envoy Erestor,” Bercalion announced.

“Thank you, Bercalion,” Gil replied. The servant bowed and departed. “Erestor,” the king said heartily, “Tis good to see you. We have missed you at court, having heard little from you for nigh on a month now.”

With a silky motion, Erestor drew back the hood. He'd made his sea-grey eyes more vivid by outlining them with black kohl. His dark hair was braided away from his face and tucked into his tunic. He bowed.

“No need for protocol,” Gil said. “Come warm yourself by the fire.” He patted the empty chair opposite him.

Erestor approached and floated down onto the chair, then eyed the king expectantly.

Elrond was always struck by the cat-like grace with which Erestor moved. It almost made him want to reach over and stroke his ears. Using a cloth to pick up the ceramic pitcher warming on the hob near the fire, Elrond poured a goblet full of wine and handed it to him.

The envoy took a sip. “Ah. Thank you. This is most welcome. The weather was remarkably inhospitable on the way home.”

“Spring has been late in coming this year,” Gil-galad observed.

“Indeed,” said Erestor. “I hope that doesn’t portend anything unnatural. It’s been unusually cold and rainy so far.”

Elrond moved his chair so that they were seated in a triangle pattern, facing one another. “Likely it portends an exceptional display of wildflowers in another month or so. We are very glad to have you back in the household. There were no reports for too long. We were worried. The both of us.” He looked at Gil, who nodded.

Erestor took another pull at his wine. “Forgive me, my king, but quite often I was in situations where a message could have gone astray, and my investigation took me down the Gwathló all the way to Vinyalondë on the coast and thence back by boat.”

Gil-galad looked grave. “Next time I’ll send you with some ravens and some armed companions. Elrond is correct, I was very concerned . . . Well, what do you have to report?”

“As we suspected, things are not well in Tharbad and environs,” Erestor said. “The local men are desperately disenchanted with the Númenórean occupation there. With good reason, I might add.”

Gil-galad frowned. “Is it worse than it was? I have not been there in many a year.”

“It is,” Erestor said. “The men who depend on the woods for hunting are not happy with the Dúnedain’s logging forays, which are denuding the slopes, and the resulting run-off of soil is clogging the river estuaries and disturbing the fisheries, so the fisherfolk in the region are affected as well. I myself was shocked when I saw the extent of the logging in the area. It looks vastly different than we’ve known it.” *

Gil stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Tragic to hear and not at all what we were promised. I’m afraid it’s typical of the short-lived Edain not to take care of their resources. But I am reluctant to interfere. We did make an alliance with Tar-Aldarion.”

“That was well nigh seven hundred years ago,” Erestor pointed out. “Since then, things have changed. The Númenóreans have become greedy, exploiting the labor of the men in the region and destroying their lands. I’m afraid the locals have a right to be angry. In addition,” he lowered his voice, “Sire, I have reason to believe that there are powers working to exploit their dissatisfaction. There are tales of a darkness coming from the south. If allowed to go unchecked, the conflict could well expand. It may reach even Lindon.”

“What powers?” Elrond asked.

“I do not yet know,” Erestor said. He sat back in the chair. “But, there is a whisper from Ost-in-Edhil that the craftsman calling himself Annatar, whom you refused entrance to Lindon some years ago, has gone missing.”

“Missing?” Gil-galad said. “He’s gone off somewhere? Surely Celebrimbor knows. They were working closely together. Perhaps too closely.”

Erestor glowered. “Something dark is at work, I feel it in my gut. As much as I’m happy to be home, I believe I should not tarry too long here, but take a small company to investigate further. With your leave, my king.”

There was a knock on the door and Bercalion stuck in his head. “Your Lordship, your guests are asking for you. What may I tell them?”

“Tell them I shall be with them anon,” Gil-galad said. The door clicked shut. Gil studied his intelligencer. “Is the danger imminent, do you think?”

Erestor shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I do not yet have a full reading of the situation. I need to seek out more informants, perhaps go as far as Ost-in-Edhil and thence to Hadhodrond.”

Gil looked at Elrond, then nodded. “I thank you for your sterling service, Erestor. I shall expect a full report detailing the sources of your suspicions before granting you leave to depart once more. In the meantime, guests have arrived, and there is a sumptuous banquet prepared to which you are invited. I suspect it will be welcome after weeks in the field?”

“Indeed, it will,” Erestor said.

“Another issue has arisen,” Gil-galad said, “and I should like your advice.”

“Let me guess.” Erestor smiled grimly. “Upon arrival this morning at the south haven, I heard a strange rumor of a mariner disembarking several days ago. I spoke to Círdan about it. He says he is come from Balannor.”

“You have heard correctly,” Gil said. “And no doubt he gave you his name as well.”

Erestor nodded. “A name that cannot possibly be valid, my lord. Since when have we heard of re-embodied elves returning to Ennor?”

Gil-galad shifted in his chair and took a sip from his goblet. “Círdan has personal acquaintance with our Balrog slayer and believes this emissary to be him, and I have no reason to doubt his wisdom. I believe the man in question is known to you as well. He claims to have been sent to Middle-earth by the Belain themselves, but he has not disclosed a reason for it. Believe me, I asked when he arrived several days ago, but he seemed . . . confused. That is the other reason I sent for you today. I wish you to ascertain the truth of his claims and discover the reason behind his sudden arrival. And to learn if there’s a connection to the dark rumors you have heard.”

Erestor seemed to have turned paler than was his wont. His black-rimmed eyes glittered like frost. “If so, my lord, then things are perhaps darker than I had feared. If you please, I can recommend a few of my associates who might be better suited to this task.”

“Why someone else?” Elrond said. “You must know him, don’t you? That is why the king felt you were ideal to determine if he is, in fact, who he claims to be. I would have thought you’d be overjoyed to see someone you knew in Gondolin after all these years. And after . . . ”

Erestor’s back stiffened. “I do not have happy memories of that time. However, my Lord King, if you so order, I shall endeavor to do as you ask.”

“I do order it,” Gil-galad said. But he had cocked his head like a dog listening for a mouse in a cupboard. He looked puzzled.

Erestor set his cup on the table. “Then, perhaps I should change into party clothes, as I am not fit at the moment for your sparkling company.”

Gil leaned forward. “As you sit here in your travel-stained garb, you are more fit for my court than many who come dressed in silks as supplicants for my favor. I owe you many times over for your timely intelligence on difficult matters. Perhaps, for once, this evening, you could cast off your burdens and enjoy yourself?”

“Perhaps, my king,” Erestor said. “Although the trials of the road still weigh heavily upon me. Where are you gathering?”

“In the western hall,” Gil-galad said.

Erestor inclined his head, then rose. “Until then,” he said. He left the room. The door banged behind him, perhaps harder than necessary.

Elrond let out a breath. “Well, now. That was unexpected.”

“For us Noldor, the past is a dark country and our friend has lived much longer than either of us, through fire and sorrow,” Gil-galad said.

“I lived through that as well,” Elrond said quietly. “As did everyone associated with us.”

“I do not forget,” Gil replied. “Well, what is your reading of our talented spy’s reaction?”

