Title: Broken Teacups (Part 2/ ?) Author: Celtic Bard Email: celticmadwoman@aikorn.com Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor Rating: PG-13 Warning: Mentions of suicide (NON-graphic) IMPORTANT NOTE: If you give me feedback on this, you shall have my profuse, unending thanks. I have never written slash before and I need to know if I’m going about it correctly. Summary: Reincarnation isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and Erestor happens to discover something he shouldn’t have… >>>>> Of course you do not see… this notion comes to me suddenly, though I suppose it should not surprise me after all the time you have spent in hiding – hiding from yourself, hiding from the world, hiding from the truth. You tried to hide from me as well – oh, you tried – but you could not. You could not… I remain in doubt as to whether or not this has occurred to you yet, but *I* know it – yes, I do. The problem, I imagine, is finding a way to make you realize… I cannot tell you that I understand, because I honestly do not and I am growing weary of falsehoods and fabrications. I do *not* understand, but I know. Oh, I know… I know all too well. >>>>> Erestor’s response was strangely calm, for all that he had spent this night embroiled in discordant argument with someone who was not inclined to listen. He thought a moment, with a cheerless half-smile on his face and an oddly distant look in his eyes, then shook his head. “No,” he replied, as if realizing for the first time, “You do not.” /How I wish you did…/ He stopped talking then, and stood a while, unsure of what else to say. Glorfindel stared at him, thinking as well, though the counselor has no clue as to what about. Finally, perhaps to break the unpleasant silence that was bringing him into far too close of contact with the unhappy ideas inside his head, the seneschal spoke up, “Well, then, now that we have established that it *is* utterly hopeless, will you leave?” Erestor, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, chewed slightly on his bottom lip as he crafted a response. “It is *not* utterly hopeless, Glorfindel! Not for me, and certainly not for you! Surely you must have *some* reason for living…” The blonde, staring at the walls – he was not entirely comfortable looking into the counselor’s eyes, though he was not quite sure why – declared so softly that he was almost talking to himself, while wearing an astonishingly eloquent and wholly honest smirk, “Believe me, Erestor, I know hopelessness. This is –“ The second part of the advisor’s answer caught up with him, and he suddenly looked at Erestor, startled. “And I have no reason for living. That *is* why I was up on the roof…” Erestor, to put it simply, was stunned. It shocked him beyond measure to hear something so despondent from someone who had never seemed so upset. /I cannot believe that! I must not…/ Not if he hoped to help, anyway. “Do you truly mean that, Glorfindel?” he exclaimed, “Does not this place, your part in it, your effect on the people here – does not –“ his voice gradually grew in volume, and he was making sweeping gestures with his hands, something he only did when agitated, “ – does not *any* of it mean *anything* to you?!” “It does, Erestor,” Glorfindel sighed, fatigued. “Of course it does…” He ran a hand through his hair, and went on, “But my job is easily filled, and my death cannot be mourned forever. I cannot live with this – this *life* anymore! I *need* to die, Erestor; I need to go back to those cold halls where there is nothing – happiness, sorrow, or otherwise – nothing save the endless numbing wait for the time when everything draws to a close.” Erestor decided that he needed to stop this kind of talk quickly, as it would doubtless only serve to further convince Glorfindel that killing himself truly was the answer to his problems. A sudden notion struck him – “Then why are you still alive?” “What?!” Now that he had something to go on, the advisor’s agitation calmed, and he began pacing back and forth – a habit *he* engaged in to expend mental energy rather than burn frustration. With an almost analytical attitude – it was a purely intellectual question, not meant to be provocative – he elaborated, “If things are truly as bleak and hopeless as you say, then why do this now? Why *tonight*? Why not sooner, if this has been going on for all these years?” Glorfindel merely stared at Erestor, wide-eyed and with more that a faint undercurrent of apprehension. He said nothing, however, and Erestor had just opened his mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the door. “Glorfindel? Erestor? Are you in there?” It was Elrond. >>>>> Elrond knocked on the storage room door, more curious than annoyed. It was well after daybreak, and though the seneschal and the advisor were *supposed* to meet with him this morning, neither one had shown up. With some people, this would hardly have been a cause for concern; however, neither Elf was the sort to leave without telling or to miss a meeting. So, he had gone looking for them, but the two Elves in question were not in their rooms, nor, indeed, in *any* of the common rooms in the household. Neither were they outside anywhere in the immediate area, and finding them had indeed proven to be a challenge. Eventually, though, Elrond had heard from one of the servants that voices had been heard from this room – not more than a closet, really – though the servant did not know just what said voices were discussing. *Elrond* had been quite surprised that the door was locked, but… >>>>> Erestor opened the door, squinting at the unbelievably searing brightness of the daylight. He had thought to bring a candle to illuminate the windowless storage