Part: 4/?
Author:
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two_point Rated: PG for now, later R
Genre: Silmarillion to LoTR: generally encompassing the entirety of Tolkien’s canon, from Gondolin to Imladris.
Warnings: Oh, there will be angst. And slash. And wars. And other things.
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor
Beta: The incredible
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levadegratchets Summary: Erestor's story as hitherto edited by Pengologh of Gondolin
Disclaimer: Own nothing, made nothing.
Notes: Brewing for five years in notebooks, this story will turn to vinegar if it sits any longer
Previous Chapters Here
In case anyone missed it: Gorgeous art by Ramie of Glorfindel resting in his pool here: to the still earth say: I flow
The Forgotten Tree
Chapter Four: Morning
“From without the world, though all things may be forethought in music or foreshown in vision from afar, to those who enter verily into Eä each in its time shall be met at unawares as something new and unforetold.” -The Silmarillion
*
Gondolin murmured again; she stirred uneasily, a wounded, recovering shell waiting for her fëa to return from the places it had journeyed without her – some parts of it irresolutely lost. Erestor rested in bed and watched the dawn light battle with the determined, lingering night shadows in his room. Inevitably, as ever, the dawn light won and Erestor stretched out against the soft sun-bleached linens. The walls in his room were blue, deep blue, trimmed in grey – the colors ground together with reflective sand before the artisans applied their well-kept concoctions. Once dried, the paints glimmered; the walls seemed to move like water as the days progressed and then retreated.
Erestor heard his mother’s voice, a low alto in the main hall alongside the music of the birds that made their home in the courtyard. He heard his father’s footsteps descending the small stair the family used most often. He felt, more than heard, the long-missed stirrings of life in the streets outside the house. Erestor slid soundlessly from his bed. He took great care to make no noise that would disturb the sounds of life returned around him, some part of him felt that if he were as translucent as a ghost, unnoticeable as a scout, that if his movements did not disturb the familiar routines of Gondolin, no harm could ever come to their kind again. It seemed like some long-held reasoning from his youth, at odds with the strangely grown creature his body inhabited, but it made sense to him just the same – if he were very still, he could witness the vital current of his home and ward away any discordant note.
Erestor dressed in loose fitting clothes, worn and grey like Ecthelion’s eyes. He tied the unruly thickness of his hair back with a well-used strip of leather and turned to leave the room, but the image of himself in the polished mirror caught his eye. Erestor sighed – he looked just like his mother. Alda did not conduct herself in the manner of the other Noldor of her station in Gondolin, but there was no denying what she was despite the rich soil that was often caught beneath her fingernails. Erestor thought he could resemble worse, but wondered if he would ever be able to carry his frame in a hard, demanding presence like his father. Before leaving the room, Erestor stooped and touched the sword hidden beneath his bed.
He followed the hall to his father’s library where he sat and wrote the things that had come to him in the night. There was a song following Erestor, a half-formed tune that was not about the battle precisely, for he had no details yet, no knowledge of what had transpired – but the song was a lament. There was no better place to work in the house than his father’s library. The walls of the room were lined with shelves that held musical instruments, some familiar to Erestor’s hands, some that bewildered him, used so seldom that he had no idea what sound came from their intricate design. The instruments were laid out in an orderly fashion, polished to glowing brightness or gleaming in an elaborate swirl of wood grain.
There were many elves Erestor’s age that had not returned from the battle, this he knew. He had no desire to go out into the city yet; he did not want to see which doors bore the shadowy seal of loss. Erestor had barely seated himself when the sound of familiar steps crossed the doorway.
“There you are,” Ecthelion said. He crossed the room and came to where Erestor sat, pulling him fiercely up to him.
It seemed that the world became right again as Ecthelion held him, as if his father’s hands shifted something back into place, something that had moved out of alignment. Ecthelion smelled of wood smoke and strange places. Erestor sensed the map of his father’s journey, still fresh in his mind. Erestor did not try to look further.
They stood back and admired each other, solemn until they both laughed. Ecthelion’s water-blue eyes still glowed no matter what images they held in secret. Erestor expected to find him much changed, as he had thought to find Glorfindel the night before, but they both seemed the same – beautiful and constant. Erestor thought it very strange how things could happen, terrible things, but the appearance of the world stayed the same. His father’s hair was not tied back. Erestor held him close again and pressed his face into the dark thickness of it. “I missed you,” Erestor said.
