didn't know where else to go by maglor-my-beloved

didn't know where else to go

Erestor's quiet evening was interrupted by a weak knock on his door. With a sigh, he placed his book aside and rose.

Outside the windows, the sun had long set, and the moon bathed the courtyards of Lindon in silver light as Erestor went to open the door and froze.

In the hallway, collapsed on the floor, his robes torn and his hair in disarray, knelt the King.

Erestor said nothing, only stared in confusion at the sight.

Gil-galad's breath was laboured, and he clutched the remnants of blue fabric close to his trembling body.

"Didn't know… where else… to go," he muttered, voice rough and weak.

"Your Majesty?" Erestor forgot in his confusion even to sound derisive. His mind raced as he tried to decide what to do.

Ultimately he decided that the first step had to be getting the King into his rooms. Whatever his personal opinions on Gil-galad, the King could not be seen in the hallways like this.

"Come," he said brusquely and grasped Gil-galad's arm, pulling him to his feet and closing the door behind them, before manoeuvring him onto the sofa.

Gil-galad looked even worse in the candlelight, his face and arms bruised, his lips swollen.

Erestor felt anger rise in his chest, burning white-hot, and he knew his face must be flushed with it.

"Who did this to you?" he growled, taking in Gil-galad's face, stained with tears and a sticky white fluid that made his stomach turn.

(And when had he grown so protective of the haughty, spoiled princeling, the one he begrudgingly tolerated only because his Lord had asked it of him, and who tolerated him just as begrudgingly because he was dear to Elrond?)

He shoved the thought aside and focused on the task at hand. Gil-galad was shivering, his lips tinted blue, and Erestor feared that whatever he had endured might prove too much for his fëa, so he hurried to wrap him into a blanket and awkwardly laid an arm around his shoulder.

“What happened?” he asked, schooling his voice to be less harsh. Elrond was better at this, he thought. Erestor was not, as a rule, affectionate – that was his Lord’s domain.

Gil-galad all but pressed himself against him, leaning desperately into the embrace.

“It is my fault,” he whispered weakly. “Círdan told me countless times not to wander alone at night, but the night was peaceful and I wished to enjoy the stars without a company of guards surrounding me. They came across me in the rose gardens. I – I did not even have Aeglos with me. I could not fight them off. They…”

He dissolved into sobs, and Erestor instinctively pulled him closer.

“Do not for a moment think that what those monsters did to you was your fault,” he hissed, one hand hovering over his knives. Whatever crimes his House may have committed, even at their most wretched the Fëanorians had never sunk so low as this, and to think that it had happened in a time of peace, here in the palace of Lindon…

Gil-galad wept into his shoulder, and Erestor let go of the knife to stroke his back soothingly.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It is alright. Stay the night here, where I can keep you safe, and in the morning Elrond will return and take care of you, while I deal with the ones who did this. They will not lay hands on you again, I promise.”