room, but the hallway was far brighter. “Elrond,” he acknowledged, and then said the first thing that came to mind. “Is it morning already?” The Elf-lord took in this rather… odd… statement, and noticed Glorfindel sitting on the slanted access ladder, his hand shielding his eyes from the light. “Have you been here all night?!” he questioned incredulously. The two Elves exchanged glances with each other, and then Erestor shrugged, and offered, “I suppose we have.” The Elf-Lord also took in Erestor’s strange appearance – barefoot, and not wearing the heavy robes that he was always seen in, even in the middle of summer. He had not seen the counselor dressed this way in *centuries*… A peculiar, faintly horrified look passed over Elrond’s face as he mentally debated whether or not he *wanted* to know why these two had spent the night locked in a dark room with each other. The counselor, having some idea of just *what* Elrond was thinking, hastily answered the unasked question. “We were discussing yesterday’s reports,” he supplied, taking on the scholarly and faintly lofty air that he normally carried and that completely and easily obliterated any and all traces of the night’s attitude. Perhaps, he thought, it was wrong to lie to Elrond, but he was not sure that he should spread news of Glorfindel’s problems… not now, anyway, without really mentioning it to Glorfindel. The seneschal was quite surprised at this, and it momentarily registered on his face, but Elrond’s attention was focused on Erestor and so he did not notice. “Yesterday’s reports,” the Elf-lord stated flatly, making it clear that this story was much less than plausible. “I see…” Erestor nodded, unsure of how to respond, and Glorfindel unexpectedly stepped in. “It is easier to concentrate on the task at hand in a place that is free of distractions.” He, too, had taken on a different manner than the one he had previously been displaying. Now, his behavior was as it regularly was – serious but not overly so, and always benignly pleasant. The seneschal’s response also sounded less than plausible, but Elrond was not about to blatantly accuse two of his greatest friends of lying to him outright just because they were acting slightly strange. If they continued to act oddly he would inquire, but right now he had more important things to worry about and so decided to drop the subject. “Indeed,” he stated. “There are new reports for today – they just came in last night.” The reports in question came from King Thranduil of the recently-renamed Mirkwood, and dealt with the growing darkness there. Again, Glorfindel unexpectedly spoke up. “I know, Elrond – I have seen them.” *He* had been the one to receive the messenger, and had looked through the papers before placing them on Elrond’s desk. “You have?” Perhaps the seneschal and the counselor really *had* been working through the night. “Yes, we have,” Erestor told him. He was astonishingly good at telling bald-faced lies, perhaps because he was not the type of person one would usually suspect. “They were also a subject of discussion, and, indeed, the thing that kept us here so late. I am afraid that *I* must apologize for that, as it was my continued questioning that prolonged our conversation.” He was using bigger words than before, again becoming the scholar. “Is that so?” Elrond was not sure he believed that statement, but Erestor seemed to be sincere. “Then tell me, what do you think of them?” It fell to Glorfindel to answer this question, having been the one who actually *saw* the reports, and he climbed back down the slanted ladder and stood facing Elrond. “They are… most disturbing.” Erestor nodded his agreement, and Glorfindel continued, “We think that the best way to deal with this situation – as we currently do not know if it is something that can be solved by simply sending in a swarm of soldiers – is to keep in touch with both Mirkwood and Lothlórien, have a close watch on all that is happen *outside* the borders of our realm, and encourage the others to do the same. Communication could be enhanced by regularly sending messengers between all three realms…” Elrond was quite surprised – they *must* have been working! “I was thinking of something to that effect myself… I was going to run it by you and ensure that I was not overlooking anything, but since we have both reached the same conclusion it appears that no further discussion is required. I shall write the necessary letters and send them out immediately.” Pleased, he turned on his heel and left. Several minutes passed in silence and the advisor turned to the seneschal. “What was in the reports, anyway?” Glorfindel sighed depressedly. “Mirkwood is in trouble.” Erestor started to speak, something about the tower in the south of the wood, but – Glorfindel shook his head. “It is *more* than just a tower, Erestor. There are hordes of orcs roaming into Thranduil’s realm, and the spiders have taken over everything but the area immediately surrounding his halls. He *tries* to fight them off, but it never works completely as they are using the tower as their base.” “Thranduil will not let his kingdom fall!” Erestor answered. “I know that… *That* is not what worries me. What worries me is that the rest of the world may soon be subject to the same torments as Mirkwood. *Of course* Thranduil will hold his kingdom, and when that happens, the Dark forces will begin to focus their attention elsewhere…” He sounded so… troubled… as he said that, and something clicked in the advisor’s brain. He turned an intense look upon Glorfindel then, shot through with a new awareness. “*That* was it!” “What?” “That was the final straw – that was why you tried to kill yourself last night!” “Do not presume