The eagles brought word of the battle to the ones left behind in the city, but they had not brought specifics. Erestor and the others took heart in the belief that the eagles would have said, directly, if any of the great ones fell – but the journey itself was dangerous. They did not know for certain who would come back until each passed the city’s great gate.
“Where were you?” Ecthelion asked.
“I spent the evening with Galor and fell asleep there. I knew mother would greet you at the square but it bothered me that Glorfindel would return to a quiet house.”
“Good – then you have seen him. He’s not made like us, I worry for him.”
“I found him and he seemed bothered more that I was not home to greet you than he was by any sadness. It’s hard to tell with him – he always smiles.”
In the library the sunlight streamed through the windows. The room was built to catch the morning light. They sat for a moment in silence.
“Glorfindel covers his worry with gladness,” Ecthelion said after a while. “It is hard to know what he is thinking. Let us keep him close in the weeks to come so that he cannot hide away in his vineyard. I had hoped to have the day free to spend with you, but Turgon called me early. Glorfindel told you?”
“Of Fingon? Yes. The eagles came soon after he fell.” Erestor’s fingers flexed nervously on the table.
Ecthelion stared out into the garden. “There is much work to do.”
There were things that Erestor wanted to say. If he could only form the first words, he knew the rest would follow. He’d never experienced anything like this before, the blanket of grief muting their feigned normalcy, sitting in the library as they always had. Stories, songs – Erestor knew the world through them but the most remarkable creations only touched at the breath-stealing truth of it, the sliding sword of grief.
“How many from the Fountain?” Erestor whispered.
“Twelve.”
He did not want to ask the names, not yet. He searched his mind for the first joyous thought to ease his inarticulate attempt to express his sadness. “You will bring Glorfindel with you to dinner tonight?”
Ecthelion welcomed the change of subject, rested his arm against the table and tried to allow his smile to reach his eyes. “I will if I can find him.”
His father gazed too long for comfort. “What?” Erestor asked.
“It doesn’t seem possible that you are fully grown – the Gates of Summer and the most important day of your life. I missed two significant celebrations.” Ecthelion’s wistful expression swiftly changed to a playful, narrow-eyed appraisal, as if he were considering a particularly obstinate young horse. “Fully grown in body but I think your mind sprung fully formed from some obscure vision of your mother’s. You would be happier if you thought less.”
“I am happy!” Erestor exclaimed, sounding younger than he intended.
“No doubt, but I would have you attend more parties and fewer councils.”
“I like to listen.” Erestor bit his lip and calculated his defense. “Every choice is argued from an individual’s perspective. I have never witnessed a council where the correct decision was obvious – the winning argument is determined by delivery, rarely by common sense. It is an intricate dance, far more interesting to me than the movements I have seen at a gathering. I could study the progress of our minds for an age and not grow tired of watching and listening.”
“That is what I mean!”
Erestor frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I tried to make light of you. You countered humor with a well-versed defense. You might have simply looked at me and laughed. Laugh together, love – would that not be pleasant?” Ecthelion reached out and tapped a rhythm against the top of Erestor’s hand. Erestor could just make out the song. Ecthelion continued, “And then we would have wasted less time with your very serious, considering mechanics” – he attempted to mimic Erestor but his mouth quirked too much to have the desired effect – “and already moved on to this.”
Their discussion ended suddenly, and Erestor thought; I must remember every detail of my father, sitting here with me in this room, his room, with its cool corners and the warm breeze shifting the gauzy, grey drapes behind him. The details of the room were easier to catch than the line of Ecthelion’s nose, the shape of his jaw – to catch those things required an artist’s sense of symmetry, precision. I must remember his morning face, this first morning after his return. This is the face that Glorfindel and my mother . . . this is the face that I love.
Ecthelion removed the ring that he wore on the second finger of his left hand. Erestor had never seen his father’s hand without it. He placed the ring carefully on Erestor’s corresponding finger. The stone matched the hilt of the sword hidden beneath Erestor’s bed; he had taken note of the similarities before but could not deny, with the ring so foreign on his finger, that the same craftsman fashioned both.
“From my father to your father to this day,” Ecthelion said. “The ring is now yours and you will bring honor to our House. There was more ceremony the first time it was passed, but things are different now.”
Erestor brought his hand up to study the ring, so involved was he in the clever design, the beautifully wrought details, and the history of the sword that matched it, that he did not think before saying, “There are others better suited.”
