Touching Tomorrow by Keiliss

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Touching Tomorrow

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The nights were the worst, waking into a silent room, unable to place the where or when of everything. At least the times when he would wake up choking on smoke, consumed by pain, had passed before he left the healing peace of the garden in Aman where he had been nursed to strength. There he was reassured the end would remain lost in mist, as would much of his time in Gondolin, but there were still residual memories that crept back in the dark and teased at him, leaving him unsettled and unable to sleep again.

He had found ways of dealing with this, because he had never been one to sit by and accept the uncomfortable or unpalatable without attempting to change or improve it. When he woke uneasy, he would go and stand by the window, count the lights outside, and watch the line where the land stopped and the water began until he was calm. The remnants of dreams he buried in reading. He had many books, mainly histories so that he would have a better sense of where – when – he was, and the night hours were a good time to push through dry text. He usually chose the ones with maps – he had learned in boyhood that educational books with maps were most likely to make dry but informative reading.

During the day he reminded himself regularly where he was and made a real effort to recall people’s names, put the names to faces, place them in the here and now, not lose them. The most difficult were the ones who claimed him from the past, acquaintances who were insulted that he struggled to place them. Differing realities came and went in the course of an awkward conversation while he held onto ‘now’ while trying to shut out flashes of other times that came and went before his eyes like the winter lights that had played, green and blue and purple, around the Encircling Mountains. To begin with Gil-galad, the High King of the dwindling Noldor, had gone out of his way to find survivors from Gondolin, but he was insightful and a good judge and soon stopped when he saw how uneasy those encounters could be.

Mid-morning, after a night spent reading, found him and the king in a part of the palace where military administration took place and intelligence was assessed. Gil-galad had brought him along to meet some of the senior personnel who would not be in the field, therefore not training or otherwise likely to encounter him, so that he would have a sense of how things were organized these days. The king, as thoughtful as he was insightful, seemed to grasp how disconcerting it was to be amongst people who were his own and yet in so many subtle ways were not --- elves who dressed and thought differently to those of his Age, Noldor who spoke Sindarin not with reluctance but as mother-tongue. Sometimes everything felt too fast, too sharp-edged, too bright.

“And, of course, all the information brought in by these agents has to be sifted, checked against other reports, its veracity decided upon,” the serious-faced person responsible for keeping all this information neatly filed was explaining to him. Glorfindel nodded, storing the knowledge away. He always had a good memory and a grasp for new things – he sometimes wondered, on those sleepless nights, if one of the reasons he was chosen to come back was his flexibility. If so, he thought the Valar had vastly overestimated his skill.

He was about to ask how the agents were found, trained, when an instinct made him turn. Someone was watching him. This in itself was hardly a new thing, people had watched him all his life – he was high born and well connected, also light haired amongst a predominately dark-haired people. But this was different, this he felt like a touch. He had an impression of slightly less than average height and a mass of dark curls, but then he saw the eyes, light brown, almost golden, and the world tilted. Momentarily he was in the Great Hall of the house back in Gondolin, candles blazing, voices coming and going. And then he was back in Mithlond, a faint scent of geranium, of all things, hanging in memory. The transition was so strong it left him dizzy.

“I’m sorry, who…?” he began, gesturing towards the boy with the hair and the eyes, but people had grouped between them, discussing something, and he was gone from sight.

“Something wrong?” Gil-galad had seemed otherwise engaged, but he noticed at once, as was often the case during uncertain moments. Glorfindel was not sure if he should be amused, impressed or disconcerted by the king’s ability to read situations. Generally though he was likeable and engaging, startlingly casual after Turgon’s formality but no less lacking in authority for it. He was studying Glorfindel now with narrowed eyes, light blue where Glorfindel’s own were closer to the sky at midday.

He shook his head, as much to clear it as in demurral. “Nothing, your majesty. Just – someone who looked familiar for a moment. My memory gets confused at times. I was about to ask Nedhudir about the agents’ training?”

For an anxious heartbeat he thought he had the awkward name wrong, but it passed and he was carried off in a long and eager explanation which he made himself listen to while he watched covertly for the boy – man – with the unusual eyes.

They were leaving before he came into view again, drinking something while talking to Mardion, who had been introduced as the ‘intelligence coordinator’, whatever that meant. Glorfindel put his hand on Gil-galad’s arm unthinkingly, then withdrew it as though burnt. One did not simply grab royalty. This new version of royalty however seemed unconcerned and simply kept walking. “Back already, Erestor?” he called as they passed the pair, close enough to greet, not close enough to merit an introduction.

