TITLE:  Feral Form
AUTHOR:  Ezra’s Persian Kitty
(ezraspersiankitty@yahoo.com)
PAIRING:  Glorfindel/Erestor
RATING:  NC-17 (violence)
SUMMARY:  ANNNNNGGGST.
DISCLAIMER:  Not mine.
WARNING:  Language.  Violence.  Disturbing, very
bloody Violence.  And Torture.  And Yucky Stuff; yes,
that is a technical term.  (Oh!  And this story is
completely implausible.  [Thus the term ‘fanfiction.’]
 But I’ll make a deal: I won’t tell if you won’t. 
Just sit back and enjoy it while it lasts, boys and
girls, enjoy it.)
NOTES:  Inspired by Buffy (The Pack); The X-Men
(Beast); Harry Potter (Remus Lupin); Dr. Jeckyl and
Mr. Hyde; The Incredible Hulk; The X-Files (The Jersey
Devil, Alpha); Vampire: The Masquerade (Clan Gangrel);
Robin Hobb’s Assassin’s trilogy (Fitz); Star Trek: TNG
(Genesis); Saiyuki; Vampire Hunter D; and many more.

This is dedicated to the animal in all of us.  Grrr...

= = = = =

“In each of us, two natures are at war -- the good and
the evil. All our lives, the fight goes on between them, 
and one of them must conquer. But in our own hands lies 
the power to choose -- what we want most to be, we are.”
--R. L. Stevenson

= = = = =

Feral Form


August, T.A. 3018

PROLOGUE (In other words, THE BEGINNING)

The violent winds battered mercilessly at the Last
Homely House, and the forceful rain that pelted the
roofs and walls of Imladris thudded like rocks
bouncing off the shale shingles and stone walkways. 
The building seemed to tremble under the force of the
early summer storm as thunder and lighting tore at the
sky with frightening ferocity.

In the heart of this old safe haven, in the dead of
this stormy night, a handful of Elves were gathered. 
Elladan and Elrohir flanked their guard captain, all
three of them soaked to the skin and spattered with
mud up to their knees.  Captain Palandil spoke,
addressing the Lord of Imladris, who sat behind his
desk in grey night robes.  “...they were massacred!”
she continued hotly.  “Torn limb from limb like
ragdolls.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  And the
others... were just gone.  No sign.  As if they
disappeared.”

Glorfindel, from his position standing at Elrond’s
right hand, regarded Palandil with a fiercely
contemplative and concerned expression.  His voice was
low and weary.  “There were no tracks?”

“Nothing could be seen in this storm,” the
auburn-haired captain answered, her statement
punctuated by a cracking roar of thunder and sharp
flash of lightening, briefly illuminating the
otherwise dark room, which shook with the force of
nature’s fury.  In that flare of light, two pinpricks
of gold flickered from the corner.  Palandil paused,
eyeing the storm warily through the large windows
silhouetting Elrond’s and Glorfindel’s forms.  “Any
tracks were long since gone.”

“But orcs have been sighted these past months, ever
closer to the border,” Elladan reminded them angrily
as he stepped forward to address his father.  “We
cannot just--”

“Thank you, Elladan,” Elrond interrupted, though not
unkindly.  “I will discuss these findings with my
counselors.  I want the three of you to go, clean up,
and get some rest.  We shall speak again in the
morning.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Captain Palandil wearily acknowledged
with a bow, swiftly imitated by the twins.  They left
quickly. 

“Counselors?”  

Glorfindel sighed with worry as he slowly circled
round the wide desk to pull up a softly padded chair
across from Elrond.  “I don’t know what to make of it.
 Except that there is something out there -- more than
just orcs -- and it needs to be dealt with.  At once.”

Elrond’s deep grey gaze was focused on nothing as he
absent-mindedly nodded agreement.  “Erestor?”

Another burst of lightening infiltrated the room,
briefly turning Glorfindel’s gold mane to fire, and
highlighting the pale face in the corner, within which
sparked those points of gold.  Erestor withdrew from
the shadows, stepping forward to place himself beside
Glorfindel, though he did not sit.  His voice was soft
and steady, as always, and filled with a growling
rumble that was almost lost in the noise of the storm.
 “I do not think we are dealing with anything other
than extremely intelligent and vicious orcs; however,
Lord Glorfindel is right.  This must be seen to at
once.”

Taking his most trusted advisors’ words to heart,
Elrond sat a moment in thought.  “I do not pretend to
know what threat has invaded our land.  My R--” he
stopped.  He sighed.  He spoke, “My reach is only so
far, and I can sense no more than an evil presence
there to our north.  Captain Palandil has moved her
patrols closer to home under my orders, but I fear the
evil will follow this conspicuous retreat.”  He sighed
and shook his dark head tiredly.  “There is naught to
be done now; we shall make our plans in the morning.”

Both Elves nodded and Glorfindel stood, the hem of his
pale nightgown floating by his calves as he did so. 
He exchanged a concerned look with his fellow
counselor, but Elrond was right.  Now was the time for
rest.  Action would come in the morning.  As they
turned to take their leave, Elrond spoke.  “Erestor, a
word?”

Glorfindel watched curiously as the black-haired
advisor in his meticulous midnight robes beside him
froze in his tracks before slumping resignedly and
turning to face the Half-Elf.  “Of course, my Lord.”

The golden-haired Elf nodded his goodnights and padded
on bare feet out to the marble-floored hall.  Shutting
the door behind him, Glorfindel made his way through
the dark corridors, instinctually avoiding the muddy
footsteps before him as he lost himself in weary
thought and half-forgotten musings.

***

The air was fresh and wet after the previous evening’s
storm, even here in Elrond’s study where the Lord sat
in place at his desk, though much more formally
attired than he had been the night before.  Glorfindel
stood opposite him, now in his own blue and grey robes
and not allowing the night’s events to hold down his
cheery disposition as his animated hands accented his
quick tongue. “...and they go unto who knows what
end--”

Elrond held up a hand to halt the flow of words.  “You
have come to a conclusion then?”

“Aye!  I would like to put forth a proposal,”
Glorfindel suggested hopefully.

“By all means,” Elrond encouraged with a wave of the
hand as he leaned back in his chair.

“It’s quite simple: before we can hope to protect our
land, we must know what we are protecting it from. 
Rather than some great force attempting to infiltrate
the enemy, I advise sending scouts, just a few, to
sneak past their sentries and find out just what is
going on in whatever camp or base they’ve established
out there.”

Glorfindel came to an abrupt halt, but Elrond could
see there was more.  “And?” he asked indulgently.

That brilliant smile never faltered as Glorfindel
revealed his plans.  “I will go alone!”

Elrond grimaced.

“I can handle myself--” he continued.

“Not alone,” Elrond interrupted.  It was not a
suggestion, but an order.

Broad shoulders slumped for only a moment before
Glorfindel perked up again.  “A small team, then,” he
suggested agreeably.