Elrond smiled. “It’s puzzling. Suspicion and great sorrow, as can be expected. But there is more, and it weighs upon him. I shall keep an eye on both him and Glorfindel this evening to see what more I can learn.”

“Do that,” Gil-galad said.

“I am more concerned about Erestor’s report about Tharbad. That way lies difficulty for us.” Elrond’s eyes rested on the elaborately carved lintel above the door.

“Agreed. Keeping conflicting interests in balance has ever been an acrobatic challenge. But time to worry about those issues later. For tonight, I hear we have a number of wonderful musicians, and delicacies grown in the new hot house. Strawberries, Elrond!”

“Marvelous to have them so early.” Elrond smiled. “Speaking of sweets, I hear a handful of your subjects have arrived with daughters in tow, looking for a royal match.”

“Along with a few sons,” Gil-galad laughed. “Rumors being what they are. Lots of elves to flirt with. And no doubt some are angling for you as well, my love.” He nuzzled Elrond’s shoulder.

Elrond felt the familiar worry creeping into his gut. “As we’ve discussed, Gil, it would be wise for you to marry and sire an heir, preferably several, considering the history of Noldorin kings. You shouldn’t let our, um, association get in the way of your legacy.”

Gil-galad cupped Elrond’s cheek in his hand, bent forward and kissed his lips tenderly. “It’s always politics, is it not? As long as there is hope for an alliance among all these families, it keeps the strife to a minimum. Once I choose, I’ve offended others. In any event, I find flirting a welcome diversion from the concerns of governance, don’t you.”

“On occasion,” Elrond smiled. “Don’t you think Erestor is dead sexy?”

“Hmmm,” Gil-galad said, as his hand wandered up Elrond’s thigh. “Indeed, he’s well-favored, with charisma to match, but a mite prickly to try to woo, if you ask me.”

“You know, I’ve not heard that he beds anyone.”

“He has on occasion, so I understand,” Gil replied. “But he’s discreet and it’s never often. I’ve wondered why.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Elrond smiled.

“Oh, I have plenty,” Gil said, as his wandering hand found Elrond’s cock through his robe. “But they all have to do with you. However, it seems we have guests. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

“You fox, I can’t appear in such a state!” Elrond exclaimed, brushing Gil’s hand aside. “You’ll have to give me a moment here.”

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Balannor (S) Land of the Valar, Valinor (Q)
Belain (S) - Valar (Q)
Bercalion (S) - Bright pledge
Hadhodrond (S) - Khazad-dûm
*Note. The Númenóreans devastating the area around Tharbad for timber is canon.
~J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien (ed.), Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth, "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn" Ballantine Books, NY. 1988. p. 275.

Memories of Grief

Chapter summary: Seeing Glorfindel again triggers terrible memories for Erestor.

Read Memories of Grief

“This hall is such a beautiful location this time of day, don’t you think?” Lady Brethil took hold of Elrond’s arm as they stood at the edge of the party, a few yards away from tables laden with delicacies, and another with a large bowl of steaming punch being dispensed by servants. In the corner, a group of musicians played gently upon harp and viol. Massive clouds, visible through the huge windows facing west, were illuminated red and gold with the impending sunset.

“I have always liked it,” Elrond said.

“Umm,” she lowered her head with its cloud of springy black curls held by silver clasps. “Is it true what they’re saying? That the hero of so many songs has returned to us from the west?”

“So they say.”

“Elrond, you have the king’s . . . um, ear. You must know something more about it.” Her dark eyes lifted to his, and a smile quirked her lips.

“You wouldn’t be insinuating anything about my relationship with the king?” Elrond said, with a rise of one eyebrow.

“I hardly need insinuate, my lord. I am merely observant. See where his eyes always wander.”

Elrond glanced across the room where Gil-galad stood surrounded by admirers. He laughed at some jest, but his glance sought out Elrond. The peredhil felt his cheeks warm. “Regarding our guest, I know only what apparently the rest of the court does,” he said. “But he’s been invited, so likely you’ll soon get a chance to ask him yourself.”

“How thrilling!” Brethil said. “His stature is such . . . this is akin to an appearance by Oromë himself.” She lowered her voice. “But that’s not what I’d like to speak to you about.”

“Oh?” Elrond took a sip of his wine. On the far side of the room, he saw Erestor verbally sparring with several guests from Forlond. He was looking particularly tasty in a black silk robe cinched about his lithe waist with an embroidered silk sash, and jeweled clips holding his long, glistening black hair away from his face. Elrond had so rarely seen it worn loose that he could barely tear his eyes away.

“Uh hum,” Brethil said.

“Forgive me, my lady, it’s been a long day,” Elrond said. “You were saying . . .”

“He’s a sight worth looking at, isn’t he?” Brethil said, nodding at Erestor. “And I don’t even dream under that light.” **

“Beg pardon?” Elrond turned to focus on her face, with its severe cheekbones and dark complexion.

“You see my mother over there, expertly monopolizing the king? Well, she has ambitions.”

“Ah,” Elrond responded. He did, in fact, know this, having been in many gatherings where the Lady Lendis dominated.

“The problem is, I do not wish to wed the king, lovely as he is. I have no desire to be a queen. Instead . . .what I want . . .” Brethil looked across the room.

Sensing the force of her desire, Elrond followed Brethil’s gaze to a tall, red-haired woman named Caranor, the daughter of a shipping merchant. Her father stood close to her, rather protectively, Elrond thought.

“Ah,” Elrond said again. “And your parents would not approve.”

Brethil shook her head. “Not at all. They want me to marry well and they want grandchildren. But I, . . ." She dropped her voice so that Elrond could barely hear her. “We’ve already pledged our hearts to each other secretly, but we want to do so openly. We just need an advocate.” She looked at him pleadingly, and laid a hand on Elrond’s arm, the warmth of her touch coming through the blue silk.

“Do your parents object because Caranor is of Noldorin descent and you are, well, Evair?”

“That does not concern my parents, but it does Caranor's,” Brethil said. “So I come to you, Lord Elrond, as I would hope— and forgive me for being blunt— that your own mixed ancestry might cause you to be sympathetic.”

“I hear you and I understand, Lady Brethil. I’ll speak to the king, when I get a chance, and if he agrees, set up some time for you to come talk to him,” Elrond said. “If he’s convinced, I imagine he might speak to both your parents and hers. But beyond that, I do not know what he can do if your parents are resistant.”

Brethil’s face became radiant. “Thank you, my lord. If the king advocates for us, that is our best hope. It would mean so much to us both.”

Elrond noted that Erestor had freed himself from the Forlond merchants and now sauntered to the display of fruit at one of the tables. He picked up a large ripe strawberry, popped it in his mouth, and his eyes closed in what could easily be taken as post-orgasmic bliss. Elrond smiled. That brief moment revealed an Erestor he seldom saw.

Bercalion entered through the soaring archway of white stonework at the end of the Hall and announced, “Lord Glorfindel, formerly of the House of the Golden Flower in King Turgon’s court in Gondolin!” Voices stilled and all eyes turned and fastened upon a figure standing just within the shadows of the archway. Then he came into Anor’s light and Elrond’s throat caught. There were soft gasps and sighs all around, like fluttering moth wings.