Erestor. Hair. Eyes. Something he should remember but couldn’t.

Erestor raised a hand in greeting, almost absent minded. “Got back this morning,” he replied. “I don’t think I’m doing this again till spring. The roads are bitter out there.”

Gil-galad grinned briefly but made no answer, and then they were out the door and walking down the corridor; the king was talking about going down to watch the men drill again and Glorfindel had no idea how to ask the questions that lacked words to frame them.

That day and the next were strange, awash with glimpses of disconnected memory. He had been warned about this, told that the art of restoring a body full grown was not an exact science and the memory would fill itself out in ways that were unpredictable. He had been promised that while there was little likelihood of him reliving his death, everything else was variable. Most of the memories were odd, just moments frozen in time; riding with his father somewhere outside of Tirion; dancing with Aredhel – there was never a time in this life or the previous one where he could forget Aredhel; keeping watch above Gondolin on one of those clear perfect winter nights with star studded sky and air so cold it almost had form. And amber eyes and a warm, husky laugh, though there was no picture, no frozen moment associated with them.

He managed to keep track of the real world despite all this. He went riding above the city with the king and some favoured courtiers, crossed the water to Círdan’s shipyard to spend time with the Telerin lord who was unfailingly courteous but removed. Glorfindel wondered that this man had raised Gil-galad, who was warm and wily and interested in people and very much present. He had dinner with the men who formed part of the military command and who he would be working closely with… Glorfindel was the veteran of a few spectacular failures and wondered at their eagerness to take him on. Hero sent back by the Valar or no, he would have been more reluctant. And everywhere he went, he looked for brown eyes and dark curls. He wanted to see this person, this Erestor, smile. There would be answers in that smile.

Mostly the images were brief and private. Occasionally they became more invasive. He was fighting an endless enemy, his sword arm aching, trying to force his way through massed ranks of orcs and dark-faced warriors, shouting at his men, the din so great he could barely hear his own voice. Overarching everything, a great shape that blotted out light and spat fire in unpredictable paths. Things of smoke and fire formed and reformed a line that had to be breached. And a fallen banner at the end, a body trampled into the dust. Someone was shouting ‘My brother, where is my brother!’… He woke, to realise he hadn’t slept but was sitting in on a meeting related to naval strategy. No one seemed to notice anything untoward. No one except him. He had been warned the return of memory might be difficult, no one had said there would be days he would need to hold on to his sanity with both hands.

Nothing ever happened the way it was imagined. For all his hovering in likely places, he finally saw Erestor not in what was presumably his work place but unexpectedly while crossing the seaward garden. He stood by the wall overlooking the palace’s private harbour, watching something below. For a moment Glorfindel’s stomach twisted with something like fear, then he shook himself like a dog and forced his feet in that direction. Erestor seemed to sense his approach. He turned, his back against sun-warmed stone and waited for him, his face unreadable.

Glorfindel stopped in front of him, momentarily at a loss. The words that came were not what he would have chosen. “I know you, don’t I?”

Erestor nodded gravely. “From Gondolin, yes. I asked Gil – His Majesty. He said there were gaps in your memory and not to press you.”

Glorfindel nodded for want of a better response. “It’s – it’s like something a fingertip away, just out of reach. I’m sorry, did I know you well? It’s not deliberate – I only accidentally found out how my father died – there was a note in a book….”

“That must have been horrible. No one told you?” Erestor looked concerned.

“I knew he died,” Glorfindel said simply. “But over there, they avoid speaking of death where they can. I had no details of how I became head of my house.”

“Was it all in the book?” Erestor asked softly. “I wasn’t there, but I know what happened.”

“He died heroically during the Fifth Battle,” Glorfindel responded. “They call it Unnumbered Tears now, I see. I – think I did not see him fall.”

Erestor hesitated. “The dragon took him,” he said finally. “You never saw it happen, you and your men were trying to cut your way through the enemy to reach the High King. You told me about the dragon though, the size and sound of it. Glaurung.”

“I knew you well enough to talk about that with you?” But of course he had.

Erestor shook his head. “We – it was complicated. Our paths crossed when they did. But we always found talking easy at those times. I think you needed to share it with someone – the king died, your father died, you were trying to understand the sense of it.”