Blue eyes drifted and Elrond could already see the
gears turning.  He once more held up a hand to silence
his counselor.  Glorfindel’s chatter came to a halt
mid-word and he stared at his Lord, waiting.  “No,”
Elrond again denied.  “This is not a question of
skill, but of safety.  You, Glorfindel, will go.  And
I know just the Elf to partner you with.”  The
half-Elf let out a very human-sounding sigh and leaned
forward with elbows on desk, those piercing grey eyes
regarding his friend with sincere concern.  “To be
honest, the idea that there is some unexplained force
out there frightens me, and I want someone at your
side who can face that.”

Glorfindel raised a single, fine blond eyebrow.  After
a moment of silence he asked, “You?”

A grim smile dominated serious, stately features. 
“No, not me.”  Elrond paused, as if unsure whether or
not to state his final decision.  He looked down to
his desk and then up to meet those open blue eyes.  He
seemed to find whatever he was looking for in that
unguarded gaze and decreed, “I want Erestor to go with
you.”

Glorfindel’s expression did not change.  “I’m sorry?”

“Erestor,” Elrond repeated, understanding the
confusion.

Glorfindel, who had leant forward in anticipation of
Elrond’s words, now stood up straight, a slightly
befuddled expression on that handsome face.  He looked
away from Elrond to face the silent Elf in the corner.

Erestor acknowledged the attention with a slight bow
in Glorfindel’s direction.

Blue eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth,
before finally settling on Elrond once more.  He
stepped forward and, forgetting himself for a moment,
sputtered, “You can’t be serious!  Erestor -- no
offense Counselor -- is... not a warrior!” he declared
with a slight laugh.  “You want a hermit who secludes
himself in the bowels of the dusty archives to
accompany me into enemy territory!  That Elf is not
fit for battle of any kind!  He’s a recluse and a
pedant and... and... NOT a warrior!”

Elrond raised a brow with a slight frown.  Glorfindel
knew that expression.  It was the ‘Are you quite
finished?’ expression, and the golden-haired lord was
all too familiar with it.  “Counselor,” Elrond
reprimanded with a word.

Glorfindel heaved a heavy sigh at the disappointment
in his Lord’s voice, recalling the words that had
flowed all too thoughtlessly, as they had a tendency
to do.  He cast a sheepishly apologetic look to
Erestor, who offered a small smirk in return, thin
lips quirking in a rare look of friendly camaraderie. 


Elrond regained his attention when he spoke, “Erestor
is many things: a recluse and a pedant,” he agreed
with a smile.  “My trusted counselor and a skillful
warrior.”

Glorfindel couldn’t prevent another small glance to
Erestor, but the Chief Counselor revealed nothing. 
Glorfindel then eyed Elrond suspiciously, but the Lord
of Imladris was quite grave.  “You’re serious?”

“Never more so.”

Again did Glorfindel look to Erestor.  Golden eyes
remained unreadable.  A nervous lick to lips preceded
Glorfindel’s formal, “I apologize.  I never knew…”

Erestor cocked his head and with a wry smile told him,
“You never asked.”

Glorfindel bowed his head, in shame, and in deference.
 “I am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Erestor said firmly as he finally
stepped from his dark corner and into the light of
day, though the shadows still seemed to cling to him
with his dark robes and raven hair.  “We have plans to
make.”

***

The three Eldar spent hours in council, discussing
options and brainstorming ideas.  It was well past
noon when they adjourned for a much-needed break and a
meal.

Glorfindel watched Elrond make his slow way toward the
kitchens only to be caught up by two eager tails of
identical height and raiment.  The Lord of Gondolin
smiled as Elrond’s sons escorted their father toward
the lower halls.  And the Lord Counselor was about to
follow, as he had a thousand times before.  But then
he turned.  Erestor was moving the other way, toward
his distant quarters, gliding on silent feet.

Changing his routine for the first time in all his
long decades as Counselor, Glorfindel turned to follow
the mysterious golden-eyed Elf.  “Counselor Erestor,
wait up!”

That dark, slender figure halted, but did not turn and
Glorfindel wasted no time loping down the hallway
until he reached Erestor’s side.  That deep rumbling
voice murmured, “To what do I owe this honor, Lord
Glorfindel?”

“I thought we might take lunch together, Counselor,”
Glorfindel explained.

Erestor cast him a darkly suspicious look, and
Glorfindel was suddenly reminded of the first time
that penetrating gaze met his, when they had collided
in the hallways an age ago and he had received the
exact same look; the golden-haired Lord had found the
oddly colored eyes shocking and frightfully
disconcerting – nothing like the way they affected him
now.  No matter how sarcastic or unfriendly,
Glorfindel now found reassurance in those eyes
whenever he encountered them.  The elongated ears,
absurdly high cheekbones, wide nose, and those eagle
eyes lent the aloof Counselor an alien appearance
uncommon among Elves or Men or any other creatures. 
At first, his features seemed strange.  In fact, they
still did, but Glorfindel had long grown used to them,
even that sharp gold gaze.  But he’d always associated
those odd features and long robes and reclusive manner
with Erestor the Counselor, the Pedantical Scholar,
the Occasionally Eccentric Hermit.  It suddenly
bothered him that he’d never sought to look any
further.  To ask.

Glorfindel flashed one of his charming smiles; there
was only sincerity and affection in the handsome
expression.  “I have fruit and bread in my room, what
do you say?”

Erestor had spared him but one look and now stared
straight ahead as he murmured.  “I have no hunger,
Lord.  I had planned on taking my respite in my room. 
Alone.”

“As always?” Glorfindel questioned, ignoring the hint.
 “Are you not lonesome, Counselor, ever ensconced in
that attic room with nothing but your books for
company?  You do not attend regular meals, appear even
more rarely at feasts.  I see you at Council, and that
is all and even then you do but hover ominously in the
corners; you cannot tell me you are not lonely.”

Glorfindel halted when Erestor did.  The dark-haired
Elf turned to him.  “I am not lonely.”  He continued
walking.

“Counselor!”  Glorfindel skipped to catch up.  “I find
that *I* do not want to be alone.  Would you indulge
me with your company?”

“I am not hungry,” Erestor reminded him.

They walked in silence as Glorfindel thought.  Then,
he perkily announced, “Neither am I!  But I am filled
with energy after spending the morning in conference. 
I shall go to the Pit.  And now that I know you to be
a warrior as well, I would ask you to spar with me!”

Erestor continued walking and Glorfindel wondered for
many moments if his most polite inquiry would be
ignored.  Eventually, Erestor spoke.  Again,
Glorfindel’s memory took him back to a foolish
collision in the halls of Imladris.  That same voice
had addressed him then, a strange voice to match the
strange face.  A rich rumbling tone with a bit of a
growl in it.  Not aggressive, but low and rough just
the same.  Not like an Elf.  Those words came back to
him now, remembering how Erestor had instinctively
grabbed his arm to keep him from tumbling down. 
Golden eyes had unflinchingly met his.  ‘Ah, and you
must be the... energetic... Lord Glorfindel of
Gondolin, whom I have heard so much about.  It’s nice
to finally run into you.’

So caught up was he in reminiscence that Glorfindel
almost missed Erestor’s answer.

Erestor’s eyes were firmly trained on the marble
floor, but his rough voice was low and almost
friendly.  “And why should I agree to dirty myself in
the Pit for your amusement?”