As if he must have heard incorrectly, Ecthelion leaned back in his chair and asked, “What did you say?”
There would be no getting around it. “There must be another . . .I have not left the city. I can hardly hold the sword that Glorfindel gave me. Dolan, what of him? He is our cousin; he has traveled with you since you made the journey.”
“He is dead.” Ecthelion said simply, as if he commented on the signs preceding a particularly cold winter.
“Dead,” Erestor repeated, numbly.
“Dead – as you will not be if you stay safely behind the gates of this city. Not being dead, you are free to manage the House.” Ecthelion stood and began straightening instruments on the shelf closest to him.
“But you manage this House, as long as you are able, so there is no reason for me to manage anything until I learn to fight well. If you cannot see to the House, then you are dead, and what use will I be to anyone if I cannot carve my way through whatever dark thing took you so that I might properly bury your body or see the others to safety. Your reasoning makes no sense.” Erestor stood to deliver his speech, but he found his feet unwilling to move him, so he pressed his palms to the table and readied himself for a battle toward which he held the strongest disadvantages: he was young and his opponent was Ecthelion.
“Erestor.” The Fountain lord turned, fittingly prepared to continue the fight but another thought stopped him, quick as lightning, and Erestor’s father returned in expression and stature. “What sword did Glorfindel give you? And when?”
Erestor breathed in his good fortune. “Come with me, I will show you. He left it for me to find while you were away.”
As they walked side by side down the hall, Erestor wanted to place his head against Ecthelion’s shoulder, but their argument was too fresh and the moment fled.
“Here.” Erestor placed the sword on top of the unmade bed and unknotted the cords that wrapped it. He placed his hand that bore the ring near the hilt. “A perfect match.”
From the look on Ecthelion’s face, he would not be less comfortable if the ghosts of all the dead he knew walked into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the sheathed sword so he could rest it against his lap. “Did Glorfindel say where he found it?”
“No – I thought to ask him today.” Erestor leaned against the far wall and watched Ecthelion study the sword.
“I thought it was lost. I wonder why he never said . . . .” Other questions followed, but their meaning was lost in the old metal Ecthelion touched reverently, hesitantly as if sudden movement would coax out a spirit.
“Perhaps he did not wish to worsen your grief. When was the last time you saw it?”
The argument seemed unimportant, or the question Erestor meant to ask was larger than the objects they held in their hands – what is our history? They studied each other in the glimmering room.
He will tell me . . . he will sing the final note . . . .
“At my father’s side, as it always was – that is where I last saw it as he stood near me and watched me make my choice.” Ecthelion glanced down toward the blade as he continued – “ I assumed the sword stayed with him in Aman. I see now that he sent it along with Glorfindel who made his decision with less haste.”
Erestor waited for him to elaborate but Ecthelion stood and brought the sword to him, placing it back in Erestor’s hands, a closing statement. Something was missing, something vital. It should have been the one day when Erestor felt connected to his history but he felt instead that he had more questions crowding his busy mind than he had when he awoke.
Erestor gripped the sword absently, suddenly furious with . . . who? He could not say for certain.
“How can you not know?” Erestor demanded. “How is it possible that the sword was held in Glorfindel’s keeping all these years, a hand’s breadth away from you, and it never came to your attention? What purpose did Glorfindel’s secret serve? Did you not part well with your father; is there some shame attached to the sword?”
The chill returned to Ecthelion’s countenance as Erestor asked and kept asking – a flood of questions, but even as he spoke, Erestor knew he addressed the wrong lord. “By all accounts that have been passed down to me your parents perished, like Turgon’s wife, as they crossed the ice, but you tell me now that you do not know your father’s fate? How many of our House stayed behind?”
Ecthelion’s eyes were brilliant in anger. “Glorfindel should have kept the sword; he overstepped his duty. I would return it to him this day if there were not greater troubles to think of.”
Ecthelion paused, and Erestor watched his deliberation, held his breath as Ecthelion chose his strategy. “The truth is I have no recollection of the time following our departure. The stories you have been given are pieced together from the accounts of others. When you discover the answers to your questions, please pass them along to me” – he glanced down to where they both held the sword and though neither struggled to hold it solely, it seemed to Erestor that the elaborate metalwork was a symbol of a greater battle, one that had been fought between father and son since their kind first awoke. Erestor wondered if it were the same with men with their short lives, the blade-sharp balance of past and future. Until that moment Erestor had only lived in the present; the future was a dream shaped through ink-smeared longings.