to tell me what was going through my head! You are *not* me, and the last time I checked you could not read minds!” he exclaimed angrily. He was massaging his temples as he said that, a sure sign of strain. Another idea came to Erestor – /perhaps even he does not know why he did it! Not completely, anyway…/ What to do, then? Continue to harangue, harass, and argue in the middle of a public place? Continue this elsewhere, where they were less likely to be overheard by someone who did not need to know? Or perhaps… do nothing at all? That was, indeed, the question. >>>>> To be continued… Title: Broken Teacups (Part 3/ ?) Author: Celtic Bard Email: celticmadwoman@aikorn.com Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor Rating: PG-13 Warning: Mentions of suicide (NON-graphic) IMPORTANT NOTE: If you give me feedback on this, you shall have my profuse, unending thanks. I have never written slash before and I need to know if I’m going about it correctly. Summary: Reincarnation isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and Erestor happens to discover something he shouldn’t have… >>>>> What *do* I do now? Yet another question among scores of questions that I could – nay, that I *should* – be asking you. I should be pestering and pleading and even – Valar forbid – whining to make you open up to me, but I cannot. It seems unfair and wrong of me to force such talk upon you, and you would say nothing of import if forced, anyway. As for yourself… you will not tell me of your own accord. You are too proud, I should think. Too proud… or else too blind or too stubborn or too unwilling. Or any number of other things, as I think I am starting to realize. I thought that I knew your situation, that I knew *you*, but I am beginning to grasp how ignorant I truly am. It seemed plain to me at first, some simplicity easily seen by a scholar or a soldier who thinks in black and white. Yet now… Now what? It would be easy – too easy, and not accurate – to call you a shade of grey in my plain-thinking brain, but even grey can be dealt with. Grey can be split, can be broken down into other, simpler things – grey is, after all, a mixture of black and white. You are not grey. No, you are something else… And I? I cannot make you talk… but perhaps I can make you listen. >>>>> Erestor considered for a second, and turned to Glorfindel. “If I let you go now, what will you do?” He still carried some semblance of scholarly bearing, and questions – regardless of the answers – would help him to organize his thoughts. The inquiry took the seneschal by surprise – it was something he had not thought of – and he was silent for a bit before replying, with a shake of his head, “I honestly cannot say.” He could not kill himself now, as it was day and someone would see. He had no wish to horribly traumatize anyone in Rivendell. That was how he rationalized it, anyway… Erestor’s response took almost no thought. If he could not trust Glorfindel to be by himself… “Then you are coming with me.” He took the blonde by the upper arm, and began leading him away. He expected the seneschal to resist, to put up a fight like that on the rooftop, but he did not. The blonde merely followed as he was told, considering. /What does Erestor think he is doing?/ As far as Glorfindel was concerned, there was nothing *left* to the matter! What could the advisor possibly want? They reached the counselor’s rooms quickly, and Erestor directed (gesturing at the couch), “Sit.” That would have seemed funny at any other time, as Erestor was quite stern about it and sounded like someone addressing a misbehaving dog. “Why should I?” The resistance was back – Glorfindel saw no point in this, and wanted to be left alone. He thought he knew where this was going… /We have discussed this already! It is over with!/ “We are going to talk.” The statement was blunt, delivered in a clipped, efficient tone of voice. That alone was enough to tip him off – Erestor was planning something, the seneschal knew. He could see it brewing behind the scholar’s eyes. “What about?” He smiled as he spoke, as though this were merely small talk of the sort that accompanied afternoon tea. This marked the switch to a different strategy – if he kept replying like this, they would never discuss what Erestor intended. He could be distracted with ease, Glorfindel decided smugly, if one knew how to do it. “You know what about.” The counselor was quite serious. *Dead* serious, in fact, and displaying a face so stoic it might have been made of granite. It bore an astonishing similarity to the face Elrond wore whenever the twins did something they should not have and he had to correct the matter. If Glorfindel were to react in kind, the conversation would doubtless get far too deep, far too quickly for comfort. He was aware of this, and so kept the smile on his face and (with the air of a fencer, parrying an attack) shrugged. “All right then, we will. So tell me, Erestor, how did you know I was going to do it in the first place?” This statement was less blindly pleasant than the last one; his voice made it clear that this *was* a duel, though with words instead of weapons, and he intended to come out the winner. Indeed, he *expected* it. The dark-haired counselor blinked a moment in surprise, as it took a second for Glorfindel’s statement to register. How odd of him, to just bring it up directly like that, when he had been avoiding talking openly for hours… and he was being glib. Too glib. The counselor’s eyes narrowed. /He is plotting something./ Erestor refused to be drawn into the ploy; *he* was not what they were here to talk about! “That is not important,” the dark-haired scholar declared loftily. “The question that I wish to know the answer to is what made you go up there, and why you think that there is nothing here to keep you alive.” Glorfindel’s smile grew obviously fixed, and Erestor instructed, beginning to pace, “You look nervous. Sit down, have some tea.” This rather mild statement was accompanied with a look that said that the seneschal had better do as told, and Glorfindel decided to save his opposition for something worthwhile. That did not mean that he was giving up – the blond Elf glared at the advisor even as he sat down. There *was*, strangely enough, a teapot and the necessary cups on the low table in front of him, but he did not care to drink. /What is he doing?