Time and place twisted again, and he was back in that other reality. Smoke, the sound of flames, the smell of burning. Screams. Roars. His body taut, set against pain or tiredness. A rough tunnel loomed ahead with a growing stream of people, mainly men, hurrying into it. He pointed, gave the terrified woman beside him with the babe on her hip a push. "There. This is Idril's road to safety. Go.' He felt a hand on his arm. Erestor. He looked down into wide eyes, a pale but determined face. 'Go,' he said more gently. 'Look after your family. I'm guarding the rear, I have to wait.' He took the hand from his arm and raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss to it. 'Go, Res. I'll see you on the other side.'

And then he was back in Mithlond, in sunlight, with the sounds of water and creaking boats. “There was a tunnel,” he said hesitantly, trying to make sense of the memory. “And fire. You were there…”

He saw Erestor swallow before nodding hard. Buying a moment. Composing himself. “That was Gondolin, during the attack. You came for me and my family – my mother and sister and her baby were at the house. You took us to the tunnel and rejoined your men there...”

Memory lay a finger’s span away, so close he felt its breath, felt heat and fear. And then it retreated, and his stomach unclenched. He dragged the world around him firmly back into focus. There were voices rising up from the harbour. Belatedly he noticed they were near the stairs.

Erestor heard them as well and hesitated as though torn. “Are you all right? I – those are the people I was waiting for, I need to go. I’ll be in Mithlond for a while though,” he added hastily. “I have to wait for Gildor and he’ll be a moon or more. Gil knows where to find me.”

“You seem to know his majesty well.” Glorfindel felt a twinge at the thought, an unease, something akin to jealousy.

Erestor shook his head, sunlight catching dark curls and making them shine. “I spent years on Balar, I’ve worked for Círdan and for the Lady. It’s like being family.”

And then he smiled. And there were no answers in the smile, but somehow the questions seemed to matter less.

-----o

The day passed calmly after that, no memories, no shifting realities. Glorfindel waited for them in vain: it was the way of the thing, to catch him unawares. He tried to remember more, to call back Gondolin, but everything beyond the first few years of settling there lay under heavy mist, nothing more than shapes and the occasional gleam of colour. One thing he did know though from his reading: a relationship beyond friendship with another male would have been against the law for someone of his lineage, whose rank required that he marry and continue the line. So why then the connection to Erestor, or the unease at his easy use of the king’s mother-name?

Night brought a quiet dinner with a handful of new acquaintances and a walk through the gardens before bed, during which he neither saw nor experienced anything to throw him back into the past. The moon was almost full, and he stood a while at his window watching it light the water in silver ripples. Then he went to bed.

The dreams when they came were a jumble of images, unrelated, presented as his mind found them. White stone walls, massive birds swooping and shrieking, snow capped rock, fighting, walking through a green meadow with someone with dark hair and clear grey eyes, laughing about something, the ball in his father’s Great Hall again… And then there was dim light and flesh against his, smooth and warm, the planes and lines of the body clearly male but still tender, giving. A mouth under his, young and ripe and sweet, and devouring it like one starved, a dream long held, made reality. Wild soft curls gliding between his fingers, the body beneath him yielding, accepting him, moaning his name in pleasure as he penetrated, thrust. Searing lust and triumph were in the memory, but more. Emotion that wrapped his heart around and squeezed tight, making him lose breath, knowing this might be all there would ever be, making it be enough, unforgettable….

He woke and lay on his back just breathing for a while, until his breath and his heart rate slowed. Then he turned on his side and watched the moon, and let the knowing trickle in at its own rate. He had all night.

-----o

The next day he went about his business quietly, letting past and present find their balance. There was a formal dinner that night and he needed to fit clothing in fashions new to him and trust to the tastes of the tailor the king had assigned him. Other memories, other dinners, whispered to him but this time he smiled at them and wasted no energy in their pursuit. He sat with Gil-galad as an honoured guest and made small talk as he had been trained to from childhood. The food was in many cases unfamiliar but good and the wine excellent.

Afterwards the tables and chairs were pushed back against the walls, musicians tuned up their instruments and there was dancing. He watched a while, trying to learn the new steps with his eyes rather than his feet. It was not the first such evening since his arrival, and he noted again as he had before that occasionally – not a rare occurrence but less usual – he saw two men or two women dance together and no one seemed to look askance. As far as he could tell, there were no rules governing this and the basics he had been given about social norms and standards in Second Age Mithlond had seemed positively permissive compared to his upbringing.

