Under the Ragged Thorn by elfscribe

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Memories of Grief

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

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“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.”

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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.

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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.