/ Erestor was up to something… “*Have some tea*,” Erestor directed again, more forcefully. The ball was in *his* court now and they were going to do this his way. He’d *given* Glorfindel a chance to tell him what was going on, but he was going to have to revert to more drastic tactics. Death was not the solution to the seneschal’s depression – people were not back from the dead for no reason whatsoever; if he killed himself he might even be brought back a second time. /That would only make him more depressed…/ Rolling his eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line that quite obviously said that he was growing weary of this, Glorfindel picked up a teacup. He held it in an iron grip, and did not pour any tea into it, still partially resisting. “I do not see why it is necessary to discuss this. I *have* explained to you my reasons for doing what I did and I can assure you that I still believe in them.” Erestor laughed then, a strange cold light showing in his eyes, and the laughter was as bitter as it was unexpected. “Hah! You think that your life is bleak? Tell me, Glorfindel, what was your death like?” The seneschal merely stared at him, stunned by this sudden change in demeanor. He had not seen Erestor like this before… “Was it quick?” the counselor continued, almost venomously, knowing that his atypical attitude was startling Glorfindel. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve. The blonde merely looked at him, stone-faced and wide-eyed, as Erestor’s words brought back the tortured, flame-scarred recollections of millennia ago. %%%(FLASHBACK)%%% The repugnant air about him veritably boiled, the heat causing the ash- laden atmosphere to ripple and weave about the scorched and deadened mountainside. The demon, too close, *far* too close, roared again, and the already searing air was made even hotter. He had been fighting this thing for how long, now? He could not remember, but it had been long enough to turn his armor black with soot and reduce his shield to ashes. *He* was burned, too, his face red and blistering with more than exertion, more than heat. His armor felt like an oven, the mail links and plate protection painful to touch, now. The padding he wore under it was the only thing keeping it from burning the rest of his skin, and he did not know how much longer he could last. The balrog *had* to be killed, he knew, and he had to be the one to kill it. *He* stood a chance, *he* had survived this long. He could feel the heat of his burning armor now on his neck and back, going through to his skin. He was roasting in this metal shell – would he survive long enough to finish the deed? That thought and only that thought raced through his mind as he frantically ran and dodged and looked for a way to bring down this hideous fire-beast. He – a tall and mighty warrior, the greatest of his house – was so small, and it was *huge*, a gargantuan flame-demon bent on trying to kill him. He doubted he would live through this, he had resigned himself to that, but he knew that what he did here on this mountain before he died affected many, many more people than just himself. He *would* die, but he would take the balrog with him. And then – there was an opening! A single well-aimed thrust of his sword, and then there was a horrible gush of molten blood that spewed and scalded him as he ran back from it, baiting the demon. The fiery whip caught him, then, and his legs were burned worse than before and it *hurt*, but that was not what mattered. The sword-thrust and subsequent injury had knocked the demon back, flailing against the discolored sky that was no longer blue, and it roared in pain, but when it saw its attacker running, it had lashed out with the flaming whip and had leaned back even more, trying to draw the puny being in. It was too far – the balrog had overbalanced and now was tumbling over the edge of the mountain, falling to certain death along with the one who had, in effect, killed it… …and as Glorfindel fell into the open, soot-smeared air, he consoled himself, knowing that his sacrifice would save many other lives. He had done it. His death was *useful*. %%%(End Flashback)%%% “It was… horrible…” Glorfindel told him, with a shake of his head. The memories of it – the seared air and the seemingly endless fall – were as crystal clear as yesterday. His hand – the one holding the teacup – was quavering slightly, though he did not seem to notice. “But was it *quick*?!” Erestor repeated, insistent and more than a bit harsh. He needed the seneschal to see his point – it was necessary if he wanted this to work. “I… suppose…” The fall had probably only taken a few seconds, but to him it had *felt* nearly as long as the eternity he had spent in the Halls of Waiting. He remembered falling and falling and staring at the wounded sky through clouds of soot and dust and ash, knowing that because of him the sky could again be blue… and then the ground had hit him and he knew no more. The counselor’s tone was rueful. “Then you had it lucky.” >>>>> To be continued…