The king’s wardrober, Darthor, had done a brilliant job of dressing him, Elrond thought. Tasteful, lordly even, but not too flashy. Glorfindel stood, blinking slightly, tall and as beautiful as the westering light, with his radiant hair spilling over his shoulders. Sapphires were twined into numerous small braids pulled behind his head, but otherwise he wore no jewelry. Cinched by a soft gold-embroidered sash, he wore a dark blue robe over a richly figured cream-colored tunic, which ended mid-calf over black leather boots.

Glorfindel paused and looked around uncertainly, apparently not knowing what to do with his hands, when his attention focused on something across the room. Erestor. The king’s intelligencer had frozen in the act of popping another strawberry in his mouth. Interesting, Elrond thought.

“Our hero appears in need of rescue,” Brethil remarked.

“Very astute, my lady. We’ll talk more later,” Elrond remarked, disentangling himself. He headed towards Glorfindel, only to see that Gil-galad was doing the same and had reached him first among a tangle of others.

“Greetings, my lord,” the king said. “Welcome. Let me introduce you to our guests.” He took Glorfindel’s elbow and turned to the assembled crowd of about three dozen elves, who were staring owl-like at them.

As Elrond joined them, he heard Glorfindel say, “I know him. Unless there are two alike. Isn’t that . . .?”

Elrond bowed. “Good eve, Glorfindel. Yes, that is Erestor, who serves as the king’s courier. Did you know him from before?” Across the room, Erestor’s face looked bleakly hungry, as if seeing a sumptuous meal through a locked window.

Glorfindel swallowed. “Aye, I believe so. I need to see him.”

“I am happy to introduce or rather re-introduce you,” Elrond said. Gil-galad nodded.

But a press of elves intervened, coming over to meet Glorfindel and surrounding him. After stopping several times to make introductions, they reached the table with the fruit. But Erestor had vanished.

Glorfindel looked about in confusion.

“Perhaps he had an errand,” Elrond said kindly. “Come, I’ll introduce you to Lord Heledir and his wife, Lady Lendis.”

**********

While waiting for the arrival of the mysterious emissary from across the seas, Erestor chatted with some of the delegation from Forlond and then noticed a table laden with fresh and dried fruits including his absolute favorite, strawberries! How had Gil acquired them so soon? Must be from the hot house the king built last year. Erestor plucked a juicy ripe berry from the dozens that spilled from a wicker horn and savored it. Ah, a song for the mouth! He must seek out the gardener for congratulations. A memory tugged at his thoughts, as he selected another. Then he heard the servant announce Glorfindel, who came into the room, blinking in the golden light that streamed in through the windows. Fin looked around and his eyes locked onto Erestor and widened. Erestor’s heart fluttered as if butterflies were caged within. He held the strawberry suspended. The king and Elrond, along with the rest of the crowd surged over to greet the warrior, impossibly returned. It was too much, too public, too overwhelming. Erestor fled.

He entered his rooms, closed the door, poked up coals in his fireplace. Retrieving a green bottle of wine from his cabinet, he uncorked it, poured himself a glass, red as blood, and flopped unceremoniously into the big armchair by the renewed fire. One by one, he drew the jeweled clips from his hair and tossed them on the table. Erestor knew his strengths and he was nothing if not competent. Normally, he could handle any situation. He could be charming and disarming; he could pull information from reluctant sources. Cool and calculating and skilled with knife and sword, he could handle himself in a deadly situation. But this. . . not this.

He gulped some wine, welcoming the tart, oaky taste. He hadn’t actually believed it would be Glorfindel, even after Círdan’s assurance that it was. But this newcomer was exactly the Glorfindel he remembered: tall, broad shoulders, and graceful carriage, his prominent nose, high cheek-bones, and delicious lips, and those brilliant eyes, the color of the evening sky, made even bluer by that robe he’d been wearing. Although Círdan was right, he did seem more ill at ease than he remembered, holding himself stiffly. Understandable, perhaps. Erestor had little idea of what a sojourn in Badhron’s Halls would do to someone. But he imagined it would not have contributed to a sense of reality.

Erestor mused that he shouldn’t have run away like that. It was so unlike him, except perhaps it was just like him. Unbidden and unwanted, memories were trying to surface. Gondolin. The source of nightmares that yammered in the shadowy, midnight hours, even after so long. An aching dread. A time where he had been tested and found wanting. He should have died there.

For many long years even before retreating to the hidden city, he’d been an aid to Turgon, both as a scribe and a warrior, and then after Idril and Tuor were married, by her wish, Erestor became a member of her household, a weapons master and a tutor to their young son, Eärendil. He soon found himself in love with that delightful, laughing child, so smart and ahead of his years—his quick grasp of instruction a source of pride. Erestor wanted nothing more than to protect him from anything that might harm him.

But long before that, before Tuor came as emissary from Ulmo, Erestor had known the glorious Glorfindel, head of the House of the Golden Flower and watched him from afar. They had been friends and compatriots, united in their love for their city and its safe-keeping. Their relationship had been respectful, always somewhat distant. Deeper feelings had grown over time, but those Erestor buried, as he knew it was Ecthelion of the Fountain who held Fin’s heart. How often had Glorfindel taken him into his confidence when he and Ecthelion had disagreements, and Erestor had given him advice, while longing for that same devotion.

Then, that night, while all Gondolin prepared for the Gates of Summer ceremony, Erestor shared a bed with Morgil, a member of the king’s guard. Afterward, they came out into the gardens and stood leaning shoulders together, as they admired the trees lit with silver lamps, and listened to the faint piping of flutes. His city, so beautiful. It was quiet with no sound of speech, waiting for dawn. Watching Morgil’s radiant face, Erestor believed he had at last found love. “Look Erestor,” Morgil whispered, breaking the silence. “What is that!”

An ominous red glow illuminated the rim of the mountains. But it was wrong, so wrong, coming as it was from the north! Soon the snow-capped peaks had turned blood-red. Voices cried out in fear.

Watching the fire glowing in his hearth, it seemed Erestor couldn’t stop the memories from coming. He shifted in his chair, finished the glass and poured another. He saw again the horror of writhing serpents amidst teaming black hordes pouring into his valley. Then began the fighting.

Desperately, he was running behind Tuor. Sharp-eyed Maeglin stood on the battlements of the city, hoisting a kicking and screaming Eärendil over his head, while Idril beat Maeglin with her fists, calling for help. Erestor’s terror made him sprint all the faster. His heart, thundering in his chest, seemed loud enough to be heard over the din of cries, roaring beasts, and swords clashing against shields. But even louder was Tuor’s anguished cry. Erestor saw the flash of a knife stab at Eärendil and felt ill with horror, but then Maeglin screamed in anger, raising his hand, and Eärendil was flung to the side. Tuor gained the battlements in a great leap, smote Maeglin a terrible blow to the arm, knocking him askew. Idril pulled her son away. With uncanny strength, Tuor lifted Maeglin overhead and hurled him from the battlements. Erestor did not see his end as he now fought for all their lives, for that sweet child, against Maeglin’s men. Traitors! His fury made him incandescent.