“No amusement, Counselor,” Glorfindel argued, all
seriousness now.  “If we’re to work together, go up to
the north together, fight together, then I ought to
know your skills.  And you mine!  Strengths. 
Weaknesses.  So that we may work and move as one,
should the need arise.”

Erestor halted, and this time when he turned to face
his companion, a trace of a smile lit the pale face,
turning up the corners of thin lips.  “I accept your
challenge.”


= = = = =

CHAPTER THE FIRST: THE PIT

In a valley, hidden by magic and time, stood the Last
Homely House west of the Misty Mountains.  This House
was, in all rights, a community of its own, and had
been so well-constructed with respect to nature that
it appeared to have grown in amongst the trees and
waters, with numerous houses and buildings connected
by bridges and stone walkways tucked between gardens
and arbors and orchards.  Behind this dwelling --
which was in itself a marvel full of endless nooks and
crannies to explore -- were the stables, in which were
housed the finest horses that side of the mountains. 
Alongside the stable was a large armory, larger than
one might think was needed in such a carefully hidden
and protected place as Imladris.  And behind the House
and the gardens and the armory and the stables, was a
pit.

The Pit hadn’t always existed there in Rivendell, but
Elves were warriors as often as healers or craftsmen
or scholars, and these Warrior Elves desired a place
to practice their craft and release their energies,
even in times of peace.  So, out of sight of the House
and just beyond the horses, the old meadow had soon
been worn down to nothing but dirt in a thirty-foot
radius where soldiers and weapon smiths and warriors
of old could practice.  So many centuries had this
very spot been tramped and pounded and bruised by the
warriors who had claimed it, that the earth had been
beaten down into a bowl shape in the ground.  Now,
this soil was hard as stone, trampled to an almost
level surface ten feet down, sixty feet across,
reached by a ramp of earth and rock by the Elves who
returned here day after day, year after year.  

Old warriors sparred here.  Young ones learned their
lessons.  By both it had been named the Pit.  And
challenges were not taken lightly.

Glorfindel trotted down the steep ramp, sword in hand.
 His robes had been traded in for simple trousers and
shirt.  He tramped across the ground that had been
turned to mud in the storm and almost dried throughout
the course of the day, excess water having long
drained though the grate that had been built at the
bottom of the Pit countless years ago.

He waited many minutes, ignorant to how the high sun
turned loose blonde tresses to a cascade of spun gold
that tumbled down his shoulders, or the way blue eyes
flashed with brilliance and vivid life at all the
world around him.

When Erestor made no appearance, the Lord of Gondolin
took a stance and went through the motions that had
been taught him three ages ago.  The movements were
natural; the rhythm, ingrained.  Like to a dance, step
followed step, thrust followed parry, and it was so
familiar, so habitual, he felt he might lose himself
in the routine: the dance-like sequence that spelled
death for any enemy.

“Your skills are most impressive, Lord Glorfindel.”

Caught unawares, the ancient Elf gasped and turned,
hair becoming a mane that flared out like a fan behind
him as he spun.  Looking up, blue eyes beheld his
opponent, silhouetted by the yellow sun at the top of
that earth and stone ramp.

Erestor descended as gracefully as he did everything
else, long robes trailing in the dirt.  A few slender
braids held back the hair from his temples instead of
his mithril circlet of office and a light sword was
held loosely in one hand, but that was the only
difference in appearance.  

Glorfindel stared a moment, inexplicably distressed by
the presence of that sword in a hand he had only ever
seen holding quill or book.  Temperance forgotten,
Glorfindel blurted out the first thing that came to
mind: “Your robes will get dirty.”

Erestor gave him an odd look, but then, perhaps it had
been an odd thing to say.  The dark Elf looked down as
if to examine those midnight blue robes lined in a
deep sepia.  “I seem to have an unnecessary abundance
of robes.  One ruined set means little.”

Glorfindel made no answer, though wondered if perhaps
Erestor had nothing *but* robes in his entire
wardrobe; he could never recall seeing him in anything
else.  The Lord Counselor considered offering
something of his own to spar in, but he instinctively
knew such an offer would be refused.  Instead he
looked to the weapon his partner carried.  “That sword
is from the armory,” he stated, maintaining his superb
ability of stating the obvious.

Erestor lifted the sword and the sunlight glinted
along the folded blade as he examined it.  He held it
aloft, sighting along the edge.  “It is a
well-balanced and cared-for weapon.”

“But it is not yours.”

“No,” Erestor agreed, obviously not going to answer
the unasked question.

A tense moment of silence hung between them until
Glorfindel laughed it away with a light chuckle. 
“Enough talk; let us answer this challenge.”

“Indeed,” Erestor willingly agreed.  “But before we
begin, I should tell you...” he stopped.

“Yes?”

Faltering, Erestor looked uncertain, and Glorfindel
was worried, never having seen the Counselor
distressed in any way before.

“I, uh...  I have not held a sword in many years.”

Smiling, Glorfindel answered, “Then I shall take
special care not to harm you.”

Erestor only nodded.  He stood up straight and bowed
as Glorfindel did the same.  The dark Elf took a deep
breath and assumed a protective stance.

Glorfindel frowned at the defensive position, taking
up a more aggressive one of his own.

For a moment, both figures held still as stone, the
only movement in the swaying of loose garments and
black and gold hair in the slight breeze that found
its way into the Pit.

Then Glorfindel charged.  The habit was as normal to
him as eating and he found little challenge to attack
and push back his combatant.  But if Erestor had to
make an effort to block him, then it did not show. 
The Counselor’s movements were fluidly economic, more
so even than Glorfindel’s age-old rhythm of assault.  

Thusly they circled, Erestor falling back as
Glorfindel advanced, the clash of mithril on steel
clanging dully within the soil-packed Pit.  To
Glorfindel’s surprise, he found that the faster he
attacked, the more proficient his partner became in
mere moments, soon daring to attempt his own weak
attacks, which quickly grew more adept and dangerous
as they progressed.

Erestor’s style was unpredictable and remarkably
similar to Elrond’s.  Random attacks targeted his arm,
his stomach, leg, neck, torso -- Glorfindel felt as
though he were dancing, trying to avoid that hazardous
sword tip.

In response, the Elf Lord varied his own attacks,
aiming for the legs when he ducked, the exposed left
arm when he swiveled to his own right.  As he
continued this, he noticed the fault in Erestor’s
stance: his left side was exposed since he did not
shift back quite far enough to properly align himself.

Taking advantage of this flaw, Glorfindel again dodged
a swiping thrust, but unexpectedly moved forward as he
did so, tapping Erestor’s left arm with the flat of
his blade.

Immediately, the swordsmen each stepped back as
Erestor said, “Ah good, hit acknowledged.”  They
bowed.

“You have some skill with a blade,” Glorfindel
praised, “But I can see your weapon is not the sword. 
Your knives, why do you not use them?”

Erestor thought for a moment, his head cocked to the
side: a familiar gesture.  He responded, “The sword is
for sparring.  When I use my knives, I mean business.”

Glorfindel chuckled appreciatively.  “I should dearly
like to see that!”

Erestor only nodded.  Then, resuming his defensive
stance with the sword low, he asked, “Again?”

Glorfindel smiled.