Erestor decided to let the sword go but Ecthelion removed his hands and left him with the full weight of the gift. Bewildered, they stood staring at each other, eyes large, unable to comprehend; they could not understand what topic brought them to quarrel twice in one ill-fated morning.
Yet Erestor could not help but ask, “Why did you go?” His voice was very small, a young voice that did not suit the question.
Ecthelion did not have to search long for his answer. “Because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. You have not lived long enough to know what I am saying – but one day you will find yourself caught in a question that your mind cannot answer and when that happens your heart will answer silently, your body will move toward its fate as if your will is an illusion fabricated to make you believe you have a choice. When your heart calls, you answer, not in words or thoughts, but in action.”
Remember this, Erestor thought – don’t forget the angles of Ecthelion’s face, the sorrow and hope in his eyes. Remember the face as well as the words.
“I would prefer to make my own choices,” Erestor said.
Ecthelion smiled. “I have no doubt you, more than any of us, will do just that” – he gestured toward Erestor’s hand that bore the ring and held the sword – “you wear both now, as you should. I only ask that you do not allow the metal to ruin your hand for the pen.”
“I can do both.”
“And you will.”
The sound of bells, small and large, a cacophony of bells, called out from the towers and high places throughout the city calling the lords to council.
“What will you do this morning?” Ecthelion asked.
“Idril has some work for me; she is worried for the displaced army that returned from the battle and is pleading with her father so that their families might be allowed to join them here if safe travel can be arranged.”
“What will you do?”
Erestor laughed and slipped past Ecthelion so that he could wrap the sword once more and sweep the morning’s arguments safely under the bed. “Take notes?” he said. “Whatever Idril tells me to do – when it comes to her I am like mother’s hound.”
“You understand my predicament!” The joy was back in Ecthelion’s voice. He caught Erestor in his arms and pressed his mouth against Erestor’s hair, spoke through his kiss. “Never doubt that I love you. I know you will do great things. Do you understand why I am careful with you?”
“I do,” Erestor said, quietly. “Will you allow me to do more if I promise to be careful with myself?”
Ecthelion did not speak but Erestor felt him nod slowly before releasing him. It was not permission but it was enough to allow Erestor the hope of exploring new paths.
They said their farewell for the day and looked forward to the familiar routine of the evening meal and songs and stories.
*
The following days were gloriously busy; there was work enough to chase away the starved hounds of grief, but when the clouds passed over the city Glorfindel felt a chill that lingered long after the high summer light returned. He kept to himself as much as he was able and did not exaggerate his fatigue when he declined all but the most required visits; he had not dined with Ecthelion since they returned to Gondolin.
Glorfindel stared out the window while Galor recited a litany of the tasks that should be completed. The days flowed together like the lists on Galor’s schedule, each morning identical to the next, things for Glorfindel to do in order to fill the time, to ensure the flawless flow of his House. Soon he would have a fortnight at the gate and he could not lose the sense that their doom waited for them, breathing poison against the Secret Way, dragon’s breath on the doorway. Glorfindel rose from his desk; Galor continued speaking. The window looked out across a seldom-used square.
Glorfindel braced his hands against the window ledge and leaned out so that he could better feel the city. The rings on his fingers scraped against the cool stone. He closed his eyes so that he could feel the warm morning, the pale light like a promise. Alone at dawn, alone as he rose and prepared for his day, alone as he dined and entered his office so that Galor could present the list of each day’s activities – every day the same habits. Dissatisfaction was a new feeling to Glorfindel, so accustomed he was to the routines that shaped his life. He felt as if he were coming apart.
And then Erestor appeared in the square below the window, his hair wet and tangled down his back. He seemed hurried and determined and looked as if he had slept in his mother’s pool. They had not spoken since the night of Glorfindel’s return and it had been easy for Glorfindel to not miss him when he had been out of sight. But a bright cord in Glorfindel’s heart pulled tightly as he watched his young friend’s deliberate pace below the window; it seemed as if Erestor embodied every fond promise, every reason why the city was built. Glorfindel watched until Erestor was nearly hidden by the leafy shadow of the large oak in the center of the square.