He remembered standing exhausted with a dripping sword; heard Tuor bid him and Voronwë stay and guard Idril and Eärendil, while he went to fight for the city. But once Idil had recovered herself, she insisted she would follow her husband and she put Eärendil’s little hand into his, saying, “My most loyal Erestor, I commend him to your care. Take him through the secret way as far from here as you can. We shall try to catch up.” He would never forget the look she gave them both, her conflicted fear and longing as she stretched out her hand towards her white-faced son, and then ran off with Voronwë on her heels.

Determined that young Eärendil might live, Erestor did as she bade him, although he should have been fighting to protect the king. With maybe a dozen warriors and members of Tuor’s household, he led them carrying torches through the rough-hewn tunnel. It seemed to go on forever until they finally exited out onto the plain near a league from besieged Gondolin and in the light of mid-morning, saw the agony of the flaming city, partially enveloped in a strange fog. His young charge wept and clung to him, amidst the sounds of roaring beasts and booming crashes as towers toppled into rubble. His beautiful city. How could this have happened? He had no doubt who had betrayed them. No curse was strong enough for that traitor! Erestor should have known and should have been able to prevent this!

He remembered saying, “Eärendil, my lad, we must away. Do not weep, your father and mother are both valiant and they know the secret way. I know they will follow us.” But Eärendil sniffed, “I can run no further, Restor.” So, he bade their servant, Hendor, lift Eärendil to his shoulders and Erestor led the way again, as the terrible daylight grew.

On they ran, until sighted by warg riders, who chased them across the plain. Exhausted, Erestor finally turned, and gathering what was left of their number together, prepared to make a last desperate stand, putting the child behind him. Then, beyond all hope, Tuor and his company appeared. Among them, to Erestor’s profound relief, strode Glorfindel and the remnants of his House. Glorfindel’s fair face and armor were soiled with blood and ash and he seemed weary. But he was alive. And together they slew the wargs. None of the enemy followed as the drakes and serpents and orcs seemed bent on Gondolin’s destruction. ***

They hid all that day in a small dell at the mountains’ foot, crouched in the hazel brush, where Erestor heard the terrible tidings from various voices, who together painted a picture of how their friends had fallen, including Duilin, Penlod, Rog, and brave Ecthelion who sacrificed himself to slay Gothmog, chief of the Balrogs, and of the death of Turgon, King of the Noldor. With a dulled heart, Erestor learned of the valiant fall of his lover, Morgil, as he defended the entrance to the king’s tower. At length, when they could speak no more from weariness and sorrow, Glorfindel sagged against him, weeping on his shoulder. In time, he slept, breathing gently in Erestor's arms. Using his sleeve to dry Fin’s tear-stained face and clean away the smoky grime, Erestor impulsively leaned forward and brushed his lips against Fin’s mouth, murmuring gratitude to the Valar that at least he had been delivered.

At dusk, they awoke and began to climb the pass. A hard, dreadful climb, where, fearing to light torches, they often stumbled and nearly slid into the deeps. For some hours, he thought they might yet escape. They reached the cleft in the rock where the stream, Thoronsîr, poured noisily into a dark canyon below. Suddenly there came cries and ringing swords from above; rocks began to bombard them and a troop of orcs appeared below. They were entrapped! Erestor shielded Idril and Eärendil from the missiles, as they dodged and hid behind boulders. Peeping out from their shelter, Erestor saw the nightmare come leaping up the path below them: a Balrog of Morgoth: huge, bestial, brandishing a giant sword, and whirling his flaming whip with a whooshing sound. Roaring, he crashed, striking this way and that, into the crowd of women and children, who scattered, but some fell and lay still. Idril clutched Eärendil to her chest, covering his eyes, and Erestor thought, 'this is it then.' He drew his sword.

The Balrog leapt to the top of some boulders on the edge of the abyss and stood, silhouetted in the ruddy light of his own fire. And there, fair and desperate, Glorfindel, stood alone, facing this adversary many times his size, denying him the way forward. Before Erestor’s horrified eyes, in an act of superlative bravery, Glorfindel sacrificed himself to save them all.

Erestor should have run to Glorfindel’s aid; engaged the Balrog from the other side and distracted him, or pushed his valiant friend aside and battled the creature in Glorfindel's stead. He should have done anything other than cower behind a boulder, stricken by terror—unable to move.

How he wished he could return to a simpler time in fair Gondolin, before its horrific fall. How he longed for that brief moment of respite, lying under the ragged brush with Glorfindel in his arms.

Erestor covered his eyes with a hand and wept, as the candles slowly burnt down to pools of wax, and one by one, green bottles accumulated on the floor.

---

Chapter End Notes

Bercalion (S) Bright pledge
Brethil (S) Beech. Also the name of the forest west of Doriath that in this story lies under the wave.
Caranor (S) Red Fire
Evair (S) Avari
Heledir (S) Kingfisher
Lendis (S) Journeying woman
Morgil (S) Dark Star

**Note: On Brethil saying “And I don’t even dream under that light.” Credit for this idea goes to elf-boi who described his ideas about how elves might refer to varied sexual attraction, in an essay called “What light do you dream under?” Full explanation and proper responses here: https://elf-boi.com/blogs/elvish-freebies/what-light-do-you-dream-under-an-elvish-metaphor-for-lgbtqia2s

***Note: Erestor’s memories, with some variation from the official accounts, are drawn extensively from Tolkien’s early version of “The Fall of Gondolin.” J.R.R. Tolkien, ed. By Christopher Tolkien. The Book of Lost Tales, part II, Ballantine Books, NY, 1984.

Love, Sex, and Hang-overs

Chapter summary: Gil-galad and Elrond decide Erestor needs a companion for his intelligence gathering foray. They have a certain golden-haired warrior in mind.

Read Love, Sex, and Hang-overs

“Ah, by the Belain, that’s good,” Elrond gasped, as Gil’s mouth bobbed up and down relentlessly on his cock. Gil paused, looked up slyly, and licked with flattened tongue all the way up and down Elrond’s reddened member, then engulfed him again, a sensation that was . . . Elrond had no words. Then his lover resumed the punishing pace. Elrond’s need was building . . . just that much more and . . . “please, please,” he moaned as his head dropped against the heaped pillows and he thrust his hips forward.

Abruptly Gil’s mouth left him. “Uh, no, no, no, not yet,” Elrond cried, grabbing Gil's hair, trying to return the king's mouth to his throbbing member.

“Do not fear, my pet; I’ll take care of you,” Gil said, as he extricated his hair from Elrond’s fist. Rising to his knees, Gil grasped Elrond’s thighs and lifted him up. Elrond felt the pressure as his lover breached him and then he was skewered deep. The pain was brief, the stretch and sizzling heat of being so filled remarkable, and then Gil was thrusting, hair swinging back and forth, sending shocks of pleasure throughout Elrond’s loins, urging him to greater and greater heights. Elrond grasped Gil’s waist with his knees, locked his ankles behind Gil’s arse, and aided the action, in and out, deep as Gil’s cock might go.

“Yes, yes,” Elrond cried. On the brink, he took hold of his cock to aid the effort.