***

The rest of that evening was spent in Council, and
after a short night’s rest, they met again the next
morning: Erestor, Glorfindel, and Elrond, with Captain
Palandil coming and going as requested.  Glorfindel
planned for the worst even as he hoped for the best,
and Erestor proved to be a master strategist as their
plot began to take form.  Elrond still worried about
the two of them out in the wilderness amongst an
unknown enemy without any nearby aid, but his
counselors insisted that they could, “Take care of
ourselves just fine, thank you very much!”

Elrond grudgingly agreed.  

“Horses?” asked the Lord of Imladris.  There had been
no mention of horses.

Both his counselors shook their heads and Erestor
answered.  “Stealth over speed,” he explained in his
laconic fashion.

Elrond merely nodded.

***

This time when they adjourned for lunch, Glorfindel
wasted no time in trailing Erestor out the room and
skipping alongside the tall Elf down the hall.  “So,
lunch?”

Erestor opened his mouth to answer.

“Oh, let me guess,” Glorfindel broke in, answering his
own question.  “You’re not hungry.”

Erestor nodded with a shadow of a smile.  “Correct.”

“Fine.  I’ll meet you at the Pit in ten minutes!” the
golden-haired beauty declared, running ahead to his
quarters to change.  Behind him, he heard a sigh. 
Turning again to face his fellow Counselor, Glorfindel
called, “And bring your knives!”

Erestor smirked.

***

Glorfindel again found himself to be the first
arrived.  He ignored the ramp, easily jumping down to
land on the floor of the Pit.  He leapt like a cat
energetically about the Pit, clumsily jabbing his
sword at an invisible foe as he shouted his own
encouragement.  “Ya!  Hi-ya!”

A polite patter of applause sounded above him and
Glorfindel turned to look up at Erestor, again
shrouded in sunlight, creating a halo about his
slender form as thin robes billowed in the breeze. 
“Your technique seems a bit less polished than I
recall from yesterday.”

Grinning sheepishly, Glorfindel ducked his head as he
dug his sword point into the dirt to lean upon the
handle.  “I was just playing,” he mumbled, suddenly
self-conscious in the presence of the sedate
Counselor.

Erestor raised a curious eyebrow, though Glorfindel
did not see it.  He spoke as he slowly descended. 
“And what -- pray tell -- might the renowned Lord of
Gondolin have been playing at, by himself, in a Pit
hidden behind the House?”

Glorfindel laughed heartily and finally looked up to
see Erestor dressed in threadbare brown robes fraying
at the hems.  “I was fighting a great Balrog!  Could
you not tell?”

Erestor smiled in response.  “Only a child or
Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer himself would state such
a thing so carelessly.”

“Well, I’ve right to, have I not?”

“I suppose you do.”

Eyeing the leather strapping that crisscrossed
Erestor’s chest, Glorfindel asked, “May I see your
weapons?”

Serious again, Erestor somberly reached over his
shoulders to unsheathe the white blades.  He held them
together across his palms to let his friend hunch over
to inspect the carefully maintained weapons.  He did
not touch them.  “Odd phrasing,” he murmured of the
inscription. 

“Yes, Elrond commissioned them to be made for me.”

That was more information than Erestor usually offered
and Glorfindel did not push him any further, having
learned the Counselor’s limits long ago.  He carefully
wiped the dirt from the point of his own blade and the
two warriors stepped back.  

Erestor stared at his partner thoughtfully.  “I should
tell you...” he offered hesitantly.

“Yes?”

Erestor just sighed and shook his head.  “I’ve not had
any need for weapons, not in a long time.  I am out of
practice; watch yourself.”

The Lord Counselor nodded easy agreement with a smile
and said, “To be sure!”  He wondered what Erestor had
really meant to say.  

They saluted with a short bow and began.

Glorfindel found himself much disadvantaged, not
facing the proficient swordsman of yesterday, but a
true master of the knives.  The twin blades slashed
ever nearer, and he knew more by sound than sight how
close they really came.  Too close, in his opinion.  

This day, it was Glorfindel who found himself taking
the defensive position as Erestor swiftly advanced,
knives flashing white in the sunlight and ringing
shrilly against the mithril of his sword.

Without warning, Glorfindel suddenly found his back to
the dirt wall of the Pit.  He gasped out a great
breath in surprise and had to use all his strength to
hold back the single knife pressing inward toward his
throat.  So focused was he on the proximity of that
blade that he had no heed for the other until he heard
a *snick* at his ear as it plunged into the dirt wall.

Glorfindel’s blue eyes were wide as he looked toward
his feet where a good six-inch lock of blond hair now
lay scattered on the floor.  “That could have been
your eye,” Erestor calmly told him, and Glorfindel was
slightly frightened at the cold distance of that
emotionless voice. 

“H-hit acknowledged,” he said with a quaver.

Erestor withdrew.  He then looked forlornly at the
brown earth, upon which lay strands of gold.  He knelt
to pick up the small clump of hair.  Standing, he
whispered, “I apologize.  It was a terrible thing to
do.”

Glorfindel merely shrugged.  “I am no vain creature,”
he reasoned, absently pulling at the shorter tuft of
hair that now ended at his bicep, whereas the rest of
his tresses fell to his elbow.  “It was a good lesson
to remind me of.”

“What lesson?” Erestor asked, gold eyes still fixed on
that gold hair in the palm of a pale hand.

Glorfindel smiled.  “Expect the unexpected, never
underestimate the enemy, and above all, don’t judge a
book by its cover.”

Erestor allowed a small smile at that.  “Another
round?” he asked tentatively.

Glorfindel brightened at once.  “Of course!”

***

Another evening in Council, another short night’s
rest, another early morning in Elrond’s office. 
Sitting.  Talking.  Planning.

Glorfindel pointed to the map.  “I still don’t see why
they wouldn’t be closer to the Bruinan; they would
need a water source no matter who they are.”

Erestor shook his head.  “I know you are right, but
there is no evidence of pollution in our waters, which
there must be if a force of any size was stationed
there, orc or otherwise.”  He indicated the same
place, and then shifted over to a point west of that,
closer to the Misty Mountains.  “For all we know,
their base is in the mountain face itself, making use
of those underground water sources, only coming out
and closer to Imladris for their missions.”

“Even though the attacks have accelerated in
frequency?” asked Elrond.

Erestor nodded as he examined the maps spread out
before them.  “Yes.  In fact, I think that is exactly
what they’re doing.  There is a base in the Mountain,
and smaller camps further out, like a road all the way
to Imladris.  A point guard would advance to capture
Elves, and kill whomever they cannot carry or keep
reasonably controlled.  No witnesses.”

Glorfindel shook his head sadly, for once glad of
Erestor’s calm manner; it seemed to be contagious. 
“But why?  I mean, why capture Elves?”

Erestor turned to face him, sharp gold eyes filled
with a promise.  “That is exactly what we’re going to
find out.”

***

Erestor and Glorfindel moved slowly and silently down
the hall, each lost his own thoughts.

“Lunch?”

“Nay.”

“Pit?”

“Ten minutes,” Erestor declared.

“Right.”

 ***

Glorfindel slid briskly down the ramp, now unsurprised
to have been first.  He waited a moment before
unsheathing the knives he’d brought along, tossing the
double scabbard up to the ground outside the Pit. 
Free of encumbrances, he took the knives in hand,
slowly moving through the motions learned long ago.