Glorfindel wanted to call out, but the name caught in his breath. Erestor – his hope, Erestor, who unknowingly, made everything better. Erestor, who somehow seemed made to fit into the empty places in Glorfindel’s heart. Ecthelion’s son was both young and old, and his eyes held the map that drew the winding path toward Glorfindel’s destination. Why had he not noticed before? He should walk away from the window and close himself up in his house.
Instead, Glorfindel leaned out farther and did not notice Galor slipping up behind him.
“Erestor!” Galor called and Glorfindel flinched.
His mind no longer held dominion over his body, there was no sense left in him, not when the morning light rose so softly in the eastern sky and Erestor retraced his steps across the square in a meandering, studious path. Galor ducked back into the room to retrieve another list of something that Glorfindel should see to right away, leaving him alone with his new and sudden realization.
Erestor stood below the house. His eyes roamed the windows until he found his mark half-hidden in the thick vines that worked their way across the carefully cut stone wall. Erestor held books against his chest.
When their eyes met, Erestor tilted his head and smiled – and Glorfindel felt the same as he did when an opponent slipped past his shields and delivered a suffocating blow.
“Good morning,” Erestor called up to the window.
Glorfindel breathed, as much as he was able and called back, “Good morning, Erestor. Where are you going?”
“I completed an errand for Alda and now I am going to the palace to return these books and bother Idril.”
Glorfindel searched his mind for a suitable excuse, anything to catch Erestor’s attention, to steal him for a few hours – but not now; he must first have time to think. Behind him, Galor cleared his throat.
“Are you listening? Tell Erestor to come up.”
“Yes I am,” Glorfindel turned and snapped, “and no, not yet.”
Erestor’s frown was touched with good humor. “What are you arguing about and where have you been hiding?”
“We have been very busy!” Glorfindel said.
“I have been very busy,” Galor muttered as he returned to the window. “Hello Erestor!”
“Good morning Galor.”
“Did you go chasing after your mother’s beast again? Your hair is wet . . .” Galor grabbed a bit of Glorfindel’s hair and waved it about to emphasize his point.
Erestor laughed. “I swam by choice this morning.”
Glorfindel looked from Erestor to Galor and back again. He tugged his hair out of Galor’s grasp. “After you return the books, go home and fetch the sword I left for you. Meet me in my courtyard,” he paused, “if you have time.”
“I have nothing else to do until midday. When would you like me?” Erestor asked.
Anticipation destroyed Glorfindel’s better judgment. “Immediately,” he said.
Erestor’s brow furrowed for a moment and then he adopted the pose of one of Glorfindel’s lesser guards, as much as he was able with his pile of books clutched to his chest and the look of bewilderment on his face. “I’ll hurry then, my lord.”
If Glorfindel leaned out any farther he’d fall to the ground. “I will see you in an hour?”
Erestor waved as he turned back toward the palace. “An hour it is – let me change and I’ll be back.”
“You cannot imagine how hard it was to slip unseen into the Fountain house to leave those things and you have done nothing but ignore them since your return. Shall I tell Maeglin that you are busy the rest of the day?” Galor returned to the desk and gathered the papers he had strewn there.
Reluctantly, Glorfindel turned from the window. “If you would, I think it is time that Erestor learned the story of his grandfather’s sword.”
“I will never understand why you did not pass it on to Ecthelion. That story does not concern you.”
No, the story did not concern Glorfindel, but neither had he told Galor all the details.
Galor continued, “Glorfindel, there are others who . . .”
“I prefer to teach him – there are stories contained in the sword, he needs to know his history and Ecthelion is reluctant to teach him. Maeglin can wait, don’t you think?” Glorfindel said absently and sat upon the windowsill. Something just happened, he thought. Something he had not felt before – but his well schooled mind rushed to return to its orderly thoughts and the only trace remaining was a bruise-like ache in the place where, in the moments before he leaned out the window, only sorrow had rested.
*
The gardens of Glorfindel’s house crowded the outer walls of the structure. His courtyard was sparse compared to the wild confusion of plantings along the perimeter. The Fountain’s courtyard was filled with plants for healing and pools for divination – the Golden Flower’s central space was cleared for private practice with swords and other weapons. The paving stones were smooth and carefully fitted so that the footing would not encumber movement. Glorfindel paced the worn stones as he waited for Erestor to meet him.