And then, blessed release, spattering over his own belly and chest. Elrond’s spirit soared, curling around his lover in utter fulfillment, meeting there both euphoria and unequivocal love. Gil snapped his hips forward, and his mouth dropped open with a guttural cry. He lowered Elrond’s legs, and pumped more gently, rotating his hips as if to press out every ounce of Elrond’s release. Then he groaned, pulled out, and crashed down on the bed—where they both lay sweaty and gasping.

Gil turned on his side, drew Elrond’s mouth to his and kissed him, long and deep. “There,” he said. “That do the trick?”

“More than I could have thought possible,” Elrond breathed, as sparks danced like fireflies throughout his body. “You, my lord, are a magician.”

“Rather I think it’s you getting inside my head. It’s just uncanny with you. Never felt anything like it.” Gil lay back on the pillow.

Elrond reached over and ran a finger over the mound of smooth pectorals, pausing to play with a tightly furled nipple. Then he kissed Gil once again, rose and fetched a wet rag, which he used to clean them both off.

Gil took Elrond’s hand, raised it to his lips, then drew the quilt over them. And there they lay for a time, quietly content, listening to the soft shushing of waves in the distance.

Nestled close to his warmth, Elrond began thinking back on the events of the evening. “Hmm, Gil, I’m curious. If you ran into someone you knew, let’s say from your time on Balar, that you hadn’t seen in an age, what would your reaction be upon seeing them again?”

“No doubt, I would have gone over with a big grin and a hand ready to clasp theirs,” Gil said. He raised himself on an elbow. “But that isn’t what happened, is it.”

“Not at all. I’ve never seen Erestor run from an encounter like that,” Elrond said. “I have to wonder about their relationship . . . before.” He coughed. “Dry throat, must have been all that moaning.”

“I love your moaning,” Gil chuckled as he moved to pour them both goblets of water from the ewer on the bedside table. “Do you think they were enemies in Gondolin?”

“Ah, thank you. No, that wasn’t the sense I got. Rather it was one of embarrassment and panic.”

“Huh,” said Gil. “Perhaps it indicates a depth of feeling Erestor hasn’t revealed before. I don’t like mysteries, especially regarding my intelligencer. What should we do about it?”

“Well, when I took Glorfindel aside last night after the banquet, he had no clear explanation for why the Belain sent him. Just said he was taken into the Máhanaxar, where they all sat in a circle about him and Badhron announced that it was his doom to return to Ennor. They wouldn’t say more.”

“That was what he told me when he first arrived. And completely believable, given everything I’ve heard about the Belain,” Gil replied. “Inscrutable to say the least.”

“But remember what Erestor told us about darkness seeping up from the south and his desire to investigate further?”

Gil nodded. “I can see where you’re headed with this.”

“Yes, I think we should send them to investigate. We don’t want to send a whole company, would draw too much attention. We do need someone skilled at arms, but able to be discreet. Erestor could use someone at his back.”

“Discreet, you say. We’d have to provide a helm to cover up Fin’s hair!” Gil laughed. “Wasn’t it stunning though! For once the songs have not embellished the reality.”

“You’re one to talk,” Elrond said, as he twisted one of Gil’s shining locks around his finger.

“My weapons master told me today that Glorfindel needed some more conditioning,” Gil mused. “And Glorfindel himself said this evening that he was out of practice.”

“I know someone who could get him back in training quite nicely,” Elrond said. “That would force them into proximity, prepare them to work together. Solves both problems.”

“We have the same thought, my dove,” Gil said. “I delegate the task to you, as I’m due to meet with petitioners from Harlond today, something about a squabble over fishing rights.”

“Very well, I’ll see to it,” Elrond sighed. “Once I’ve bathed and dressed.”

“We make a good team,” Gil replied, kissing him gently on the lips.

************

Knocking at Erestor’s door, Elrond received a groaning reply. He entered a darkened room, drapes drawn. Three wine bottles and a glass lay haphazardly on the floor along with a pile of clothing near a cold fireplace. Jeweled hairclips lay on the table, stuck in pools of candle wax. Hmm. Normally, Erestor was fastidiously neat, to a fault really. An Erestor-sized lump lay prone in the bed, covers pulled over his head. Elrond went over to the window and pushed aside the drapes, letting in morning sunshine. There was a view of one of the many gardens in the adjacent courtyard. The sky was blue. It looked to be a pleasant day.

“Ah no, don’t,” came a graveled voice from the bed.

“Arise, Erestor, duty calls,” Elrond said jovially.

There was a irritated hissing sound, exactly like an angry cat. Elrond went to a side table, poured a cup of water from a pitcher, then sat down on the bed next to the lump. He tugged down the blanket, revealing a disheveled Erestor with distinctly dark circles under his eyes, who raised a hand to fend off the light. The smell of wine was unmistakable.

“My dear Erestor,” said Elrond. “You may do what you like in the way of abusing your body on your own time, but now the king has a task for you.”

“I can’t have even one day off?” Erestor grumbled.

“No rest for the wicked, it’s said,” Elrond replied. “Do you want to know what he wishes?”

“Only if he’s sending me off again, far away,” Erestor said. He opened one eye. “What is that hammering?”

“Since I hear naught, I can only guess it’s your head, my friend, after some over-indulgence with the grapes.” Elrond handed him the cup of water, then said more kindly, “Do you wish to talk about it?”

Erestor half sat up, drained the cup, handed it back, then dropped face-first back into the pillow. “No.”

“Hmm, I sense a desire to avoid confronting something. Could it perhaps have to do with a reborn hero suddenly arriving at the House?”

“It’s my own concern,” Erestor said. He turned his head to the side and covered his eyes with one long hand. “Draw the drapes again, healer, and leave me to my own devices.”

“No, my friend. Best cure for a hang-over is cold water in the face, a dram of the beast that caused the problem in the first place, and exercise. If you get up, I’ll bring my special hang-over cure before you go to help our re-embodied friend warm up.”

“Wrong man for that task,” Erestor said.

“Are you planning to refuse a direct order from your king?”

“Urrgh,” Erestor growled.

Elrond rose, found a towel, poured some water over it, and brought it back to the bed. “Turn over,” he said briskly. When Erestor did, Elrond laid the wet cloth over his eyes. “Now then,” he said. “I don’t know what is behind this, my friend, but I do know that facing one’s fears is always the better approach. Tell me, what is causing you pain?”

“Pain? Nothing. I just . . .overindulged a bit last night. As you said.”

“Don’t dissemble,” Elrond said. “I know you, Erestor, and you rarely drink, certainly not to excess. Something is causing this. What exactly was your relationship with Glorfindel in Gondolin?”

“He was . . . a good friend,” Erestor said. “He died. I did nothing to prevent it.”

“And you feel guilty about that?”

Erestor ground his teeth.

Elrond gently laid a hand on his shoulder and could sense depths of anguish.“So many of us have experienced terrible tragedy in the age now gone. And none of us are unscathed. Don’t you think Glorfindel could use a friend now? Someone who knew him in better times? Someone who shared his sacrifice?”

Erestor pulled the cloth from his eyes with a groan. “What does the king command? Be brief.”

“That’s better. Ereinion Gil-galad desires that you train with Glorfindel to get him back into fighting shape. And then that you take him on your next foray south and east. We believe he could be an asset. Brief enough?”