It was true he preferred the sword, but it was also
true that he was equally skilled with knives, bow, and
even axe or staff.  The knives were not unfamiliar
after so long laid aside, but they were not so
comforting in his hands as his pure mithril sword.

And this time, when Erestor approached, Glorfindel
knew it.  It was neither sound nor shadow that gave
the dark Elf away, but something entirely
unexplainable.  Glorfindel simply knew he was there. 
“Now, we shall be evenly matched, Counselor Erestor.” 
He turned to face his opponent and even though he
could not see the Elf’s features where he was
silhouetted at the Pit’s rim, Glorfindel could see the
surprise in the set of his form, the stiffness of his
back.  “Aye, now I know when you are near.  That shall
be good when we are together in the forest.”

Erestor nodded, stepping lightly down the ramp.  “You
are, of course, correct.  And you may be right about
our matched skills.  But that has yet to be proven.”

Glorfindel laughed good-naturedly at the challenge. 
“A match then, a final challenge before our departure
tomorrow.”

Erestor nodded, unsheathing his own knives.  Wearing
the same threadbare robes, Glorfindel had been
surprised the Elf moved so easily in something so
potentially constricting and obstructive.  Today, he
vowed to observe everything about his opponent,
pertinent or not.

Again, the black hair was mostly loose but for a few
braids to keep his sight clear.  Gold eyes were
unreadable and fairly fierce when he battled in the
Pit.  His long robes never seemed to interfere with
his ability, an ability that must have been both
natural and long practiced, flowing easily and quite
swiftly.

And it was at this moment, face to face for the third
time in the Pit, that the golden Elf realized that
Erestor was a full three inches taller.

“Glorfindel,” Erestor addressed him.

“Yes?  Do you have something to say?”

“N-no.  No, I do not.  Let us begin.”

Glorfindel was concerned about this recurring
reticence, but simply agreed, “As you wish.”

They bowed respectfully, and this time when they
began, their stances were mirrored.  Knives out to the
side, knees bent, and incredibly strong wills facing
off one against the other.

Glorfindel growled happily through a smile and
rumbled, “Let’s do this!”

Erestor charged.  

Knives flashed brilliantly in the late afternoon sun –
white on white, as dark and light hair shimmered and
swirled about their twisting forms.  Blue and gold
were the unblinking eyes, and their contact never
broke as the warriors traded advance for retreat and
blow for blow.  They picked up speed as they moved,
spinning and circling, diving and jumping, attacking
and defending in a give and take sequence that could
have been a fight to the death between bitter enemies
or a fiery dance between passionate lovers. 

One pressed forward, and the other was forced away.  A
change in technique would shift power again.  A
different stance would take it back.  On and on they
went, never slowing, and never getting closer to any
sort of victory.

Panting at the exertion, Glorfindel began adding kicks
and punches into the fight, using any part of his body
that could be considered a weapon.  Even elbows, when
the angle was right, could fumble an oncoming attack.

Erestor was well up to the challenge.  Kick for kick,
blocks and blows.  They had become extensions of their
weapons instead of the other way around, and neither
fighter was about to give in.  

In desperation, the attacks grew bolder and the
weapons grew dangerously closer.  Still, they moved as
one, nearer and nearer the other, relying now on hope
as well as skill to gain the desired victory. 
“Arrggh!!”

Amid some freak occurrence of time and position one
leg got wrapped around another as they attempted the
same kick, and the Elves went down wound together,
landing heavily on the hard packed dirt.

After three days without rain, a slight cloud of dust
rose around the fallen warriors, who lay entangled
side by side, knives to one another’s throats and
ribs, neither closer than the other.

“If I wasn’t so intent on winning, I’d say we have
ourselves a draw,” Glorfindel proclaimed in panting
breaths.

“Aye, a draw, and well met,” agreed Erestor.

They were both grinning like schoolboys.

***

Glorfindel slumped in the padded chair, trying rather
poorly to disguise his boredom.  The sun was just
setting and he was looking forward to a good night’s
sleep before their departure the next morning.  Two
dark heads were still bent over maps and charts,
Erestor intently pointing with a dry quill along the
intended path for what seemed about the hundredth
time.  Elrond watched carefully, running Erestor
through the full gamut of questions.  Glorfindel
listened to that rough timbre as the Chief Counselor
answered evenly in the low, rumbling tone that had
become such a soothing sound.

“I believe we are finished,” Erestor finally
proclaimed, leaning to rest against the back of his
own chair.  Glorfindel prevented himself from leaping
up in exaltation.  Barely.

“If you are sure...”

“Yes, Elrond,” Glorfindel quickly interceded.  “Quite
sure.”

“Very well,” the Lord of Imladris reluctantly
approved.  “You have convinced me this will work.  But
I cannot state how important it is that you take
absolutely no unnecessary risks.  This is a
reconnaissance mission, nothing more.  You find out
what you need to know and get out of there.”

“We won’t be seen,” Erestor reassured him.  It was far
from the first time he had done so.

“Elrond, you’re worse than a mother hen,” Glorfindel
teased.

“I have to be, with you two.”

Glorfindel laughed, knowing that Elrond knew about
their antics in the Pit these last days.  Little went
on in Imladris that its Lord did not know of.  “That’s
right; you never know what we’ll get up to.”

Elrond shook his head.  “Don’t frighten me,” he joked.

Laughing again, Glorfindel stood.  “Of course not. 
Now, if we’re done here, I say it’s time for bed.”

Two sets of eyes peered up at him, thoughtful grey and
frightened gold.

Glorfindel looked with worry between the two.  “What?”

Elrond shifted his gaze to a guilty-looking Erestor. 
The Lord of Imladris raised a brow, asking a silent
question, to which Erestor shook his head.  If
Glorfindel didn’t know better, he might have thought
Elrond responded by discreetly rolling his eyes.  But
then that intense grey stare focused on him and
Glorfindel ceased idle thoughts.  “Glorfindel, there
is a reason I asked Erestor and he alone to accompany
you on this mission.”

When he did not clarify, Glorfindel quipped, “Because
he’s a warrior?”

“Well yes, but also because he...” Elrond glanced to
Erestor.

The dark Elf sighed quietly and then nodded.

Elrond looked to Glorfindel.  “Because he is
half-Maia.”

Glorfindel stared.

“I’ve seen him take out orcs barehanded,” Elrond told
him.

Glorfindel stared.

“His strength is ten times that of yours or mine,”
Elrond told him.

Glorfindel stared.

“And if there’s more out there than orcs, I am
confident a Balrog-slayer and half-spirit can take
care of themselves,” Elrond told him.

Glorfindel stared.

A new voice interrupted, trembling in a rumbled
whisper, “Lord Glorfindel?”

Vibrant blue eyes shifted to Erestor, who still sat
with head bowed, pale hands clenched tightly in his
lap.  The golden-haired Elf looked on him in wonder. 
“I didn’t--”

“You never asked,” Erestor answered out of habit.  He
still refused to raise those gold eyes.  “But Elrond
is right: if I am to come with you, you must know all
my strengths.  And all my weaknesses.”