He could feel where Erestor was without looking and, when he thought there was less chance he would make a fool of himself, he took a deep breath and crossed the room to him.

“Would you care to dance?”

Erestor looked startled at the request, creating a moment of déjà vu, then nodded and stepped smoothly into his arms. They moved out amongst the dancers in a way that was both familiar and tantalizingly strange for Glorfindel. For a short time there was nothing said, just the music and fitting the movements to it. He needed no memory to tell him they had danced before.

“How much do you remember? Of us, I mean?” Erestor asked softly.

“We danced once. And talked more than once. And – loved once. And then it was too late for anything.”

“Those are the bones of how it was,” Erestor told him. “But bigger and deeper and … It was complicated. There was no way we could be together – your rank, the law, your family’s expectations. We took what little we could. So – complicated. We never knew one another well, and yet…”

“And yet I think there was no one ever knew me better,” Glorfindel said against hair that was fragrant with geranium and pepper. Just as he had known it would be.

-----o

When he left his rooms the morning after they danced, Erestor was waiting for him, wrapped in stillness as shadowed as his eyes and his night-dark hair. “Shall we walk on the beach? You used to tell me about Vinyamar, how you loved to watch the waves.”

Glorfindel, who had slept deep and dreamless and woken refreshed, had places to be and people to meet, all of which could wait. He nodded. “I still love the sea. The beach would be good.”

They left the palace, walking as people do who have a destination, talking in snatches along the way. Erestor talked mainly, and Glorfindel listened to how he had come to work for Círdan and then seek out information for the Lady – as Galadriel styled herself – before becoming part of the network of agents answerable to Gildor Inglorion, who crossed the south and east looking for word of the Enemy and his allies.

“It seems a rough and solitary life,” Glorfindel remarked as they made their way down the rough path that led to one of the little beaches that separated Mithlond from the water. “That is not how you were – is it?”

Erestor half-smiled, shook his head. “I saw what happened to the White City,” he said quietly. “And to you. After that – no one could be a spectator on life after that. I was never built to be a soldier, so I fought in the ways that were open to me and found I was good at it. I spend more time assessing information than gathering it now, but only because I’ve learned its value.”

They reached the beach and crossed it in companionable silence. They were beyond the point where the river emptied into the sea and waves crashed against the rocks sending up white spray that in its turn brought back memories of Turgon’s first settlement, before Gondolin. Glorfindel lifted his face towards the sun and drew the sea air deeply into his lungs. All the heaviness his struggle with time and place had weighed him with seemed to ebb with the tide. He wondered that he had not thought to do this before.

Erestor went up rocks with the grace and agility of a goat and Glorfindel followed, admiring the way he moved. They sat in the morning sun with gulls swooping and calling and watched the sea together. Erestor finally said, “You always said we would watch the waves together some day in another future. You were more right than you could have known.” He fiddled with the edging on his sleeve for a minute, watching the water. “How much do you recall and how much will always be lost?”

Glorfindel leaned back on his hands. “I will not try and recall my death, I was promised that was unlikely but meant I would lose much of the later years of my life. You were part of those years. And yet, in the ways that count, I remember you. Of all the memories that were taken from me, this could only be hidden for a time. Even before I remembered your name, I knew you. “

Erestor’s eyes lit and his face softened. He looked as young as Glorfindel’s memory had preserved him. “You remember me?” he asked on a breath. “Truly remember me?”

“We met at a ball given by my father,” Glorfindel replied. “You were very young, dressed in dusty rose, and out of reach. I helped you put your hair up properly. We danced. By the evening’s end I knew I would never be able to forget you. I did – but only for a while.”

“I never thought to see you this side of the sea, and even there – I thought it might be as it was before… but no harm ever came of dreams. The soul dies without dreams.” Erestor’s eyes were on his face, the sea forgotten.

“And I never thought that one day there would be a different future, one with nothing to keep us apart. A second chance… coming here was phrased as many things, but never that.”

“Even though so much is still lost to you?” Erestor asked.

Darkness hovered, and for a moment he smelt smoke and his skin prickled at the threat of heat so intense his brain would interpret it as a coldness beyond cold, and he remembered smoke parting momentarily and seeing clear sky. And then it was gone.

He touched Erestor’s hand carefully as though it were precious. “I have what I needed most,” he replied. “The rest will come if and as it will. But I remember us. There is all eternity for the rest.”

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Chapter End Notes

Art: my stunning banner was a birthday gift from Red Lasbelin

Beta: Red Lasbelin