There was a long beat of silence. Erestor sighed. “I shall do as the king commands.”

“Good,” Elrond said. “And Erestor, a wound does not heal if there is still something festering within. Best to lance and drain it. So it is with the spirit. Give it light and joy to cleanse the darkness and sorrow.”

“I hear you, Counselor,” Erestor said. “But, you see, my wound has festered so long that it is well-nigh overtaken my heart.”

“Then it is high time to expose it to the air. I believe, my friend, that Glorfindel’s arrival is part of a larger plan, in which you have a part to play.”

“If the Belain have a plan, it is beyond obscure and riddled with a self-satisfied disinterest in the affairs of Ennor,” Erestor grumbled. He threw back the covers, revealing himself still wearing a black undertunic from last night, tangled about his legs. Struggling upright on the pillows, he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Elrond, I am not fit for company at present. Therefore, I am going forthwith to dunk my head in a basin of cold water.”

Elrond patted his arm. “I’ve already spoken to Glorfindel, who you might be interested to know, seemed as reluctant with this arrangement as you. You’ll find him practicing in the eastern rose garden just before the mid-morning bell.”

******************
While immersing his face in cold water, Erestor had time to consider his behavior last night and to be ashamed. He’d been thinking only of himself and had failed to imagine what this whole situation must be like for Glorfindel. No doubt Elrond was right, Glorfindel might need a friend. He just didn’t know if he were up to the task, which would likely involve opening wounds, denying his affections, and trying to act as if the past two millennia had not happened.

Nevertheless, still with a fogged brain, Erestor dressed in a padded tunic, gauntlets and greaves, and armed with a wooden sparring sword, headed toward a lush rose garden, surrounded by a stone wall. During summer it was a beautiful, fragrant place to come practice. This time of year, it was rather bleak. Withered and brown, the tangle of thorny branches made a barrier between the wall and the open space in the center of the garden. At least it was out of the wind, which was picking up. The day, which had started out fine this morning, was growing overcast, something Erestor found appropriate to his mood.

In a few days, he was due to meet his informant in the town several leagues down the coast from Mithlond. He could see the wisdom in having a warrior to back him, given the potential for trouble. But if Glorfindel’s skills had deteriorated that much, perhaps he’d best go alone.

He climbed a series of steps and entered through a gate. There, upon flagstones in the center of the garden, Glorfindel was practicing a slow series of martial moves, exercises designed to stretch and tone the muscles. Erestor’s breath caught at his beauty in motion. The warrior wore only a laced leather vest and a white tunic that reached mid-thigh, his strong arms and legs bare. His long golden hair swirled after him as he pivoted. There was no one in all of Arda like him. For a moment, Erestor paused to still his beating heart. Then he cleared his throat loudly.

Glorfindel turned. He lowered his wooden waster. “My Lord Erestor. I was told you would come.”

“And here I am,” Erestor said, bowing. “Not a lord though, but a humble servant. My king bade me attend you, as you’d told him you were out of practice. Since I have no experience of the Halls, I did not know that would be the case.”

“Sadly, it is so,” Glorfindel said. He looked off in the distance, as if remembering something or trying to. “I must ask, why are you so formal, Erestor? Are you not pleased to see me? For my part, I am quite pleased to see you, alive and healthy after so long a time and would gladly sit and learn more from you.”

“I am pleased to see you returned, beyond all hope,” Erestor said. “And you appear whole and not permanently damaged, for which I am grateful. But it has indeed been a very long time. Perhaps longer in seeming for me than for you. Much has changed.”

“I’ve been in your king’s library the past few days studying the changes and attempting to catch up,” Fin said, with a slight smile. “I read an account by loremaster Pengolodh of the doom of our fair city. It has re-awakened . . . feelings. Feelings I thought had been purged. So, after a long journey by sea and suddenly finding myself here, you’ll forgive me if I seem not quite myself, or at least the self that you knew once upon a time.”

So, Glorfindel was going through something similar. Erestor should have known, should have been more sympathetic. He inclined his head. “In turn, I ask that you forgive my hasty departure at the banquet last night. I had . . . errands. Shall we commence then? This afternoon, I should begin to prepare for a trip.”

“I am yours to command, as I have nothing more to do than get lost in your king’s labyrinthian dwelling. I ask that you go easy on me.” Glorfindel did smile then, and Erestor saw a glimmer of his old friend.

“And I have a sore head, which I deeply regret,” Erestor replied. “So perhaps we are evenly matched. On your guard, then.”

Glorfindel took a stance and so did Erestor. He tapped Fin’s waster with his, as they slowly circled one another.

“Well then, with the object of becoming reacquainted, may I ask what is your role here?” Glorfindel asked.

“Anything the king needs of me,” Erestor said. “Counselor, envoy to other enclaves, training recruits, record-keeping, intelligence gathering, general factotum, and apparently getting an elf returned from Aman back into shape.”

“I always knew you to have many talents,” Glorfindel said. He brought the sword forward and they engaged with a dull clacking sound: high, low, and retreat. “I wonder what is to be my use here?”

“Did not Badhon, the Doomsman, tell you what they had in mind when they released you?”

“Nay, not so much, as I told both your king and Elrond,” Glorfindel said. He sounded dispirited.

“Perhaps you could search your memory and tell me exactly what transpired?”

“Do you have cause to doubt me, Erestor? After all we’ve been through together?”

“I have learned in this life to doubt everything and everyone, including myself,” Erestor said. “My true role here? I am the king’s huntsman, the one who works to keep this realm safe. I shall not let what happened . . .” He trailed off.

Glorfindel ceased moving. “Happen again? Do you think that you, Erestor, had the power to stop Gondolin’s doom? If so, you failed miserably.”

“I failed miserably.” Erestor circled, and then aimed for Fin’s padded shoulder. Fin neatly side-stepped and countered him. Good. Erestor said, “I suspected Maeglin from the beginning, especially knowing who his father was. The acorn doesn’t fall too far from the tree, they say. And when he returned after that extended sojourn, getting “lost” in the mountains, we all should have insisted he be fully interrogated, until he finally confessed what happened.” Erestor felt the anger, never assuaged, building up within him. He clenched the hilt of the sword, not good for technique.

Heavy drops of rain began pattering in the brush around them. Several hit Erestor on the head and back.

“We should have done that, aye,” Glorfindel said wearily. “We should have listened to Tuor’s missive from Ulmo. So many things we should have done. On this and more have I thought, long and without comfort.” His breath was coming harder, as Erestor struck again. Back and forth they flew, the blows coming harder and faster. Glorfindel was still very strong, but Erestor had never seen him so imprecise.

“Keep your arm up, Fin,” Erestor said.

“You should be the last person I should have to prove myself to,” Glorfindel said.

Just then, the rain came down with a steady percussion, completely soaking everything. Glorfindel looked up at the sky. “This is just perfect,” he said. He threw his waster on ground that was rapidly becoming muddy.

“Oh no, you don’t. The king bade me get you ready to fight, and by the Belain that’s what I shall do,” Erestor cried. “You’re going to be so strong, not even a mountain troll will daunt you! Pick it up again.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Fin said.