When Erestor stopped, it was more than apparent that
he was done offering information.  Elrond continued as
Glorfindel slowly regained his seat.  “Erestor’s
mother was of Noldor blood, but we know little of his
Maia heritage.  We believe...” but Elrond could not
explain it.

Erestor’s rumbling voice was soft.  “My father must
have been a very wild spirit,” he said by way of
explanation.  “I see the world in two shades. 
Sometimes as an Elf, and other times...”

“As Maia?” Glorfindel asked.

After a moment, Erestor nodded.  “As a Maia who his
very close to his... feral side.”

Glorfindel shook his head, confused.

Abruptly, Erestor stood, dark robes shifting and
falling about him.  “I cannot do this,” he declared. 
“Elrond?”

The Lord of Imladris regarded him with understanding. 
He nodded.

Glorfindel watched curiously as Erestor pivoted and
raced for the exit, a wild look in wide gold eyes.  At
the slam of the door, Glorfindel turned back to
Elrond.

The Half-Elf regarded him seriously.  “I have
discussed this with Erestor.  He is willing to trust
you with his secret, which I might mention is quite a
feat for him.  You should be honored.”

Blue eyes blinked.

“But telling you himself is apparently beyond his
ability,” Elrond mused, half to himself.

“Telling me what, exactly?”

“Erestor spoke truth.  He is of two minds.  The
Erestor you know – the ever calm, rational Counselor –
is only half the creature I know him to be.  The other
half of him,” Elrond paused, “is wild.  Feral.  His
animal nature is very close to the surface; he hides
it well, but,” Elrond shook his head.  He stared
Glorfindel down, and the Lord Counselor couldn’t help
but feel as if he were being tested.  “You will be out
in the wilderness with him, so you must understand. 
You must not be frightened of him,” Elrond advised,
“but he, like nature itself, should be treated with a
great amount of respect.  Do not underestimate him.”

Glorfindel thought those words over carefully.  “You
make him sound dangerous.”

“He is dangerous.  If his life is at risk.  If his
temper is aroused.  If a loved one is threatened.” 
Elrond bowed his head, remembering.  “I shall never
forget going out scouting once, decades ago. 
Separated from the group, Erestor and I encountered a
band of orcs.  I was wounded; I could not fight.  We
were surrounded and he attempted to keep the creatures
at bay.  He was skilled, but not skilled enough, and
the enemy drew closer.  One of them sought to kill me.
 And that’s when Erestor changed.  I remember it so
vividly, the look in his eyes...  He dropped his
knives, and charged.  I thought he was mad.  He
barreled into the beast, growling, snarling.  Filled
with rage.  His pure strength is... amazing.  He
grabbed the orc’s head, but he didn’t just break its
neck.  He tore it off.”

Blue eyes widened.  “He decapitated an orc with his
bare hands?”

Elrond nodded, obviously haunted by what he’d
witnessed that day.  “He jumped in front of me.  Oh,
I’d seen him fight before, with economic efficiency
and cool detachment, but this: he fought like an
animal.  Tooth and nail.  I saw him--” Elrond cut
himself off.  He continued in a whisper.  “I saw him
do things I never thought an Elf could do.  I’d known
of his heritage; he’d hinted at his abilities.  But
this was as if he were possessed.”  Deep grey eyes
were lost in memory.  “The screams of the orcs as he
slaughtered them, bones snapping under his hands,
tendons and muscles tearing from their sockets; I
remember it all.  The black blood covered him.  He was
lost in that primal frenzy until every one of them lay
massacred beneath his feet.  I was never so relieved
as when I saw reason return to those lost eyes.”

Glorfindel’s expression contained shock and not a
little amount of horror.

“If you meet the enemy, you must know what to expect,”
Elrond explained.  “And you should also know: just
being out of the House and into the wilderness is
enough to... affect him.  He will be different,”
Elrond warned.  “Quieter.”

“If that’s at all possible,” Glorfindel snickered.

“He likes to hunt,” Elrond continued.  “Do not be
surprised if he sets out without weapons and returns
with a stag slung over his shoulder, hands caked in
blood.  He will try to control himself, but the longer
he’s out there,” Elrond let Glorfindel draw his own
conclusions.  “He trusts you,” the Half-Elf suddenly
declared.  “I am counting on you not to betray that
trust.”

Glorfindel closed those brilliant blue eyes, as if he
could shut out the world by doing so.  He had collided
with Erestor in the halls of Imladris centuries
before.  The dark-haired Elf had always been a
mystery, though kind enough in his own subtle way. 
What Elrond said was true: Erestor seemed the epitome
of the perfect scholar.  He was a wise Counselor and
intelligent tutor.  His advice was sound and his words
sincere.  And now Glorfindel knew him to be an
excellent swordsman.  How could such a being truly
conceal such a large part of himself from the world? 
From his few friends?

Those half-begun confessions in the Pit; Erestor had
tried to tell him.  And he had tried again tonight. 
Why was he so defensive?  Perhaps he feared
Glorfindel’s reaction.  Or perhaps he was ashamed of
his own nature.  Glorfindel had to admit that he did
not know the Elf, the half-spirit, well enough to say.

Blue eyes opened.  Elrond was awaiting his response. 
Glorfindel cleared his throat.  “Anything else I
should know?”

Elrond leaned back, lacing his fingers and regarding
the ceiling with detachment.  “Don’t mention his
tail,” were the final words of advice.

***

Glorfindel rose long before the sun.  He went through
the motions of bathing and dressing and packing, but
his mind wasn’t on the tasks at hand.  The
golden-haired Elf had lain in bed many hours before
submitting to sleep, and the same thoughts that had
plagued him then tumbled through his mind now:
thoughts of an aloof Elf with midnight hair and
alluring golden eyes.  

Alluring?

Glorfindel shrugged.  It was early; he was hardly
thinking straight.

A glance in the full-length looking glass told him
that he was presentable enough in green and grey shirt
and trousers that would blend with the forest.  Tall
black boots were sturdy but light.  Leather belt was
tied around his waist hung with pouches of various
herbs and other necessities.  Rucksack held spare
pants and wine sacks of miruvor.  Blanket was rolled
and carefully tied on.  Bow and quiver were situated
over that.  And the mithril sword hung at his hip. 
White-blond hair was tied away from his face, but hung
loose down his back.  

Tail?  He shook his head.  Did Erestor really have a
TAIL?  What else was he hiding?

Glorfindel allowed himself a final, deep sigh before
setting out and closing the door behind him.

His footsteps thudded softly on the marble floor of
the hall.  Absentmindedly, he made his way through the
kitchens, picking up a few apples and slipping them
into his pack.  He passed through the kitchen door to
the vegetable gardens and then the rose arbors.  He
took a path through the stables, patting a familiar
white horse on the nose as he did so.  

The sun was just cresting the Misty Mountains,
rendering the sky a dusky reddish blue as he exited
the stables and approached the Pit.  But this time,
Erestor had preceded him.  Glorfindel stopped short at
the sight.

Soft cavalier boots led up well-defined calves where
skin-tight black-brown leggings hugged muscle-corded
thighs.  A plain cotton shirt billowed at his arms,
but a tight leather vest covered his chest.  The
criss-cross of leather over his torso held the knives
to his back and a thin belt held several pouches and a
scimitar-like dagger sheathed at his side.  Black hair
was a single braid down his back to his waist, making
his pointed ears appear even longer.  Gold, slanted
eyes regarded him warily with thin lips in a straight,
emotionless line.  “Ready?”