Glorfindel blamed the battle for the mad jumble of his thoughts. The battle and sorrow and trying to return to a peaceful life – he wanted something, something other than waiting, for that was what he felt he was doing, waiting – but for what? If he could name his desire he could tame it or sate it. He had lived so long without want for anything that his sudden and nameless longing seemed like a ravenous creature that threatened to destroy every wall he had carefully crafted, a force that could tear down his house. He thought of the dragon winding its way through the armies and almost called Galor so that he would meet Erestor at the door and send him back out into the safe city until Glorfindel could organize his thoughts. But Erestor had waited long enough to hear the origin of his gift.
As if thoughts could call spirits into being, Glorfindel turned and saw Erestor standing in the shadow of the portico.
Glorfindel stopped moving. “When did you arrive?”
“Just now.”
The sword hung from Erestor’s belt, the old Fountain lord’s jewel gleaming at the hilt.
“Your sword has a story,” Glorfindel said.
“I have waited for you to tell me. I knew that you would come home after all your talk of dying and instructions to take over our two Houses. Glorfindel, you will always come home.”
“I will,” Glorfindel agreed, but silently he thought, to what?
Erestor did not move from the shadows of the porch. “What will you tell me?”
Glorfindel motioned him forward and said, “You history and your future. You must learn to protect yourself, though your hands were made to write. Come here that I may see them.”
In the distance the bells started ringing out the hour from every corner of the city and Erestor walked toward Glorfindel with his hands offered out before him like two perfectly carved symbols of strength, but strength of different sort. And Glorfindel could not help but think that all would be well as long as Erestor’s hands stayed warm and knowledgeable and true.
“Tell me about the sword,” Erestor said as he neared the center of the courtyard.
Without thinking, Glorfindel reached out and traced the smooth lines of Erestor’s palms and that was the first time their futures mingled.
“Sit here with me and I will tell you what I know – but I give no promise that your questions will be answered.”
They knelt on the warm paving stones. Erestor placed the sword gently on the ground between them, the stone at the hilt a dark mirror in color and brilliance to the color of his eyes. The stone contained the sort of darkness that was not at odds with the light.
“The book you left gave no mention of the sword. I did not worry Idril for the history you promised in your note, but first tell me how she came to know the journey of my grandfather’s blade when my father thought it lost.”
“So Ecthelion has seen it?”
“I showed it to him the morning after your return from the battle.”
“He said nothing to me about the matter and I was reluctant to ask.”
They stared at the sword as if it were a third party to the conversation, as if it might – at any moment – contribute a seed of wisdom, a nearly forgotten memory of its journey across the sea.
Glorfindel glanced up to Erestor and back to the sword. “I concealed the sword before Ecthelion came to his senses as we made the journey here. I had gone in search of him at Alda’s bidding, riding against the tide, searching every face I encountered along the march, asking for news of him. We are of a similar age and shared many happy days together in our early life, but we did not know each other as we do now until I found him kneeling beside his horse in the rear of the crowd.
“I searched until I reached the end of the line and I had almost given up hope until I heard his horse call out to me. I hurried past a bend in the path and found Ecthelion lying still as dawn in the dust. The land had never experienced so many feet crossing its surface at once and the road was white from trodden sand and crumpled root. I thought him dead, but when I knelt over him I felt the ready warmth of the living and his spirit seemed close to me. Honestly, I had no gauge to measure death before that time, so it was easy for me to leap to conclusions.
“I tried to rouse him with a thousand questions: Why are you not with us? Where have you been? If I lift you can you steady yourself enough to ride? He did not speak, but his eyes opened a fraction, enough for me to see that he wished to say something but he could not – and not for any trouble with his voice. His eyes had seen something and he could not give words to the vision, so I did not press. I grasped his shoulder and pulled him up so that we sat together in the dust and we remained there, just sitting, so long that a secret part of me wished that everyone had gone on without us and we would have no choice but to turn back.”
Glorfindel became lost in his memories and Erestor searched his face. “Glorfindel,” he said, “if you could go back to that day would you have carried on, knowing what you know now, or pulled my father back to his horse and turned the other way?”
“I cannot say for certain what I wish.” Glorfindel seemed once more in the present, in the bright stone warmth of the courtyard with the bird song and the quiet lapping of the pool behind them. “We were not created to reverse time; we are meant to keep it dear to us and move on.”
“Now you are speaking like the advisors in the palace. I expect more from you. What happened next?”