“Keep fighting, warrior. Don’t let a little rain stop you.” Erestor moved towards him and raised his sword. Glorfindel lunged to scoop up the waster, raised it in time to meet Erestor’s blow. They swiped, ducked, and hacked at each other back and forth across the ground in the pouring rain.

Glorfindel struck Erestor’s waster so hard that it flew from his hands, clattering on stones. Erestor lost his temper. He leapt on Fin, grasped him about the waist and bore him backwards to the ground, landing on top of him. They grappled, rolled, and kicked. Then a line of pain sliced across Erestor's cheek and he discovered that they’d landed in the midst of the great rose hedge and were now flailing about amidst the thorny branches.

“Ow!” Erestor yelped as his tunic was held fast in the brambles. There was a ripping sound. “By Badhron's britches,” he snarled

Glorfindel began to chuckle. "Britches or no, I'm caught,” he said. Indeed, his hair was entangled in the brush. He tied to pull free, to no avail.

Erestor burst into laughter, tried to force his way to a stand and instead fell with a squelch in the mud. They both roared, as the rain drenched them.

“Hoo, here, let me help you,” Glorfindel said, still chuckling. He pulled at Erestor’s tunic and managed to free it from the brambles but the linen ripped up his thigh, exposing his whole leg past his braes. Erestor’s cheeks heated when he saw Fin looking at him.

“That hair,” Erestor said, “always causing trouble.”

“Indeed, they cut it in the Halls,” Glorfindel said. “Although perhaps that was part of my lessons in humility. So, I grew it as soon as they released me to Valmar.”

Erestor laughed again. “The lessons stuck, then, did they?” He was trying to untangle Glorfindel’s hair. “Perhaps this is another of their lessons as I’m afraid this is going to hurt.” He gave a great tug and Glorfindel yelped, as his head pulled free. Clumps of yellow hair hung in the brush.

“That lacked subtlety,” Fin said, rubbing his head. “But was effective.”

They proceeded to crawl out from the clinging brush, at great cost to their clothing.

“I don’t think this is what the king had in mind when he bade me spar with you,” Erestor was still laughing, as he sat on the flagstones in the courtyard and examined them both. They had scratches on arms and face and legs, and their tunics were rent.

Glorfindel pushed muddy locks from his face. “Probably not, king’s huntsman. You look like you’ve been attacked by a large and angry cat.”

“That same cat seemed to have taken a swipe at you, too.” Erestor clapped Glorfindel on the back. “My good and dear old friend, I’d say the weather has conspired against our practice. What say you that we get cleaned up, and meet by a fire so I can fill you in on what has been happening in our realm these last few years.”

Glorfindel nodded. “That sounds like a reasonable proposal. Is there such a thing as a hot bath around here?”

“What, have you been washing with cold water?” Erestor exclaimed. “Someone surely should have shown you the baths.”

Glorfindel shook his head. “A servant said something, but I didn’t know where it was.”

“I can take you. You’ll like them.” Erestor stood, held a hand out for Fin, who grasped it, then fell back again, pulling Erestor down on top of him. Their laughter echoed about the walls.

---

Chapter End Notes

Badhron (S) - Mandos or Námo (Q)

Healing

Chapter summary: After their sparring match, Erestor and Glorfindel open up to each other.

Read Healing

Still laughing, Erestor led Glorfindel back to his rooms to clean the worst of the mess and to secure some clothes. He provided Fin with a basin and a cloth, then pawed through his wardrobe looking for clothes that would fit him. “We’re of a size, although you may fill out my clothes better,” Erestor said.

Glorfindel looked up, water dripping from his face into the basin. “I seem doomed to wear others’ clothes. Last night it was the king’s.”

“An honor certainly, but we do need to get you your own wardrobe,” Erestor said. “I can take you to the tailors’ quarter in town and we’ll outfit you.”

“I am most appreciative for all the kindness I’ve been shown. The gathering last night . . . everyone was so interested in talking to me. I’m not used to that.”

“Are you surprised?” Erestor said. “You’re a hero of song and story.”

Glorfindel looked abashed. “I dearly wish I weren’t.” He pulled off his leather vest and shivered in his wet tunic, which had molded itself agreeably to his body.

Erestor handed him a warm robe. “Here, take that off and put this on. I’ll go in the next room.”

“No need. As I recall, you’ve seen me naked before this.” Glorfindel gave him a half-smile.

Indeed Erestor recalled a trip they’d taken together to scout out paths east over the Echoriath. After a hot and sweaty climb, they’d taken a dip in one of the many pools in the stream tumbling down the hillside. When Erestor slipped off his braes, he remembered Fin's appraising glance, similar to the one he'd just given him. They’d wandered naked on the banks and found clusters of strawberries under the bracken, which they’d both thoroughly enjoyed. “The day with the strawberries,” Erestor said.

Glorfindel smiled at him. “I never saw anyone savor one with such delight before. That is, until last night at the banquet.”

“Ah,” Erestor said. “Well, perhaps we can ask one of the gardeners for some more. But first, you must enjoy the baths.” Turning away to stuff more clothes in a bag, he heard Glorfindel’s tunic hit the floor with a soft slap. When he looked back, Fin had donned the robe, sky-blue, and was tying the cord around his waist. His wet hair straggled over his shoulders, a scratch visible over one eyebrow. He was so lovely.

They followed the hallway that opened onto a courtyard with covered colonnades on either side. It was still raining heavily. From there, up a flight of stairs until they reached a landing with large wooden doors. They entered a vaulted room with carved stonework. There was a salty smell like the seashore.

“The changing room is just here,” Erestor said, pushing open another door. “Come.”

The room with its numerous cubicles and hooks for clothing had a few naked bathers getting dressed at the other end. Erestor picked up some towels, which he set on a bench, then pulled off his wet tunic, leggings, and braes, while Glorfindel hung up his robe, revealing rather a lot of pale skin. Erestor looked. He couldn’t help himself. Fin was thinner than he remembered, with less finely developed musculature, but still lithe, graceful, with those broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs. But when he turned away to slip off his braes, Erestor gasped. Barely seen in the light of the candle-lit globes, was a fine silvery line, like a snake wriggling down his back, ending in a spiral just above his arse. A line that had not been there before.

“What is that on your back!” Erestor cried.

“Skin, or it was last I noticed.” Fin wrapped the towel about his waist. “And yes, I know. My cousin told me about it when we’d stripped off to go swimming in the ocean. It’s the mark of the Balrog’s whip.”

“Why would Badhron leave that there!” Erestor exclaimed.

“No doubt he thought I needed the reminder.” Glorfindel shrugged. “Although I can assure you, I do not. It doesn’t hurt.”

“I hate them,” Erestor declared. “Come on then. First the cold pool to rinse, then the hot one to soak in. Follow me.”

*********

On the way in, Erestor showed Glorfindel how pumps kept the water circulating, a mix of sea water and water from the aquifer. He explained that the floor stayed warm due to fires that heated tiles underneath. Together, they looked at the mosaic along the wall depicting events from Noldorin history, and remarked on a few of the scenes, skipping the ones from Gondolin. They gasped upon jumping into the cold pool, before heading for the hot one. Whenever Erestor's glance landed on the Balrog’s mark on Fin’s back, his heart ached.