Glorfindel prided himself on not blurting out any
ridiculous questions, which he was rather known for. 
Still, he continued staring a moment at the well-cut
figure, a shock after centuries of seeing him in only
the most concealing of robes.  “...Yeah.”

Erestor glared a moment longer, as if weighing a final
decision, before turning around and striding out over
the meadow toward the forest.

Mesmerized, Glorfindel watched the long black tail
sway back and forth behind him.  Short fur the color
of that on the Maia-Elf’s head covered the flexible
cat-like tail that ended in a furry tuft that flicked
back and forth with worry.

Glorfindel followed.


= = = = =

CHAPTER THE SECOND: MISSION

The Lord of Gondolin liked to talk.  He liked good
wine and good food and good friends.  He loved to
drink and to eat and to tell stories and to laugh. 
Anyone who knew him would agree whole-heartedly.  

It was not always so, however.  Long years before, he
had been a sober Lord and a frightful warrior.  Then
came the battle that made him a legend.  Glorfindel
the golden-haired had perished in the scorching flames
of the most-feared demon of Middle Earth.  And then,
he was reborn.  

Elrond Peredhel, the most skilled healer in perhaps
all of Arda, had been about to face the armies of
Mordor.  Glorfindel had been friend and shield-brother
to the Half-Elf, and Elrond knew the forces of good
would need that warrior again.

A battle between wakefulness and sleep, between sleep
and death, had led the Lord of Imladris on a path to
the very doors of Mandos.  He had called upon the
Valar and all that upheld hope in Arda, Valinor, and
beyond to recall to life that one Lord, the
golden-haired Balrog Slayer, Glorfindel of Gondolin.

The legend was reborn when Glorfindel returned to
life; a new body wholly formed in the bloom of
adulthood that mirrored his old body down to the
whip-scars of the fiend that had killed him.

And he had stayed at Elrond’s side throughout the Last
Alliance, fighting beside the Herald and Gil-galad
himself.  And throughout all this time, it had been
apparent that Glorfindel was... different.

The gold-haired Elf was so intense, absolutely
bursting with energy and full of a vivacious life.  It
was said that the light that now poured from him
rivaled the light of Arien herself.  He was bright and
glorious and everything that was fun and good and
bright, sometimes overwhelmingly so.

The previously subdued Lord had returned to them, no
different in essentials, but now with a view of life
so adventurous and optimistic that few even recognized
the seemingly carefree Lord.  Glorfindel didn’t have a
problem with that.

In the dark hours of the night, he would speak with
Elrond and he alone about The Change.  He would speak
of his former life, full of the fear of an Elf Lord
living in the dark times of Middle Earth, all the
common worries and threats and doubts that had
consumed him.  He would speak of that battle, the heat
of it, the stench.  The fire and sulfur and dark smoky
flames that choked his lungs and wrapped him round and
boiled him to his very bones.  The cutting sting of
the whip and the pure evil of the darkness that had
surrounded him and dragged him to death.  He would
speak of the cold stone halls that had greeted him at
his passing, full of chill and emptiness.  The Halls
of Waiting were cold and empty; there was nothing for
him in the never-ending passages full of windows that
looked back on a wasted life.  Others, he said, found
some measure of happiness there, with lost loved ones
long parted and contentment long desired.  But for him
had only been a cold solitude filled with the pain of
regret.  And then, then a white light called him;
Elrond stood before him haloed in the light of
Elbereth herself and the Valar had blessed him and
told him to go.  To go.  And he had.  He had gone
home.

He would speak of The Change.  Of how he now knew
every moment to be a precious gift, every song to be a
marvelous treasure, every word every morsel every
glass of wine every friend every lover every sunrise
every sunset every cool evening breeze every
flickering candle every flower every battle every
story every clear spring morning every laugh to be a
wonder and a most prized fortune that could never be
matched by any attainable wealth or honored power.  

He was Glorfindel again, reborn full of more life than
he had ever dreamed of in his previous existence.  And
now, nothing would hold him back.  

Elrond knew.  Elrond understood that.

Everyone else saw the eccentric Lord Glorfindel, full
of tricks and flights of fancy and careless energy
that would soon lead him to another death.

And so he laughed.  And sang and ate and drank and
loved.  And talked.

***

He talked to Erestor as they walked through the
forests of Imladris.  Their fast pace encouraged his
fast tongue, and he had no fear of being too loud when
they were still this close to home.

Erestor did little to encourage him.

But still he talked, of Elrond and of home and of fun
and of war and of everything.  Everything except the
tail.

And when he ran out of things to talk about, he asked
questions.  

He understood that this could be dangerous, that he
might run into guarded territory with his guarded
companion.  But Glorfindel wasn’t one to hold back. 
So he asked.  “Say, Erestor, how long have you had
that outfit?”

“Where are you from, anyway?”

“How old are you?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What sort of books do you read for fun?”

“Where did you learn to fight?”

“Why do you prefer the knives?”

“What was it like when you met Elrond?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

The answers, when he received them, were brief:

“Since yesterday.”

“Mirkwood.”

“5, 069.”

“...Blue.”

“Mysteries.”

“That’s none of your business, Lord Counselor.”

“Efficiency.”

“Frightening.”

Erestor made no answer to the last question.

***

Sunset came, bruising the horizon to a deep magenta,
fluffing the clouds with a purple lining and hazing
the atmosphere to a perfect rose.  Glorfindel smiled
and said with wonder, “Look Erestor, the sky is
blushing!”

Erestor made no comment, but Glorfindel watched from
the corner of his eye as the sedate Counselor turned
his face to the sky, tail twitching happily for a
moment as his gold eyes caught the funny colors of the
light.

They worked together setting up a small, tidy camp as
Glorfindel chattered on.  Erestor cleared the open
ground of twigs and other flotsam and jetsam as
Glorfindel set down his pack, quiver, and bow to
collect wood.  They were still within the borders of
Imladris and the fire would attract no enemies.

Erestor stood abruptly at the finish of his task and
spoke more words together than he had all day.  “I
expect you are hungry.  I will find us some meat to
cook.  I will be back within the hour.”

Glorfindel curiously watched as Erestor cocked his
head, long ears pivoted like a deer’s as he closed
gold eyes to slits and scented the wind, wide nostrils
flaring.  He took off with a leap into the brush
making hardly a sound.

Blinking, Glorfindel watched the break in the forest. 
Weird.

But then he remembered.  Elrond had warned him.  ‘And
you should also know: just being out of the House and
into the wilderness is enough to... affect him.  He
will be different, quieter.’

Different was right.  

Glorfindel understood.  Animalistic, feral.  Erestor
displayed those qualities now, in a shadowlike way. 
How he had silently made his way through the forest,
tolerating Glorfindel’s prattle.  Scenting the air,
listening to the wind, those gold eyes seeing
everything around him.  

Half-Maia.  Half-spirit.  Half-animal?  Glorfindel
wondered.