Glorfindel laughed at Erestor’s tenacity. They could be speaking of the first music of the Ainur and Erestor would wish to hurry the story along to better catalog the pertinent facts. “Something very strange happened, the reason, perhaps, that I placed Ecthelion on his horse and hurried to catch the others despite my misgivings. He had closed his eyes and seemed to drift away from me. Dismayed, I looked around hoping that I might find someone to help us. My eyes had adjusted by that time to the perpetual darkness, my House was never known for its sight, and I noticed a figure beneath the dim outline of a massive tree along the path. I needed hands to help me so I called out and rose to see who lingered there with us and why, whoever it was, had not already offered assistance.
“I could not make out the stranger’s face – and stranger he was to me, though I thought I knew everyone or I could, at least, give a name, a history, to every face that traveled with us. I did not know him, but I felt that I remembered him, hooded and hidden, from a distant memory.
“ ‘Take this,’ he said and pushed the sword, this sword,” Glorfindel’s hand hovered above the hilt, “into my arms.
“ ‘ Take this and give it to the one that will use the sword to write your story in the blood of his fathers.’ Two ravens, eyes bright in the shadows, sat on the branch above him. I stared at him stupidly, too much had happened already. Ecthelion sat on the ground behind me, the sword felt clumsy in my arms. The stone matched the crows’ eyes and I knew the design and the owner, your grandfather. The figure turned and the crows flapped their wings to follow him.
“’Wait,’ I said. ‘The sword belongs to the Fountain. I am confused.’
“I felt the stranger’s sorrow, saw it in his bearing, ‘You are misled,’ he said, ‘but I will tell you more when next we meet. Know your task by the stone and guard your secret until the end.‘
“The figure disappeared into the darkness and I stood there waiting for him to return, to say more, until I could wait no longer if I hoped to catch up with the others. I hid the sword amongst my things and pressed Ecthelion to mount his horse. We rode together silently, swiftly, my mind occupied with words Icould not comprehend. The rest I wrote in the book that was left for you. I can only assume that this is the end – the sword is yours, I have no question.”
Erestor leaned back and stretched his legs. He looked up at the summer sky. “You were right, the story explains nothing.”
Glorfindel shrugged. “The sword was clearly not intended for your father. You see now why I kept it hidden. “
“Who was the figure hidden in the cloak?”
“I can only guess.” Glorfindel had guessed and counted himself lucky that he was not at the head of the march. The warm courtyard in Gondolin seemed so far removed from the wicked darkness of those first days that the story could have happened to another. Glorfindel’s gaze moved inexplicably to the lovely curve of Erestor’s neck and he lost himself there for a moment before he stood up suddenly. “Are you ready for your first lesson?”
“Need you ask?” Erestor reached out his hand for Glorfindel to help him up.
Again their futures met and mingled and Glorfindel could not help but think that the secret had nothing to do with the sword. His time with Erestor did not feel like an end, instead it felt like a beginning.
Next Chapter
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Particularly loved Erestor's reflections upon seeing his father again.
Can't wait to read more.
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I liked the scene at the window (and have great fondness and sympathy for Galor :p).
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And I'm still giggling over the angry-Schu pic
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Yes, that picture was adorable; the cracked glasses, and the wounded expression and a tiny smudge (bruise?) on his cheek - I had to pull him right back and throw Crawford over, hahahah. I know a convincing argument when I see one.
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LOL Erestor is so innocent, telling his papa he fell asleep over at lusty Glorfindel's place. Poor Glorfindel, I can just picture him going around with a perpetual boner. I love that image! He is gorgeous, and the artwork of him in his pool is just stunning. WOW.
Perfect. But now I need more. *meep* ;D
May
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And wasn't that the best art, ever? I'm still flabergasted by Ramie's gorgeous work.
Off to figure out what Glorfindel is going to do with Erestor once he has him. Hmmmm . . .
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Yes, Ramie's art is beautiful! I have it opened in another tab so that I can drool over it at my leisure. *Thanks Ramie!*
Oh I just can't wait till you post again. Lusty pervy Glorfindel is just to die for... my my my what are they ever going to do in a sealed off city full of homophobes. heh ... they are homophobes - right? Or is that /my/ pervy imagination running wild.
Ah Ecthelion... your boy is being hunted by gorgeous Glory... what are we to do. LOL
I can't wait! *hugs*
May
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Thank you!
And now I WILL GO REVISE chapter 5. Absolutely. No distractions. Sort of.