“We had nothing like this in Gondolin,” Glorfindel observed. He dropped his towel and slid gracefully into the steaming pool, settled onto the bench beneath the water, leaned back against the lip, and sighed.

“Scarcity was the reason. Not enough water coming into the valley.”

“Gondolin’s fountains were so beautiful,” Glorfindel said sadly. “All of it gone now.”

Erestor splashed into the pool himself, feeling his whole body relax with the heat. He positioned himself a few feet away from Fin. “Aren’t you glad I brought you here?”

Glorfindel closed his eyes. “Aye. The trip over the sea was so cold and windy. Many nights my bones ached for warmth such as this.”

“Well, hopefully this makes up for it. If it becomes too hot, jump back into the cold pool.”

The ever-present shushing of water pouring from a wide lip into the pool was soothing. The fog in Erestor’s head from his over-indulgence last night had finally cleared. There was a feeling of anticipation, of something drawing the two of them together. He tried not to read anything into it.

For a while, it was quiet, but for the hush, ripple, and drip of water. Erestor had to know. He drifted closer until he and Fin were nearly touching shoulders. “Glorfindel, did you meet Ecthelion and the others who perished—in the Halls, I mean? You all went there around the same time. I just wondered.”

Glorfindel nodded. “I did. But not for a long time and by the time Thel and I saw each other . . . I don’t know how to say this, but it was as if all emotion had been leached from us." He shook his head sadly. "I was numb.There was whispering, and foggy lights, and muffled darkness. I don’t remember much else. No sense of time passing. And Námo, whom you now call Badhron, would come and talk to us, telling us everything we’d done wrong in life and how to improve ourselves. Then one day, he pulled me from sleep, and said, ‘It’s now time to leave here.’ I asked, ‘where will I go?’ He said, ‘to Valmar. You can stay with kin.’ When I got there, I felt estranged, although my family tried to be kind to me. They had no idea what it had been like and didn’t want to know, not really. No one is comfortable with death, especially the undying. And I had been gone for so long, and had followed the Kinslayers, even though I assured them I took no part in it, I was still tainted. I was there for what seemed like a very long time.”

“What did you do?”

“Studied. Hunted. Rode. Explored. I was never much interested in crafts, so I wasn’t involved too much in making things. I tried, became good at gardening, twisting cordage for rope, and at baking. I can make tasty waybread.” He flashed white teeth in a smile that warmed Erestor more than the steaming water. “As you know, I spent my life training for war and there are no wars in Valinor. There are certainly disagreements, which may lead to people not speaking to each other. But the Valar permit no one to take up arms. Not after Fëanáro.”

“That is to the good,” Erestor said. “Because there are certainly wars here and I dearly wish there were not. Could that be why they sent you back, a trained warrior? Do you know why they chose you, of all the fallen heroes?”

“Do you think I have not been asking myself that?” Glorfindel said, with some irritation. “I do not know the answer. But when I was leaving, Nienna took me aside. She told me that I should be assured that I was the right person coming at the right time and that my purpose would unfold. But, she warned, I would be free to make my own choices, which may or may not be the correct ones.”

“So your path is set before your feet and yet you may stray from it. Marvelous,” Erestor said.

“I think that I was meant to find you. Why, I do not know, but I have a strong feeling about it.”

“I'd like to think that’s true,” Erestor said, not wanting to acknowledge the hope that sprang within, because he needed to unburden himself of his terrible secret, which might be the end of their friendship. He steeled himself. “Fin, you have to know. That night on the Pass, I failed you and I deeply regret it.”

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“I should have come to your aid, but did not. I’ve thought of this often, how I might have distracted Morgoth's creature, rallied others to fight and save you. Done something more than what I did.”

“Ah,” Glorfindel said. “Were you close to where that beast and I fought?”

“Up the path, maybe several hundred feet.”

“Was your way clear?”

Erestor considered. “Many others were between us, including orcs, but yes I think I could have reached you.”

“Hmm, were you not tasked by Lady Idril to care for young Eärendil? At least that’s what I remember from our night hiding under the brush.”

“I was, but . . .”

“Erestor, it happened so quickly. And our foe was so overwhelming. Most likely, it would simply have meant your death as well, and that, on top of Ecthelion’s and all our other valiant comrades, I do not think I could have borne it. The choice you made was better. And if you want to know about guilt, I have plenty to share with you. When I was in the Halls, they tried to purge us of pain, despair, grief. But it lingers still.”

Erestor reached over, took Glorfindel’s hand and interlaced their fingers. “I understand all too well. I am sorry.”

Glorfindel squeezed his hand, then released it. “You might want to know that I saw Eärendil when he and Elwing came to beg the Valar to intercede. He spoke well of you. Your many acts of bravery that night may well have saved his life, and in turn, he grew to be a man, strong, wise, and true, who risked all to entreat the Valar to finally contend with Morgoth, thus ridding our world of a great evil. You were exactly where you needed to be that night.”

Erestor choked back a sob. He felt a lightening in his chest, as if all that grief had suddenly drained free. A tear trickled down his cheek.

Glorfindel reached over and wiped it away with his thumb. He said softly, “I remember a kiss. A kiss given me in my hour of need, when you thought I was asleep, and I was too exhausted to respond. I’ve thought of it often . . . when I needed comfort.”

The tears continued to fall as Glorfindel took Erestor’s face in his hands. And there in the warm waters, under the glowing lamps, he kissed him—gently at first, but then, it deepened.

****************

Elrond knocked at Gil’s door and heard a muffled, “Enter.” He found the king sorting through a pile of documents on his desk, eyebrows knit and lips thinned. “Counselor, have you seen that report about the south shore fishing catch and the proclamation we drafted?”

“Just here,” Elrond reached up to a cubby in the desk and pulled out a pouch, sorted through it and withdrew the documents in question.

“Ah, good.”

“Gil, I came to tell you that our plan seems to be working. A short time ago, I saw our re-embodied hero and our hung-over envoy coming in the eastern door, arms about each other, dripping rainwater across the floor, and cackling like crows. They seemed to be getting on splendidly.”

Gil smiled. “Excellent. Have you seen my signet ring anywhere?”

“You should keep it on, then you wouldn’t misplace it all the time,” Elrond admonished. He pulled several drawers and then found the heavy gold ring sitting on top of the bureau. “What are you sealing?”

Gil picked up a folded letter and handed it to Elrond, who read on the outside, "To the venerable Lord Heredir and Lady Lendis. Ah, is this is about that matter we discussed between Lady Brethil and Lady Caranor?”

“I’m asking Lady Brethil’s parents over to tea,” Gil-galad said, as he held a wax stick in the candle flame, splashed a red puddle on the letter and then pressed his ring into it. He smiled. “There. We can’t be the only ones having fun, can we?”

“As for that, if my intuition is accurate at all, our brave Gondolin warriors may be rekindling a . . . friendship, as we speak,” Elrond said. “I think, Gil, that Erestor has found a partner for his trip southeast, and we, an ally against darkness.”

The End . . . Or is it?