***

True to his word, Erestor returned an hour later, four
good-sized rabbits dangling from a clenched fist.  He
crouched by the fierce little fire, using the dagger
to skillfully skin and gut their dinner before
spitting them on strong twigs over the open flame.  

Glorfindel, suddenly disturbed by Erestor’s soul-deep
quiet, did not speak.  He merely watched.

Erestor was still hunkered down by the fire; his tail
lay at rest along the ground, but for the tip, which
flicked rhythmically back and forth like a
discontented cat’s tail.  Gold eyes stared hungrily at
the fire, or rather the rabbits cooking over it.  Thin
lips were parted, and Glorfindel watched the pink
tongue flick out.  

“You don’t have to cook yours.”

Erestor jumped at the sound of his voice and looked at
him.

“If you don’t want.”

Erestor cocked his head.

“Say something, Counselor; you’re giving me the
creeps.”

Erestor looked away.  “I apologize, Lord Glorfindel. 
It is not in my blood to be civilized while out in the
wilds.”

“I understand,” Glorfindel said.  Even he did not know
if it was a lie.

“You are kind,” Erestor told him.

“You don’t usually eat cooked meat, do you?”

A shake of the head.  “How did you know?”

“I was just remembering,” Glorfindel shrugged.  “You
don’t usually sit with us at dinner, and now that I
think about it, even then you usually don’t eat much. 
And what Elrond said...”

“Yes, what Elrond said,” Erestor murmured thoughtfully
and reached unthinkingly for the barely heated meat,
but then halted.  “You don’t mind?”  It was a whisper.

Glorfindel smiled.  “You do not have to deny your
nature, Erestor.  Not with me.”

Erestor looked away, and it seemed he might have been
blushing.  Or perhaps it was just the firelight.

Erestor shyly sat back on his haunches, tail less
lively now as he carefully removed short leather
bracers from his wrists to roll up the billowy
bark-brown sleeves, revealing pale skin over taut
muscle.

Long fingers, nails almost clawed, reached for the
first rabbit.  Glorfindel could not look away.  The
long fingers, the sharp nails, the strong hand, were
illuminated in stark contrast to the darkness around
them.  He looked at those hands.  Callused and
weatherworn.  Those hands.  He should have seen long
ago.  Those were not a scholar’s hands.

He ripped the stick from the ground and grabbed the
rabbit off the stick.  Glorfindel watched in horrified
wonder as white teeth tore ferociously into the raw
meat, blood squirting outward and dripping down his
chin and arms.  Looking closely, Glorfindel saw the
small fangs that had until this moment always remained
carefully hidden by controlled expressions.  But now,
Erestor ignored him completely, chewing down the
flesh, tendons, inner organs, and even a few small
bones.  The blood flowed still and contented little
whines issued from Erestor’s throat as he swallowed
down his meal.  The second rabbit went the way of the
first, no less quickly.

A glance of gold eyes regarded him guiltily when he
finished, tongue lapping the dark blood from the
corners of his mouth.  

Glorfindel attempted a reassuring smile.  He thought
it probably looked more like a grimace.

Erestor rose and again disappeared into the
underbrush.  

Glorfindel was, for once, glad of the solitude.

***

The dark-haired Elf was gone a long time, long enough
for the other two rabbits to cook and Glorfindel to
thoughtfully eat them, taking more consideration for
his food than he had in a good long while.  Oh, he
always enjoyed his meals, to be sure, but he found
that this whole strange situation with Erestor was
forcing him to rethink a lot of things.

He was just laying out his bedroll when Erestor
returned, cleansed of his meal and looking shameful.

Glorfindel had little difficulty guessing the problem.

“You don’t have to be so secretive now, Erestor.  You
can be yourself; you won’t upset me.”

Gold eyes pleadingly met his.  The deep rumble asked
falteringly, “I don’t disgust you?”

A moment passed in silence.

Glorfindel rose from the ground and circled the small
camp to come face to face with his companion. 
“Disgust me?  No, Erestor, never.  You are who you
are.  You do... intrigue me.  But you could never
disgust me.  Shock me, yes.  Even frighten me a little
at times, but Erestor, I know you.  Both the
controlled Counselor and the, apparently, feral
animal.  You can be both with me; you don’t have to
choose one or the other.”

Erestor seemed a little overwhelmed at the words, and
Glorfindel was fairly certain it was because he had
never heard them before, and had probably never
expected to.  “I don’t know if I can do that.  I’ve
had to be the Elf for so long, and I was only ever the
Other alone in the forest.”

“I have a feeling you’ve been alone for a long time.” 
Glorfindel smiled and didn’t think twice about taking
Erestor in his arms and giving the Elf a big, warm,
whole-hearted hug.

Erestor trembled in his hold, but returned it, if a
little gracelessly.

Glorfindel finally pulled back to look at Erestor. 
There was no awkwardness between them.  “First watch?”

“I will take it,” Erestor told him.  

Glorfindel wasn’t surprised.  But then he looked
around, just realizing the Elf had brought neither
blankets nor clothes nor many other necessities. 
“Where will you sleep?”

Erestor approached a tree and leaned his back against
it as he sat, one leg folded along the ground, the
other bent into the air: the old warrior’s resting
pose.  Arms crossed in front of him and Erestor bent
his head.  “I will hear anyone who approaches,” he
said in a small voice.

Glorfindel nodded, slipping off his boots and belt to
crawl between his blankets, keeping his sword close to
hand.  He lay on his stomach, chin resting on folded
arms as he curiously regarded his companion.

Erestor’s tail gave a flick of annoyance at the
concentrated attention.  “What?”

Glorfindel blinked.  “Nothing.”

“Lord Counselor...”

“It’s nothing.”

“Glorfindel!”

*sigh*  “I was just wondering,” he finally admitted as
he stared at those elongated ears.  “How do you hear
the world around you?”

Erestor looked up, a tilt of the head showing his
faint surprise at the question.  “You want to know...”

“I know you are half-Maia.  You seem to listen more
than I do.  What is it that you hear?”

Erestor sighed and let his head fall back, black braid
shifting over his shoulder as the lively tail finally
settled, wrapping itself contentedly about his waist. 
Gold eyes closed.

“I hear so many things,” he finally admitted, the low
rumble an animal-like growl that seemed to fit with
the night atmosphere.  “The night birds high in the
air; wind in the trees; the river; the insects.”  He
paused.  “There is a nest of squirrels five trees to
the south.  They are chattering softly and rearranging
their nest before sleeping.  A furlong to the east,
three deer are foraging for food.  In the north, the
border guards are changing patrols.  I can hear five
of them.  Two are going out; the others are staying in
to play cards and... dice.”

Glorfindel looked at him with amazement.  “How far
away are they?”

Erestor cocked his head.  “Just under three furlongs. 
And to the west.  In the mountains.  There is a pack
of wolves.”

Closing his eyes, Glorfindel listened.  He could hear
the howls, when the wind caught right.

Erestor continued.  “A colony of ants is nesting three
feet from your bedroll.  They shouldn’t bother you. 
Just don’t move any more to your left.  The sap is
running quickly in the trees; they like the weather. 
And your heartbeat is a quiet and steady rhythm, like
ocean tides.”

Gold eyes flashed toward him, as if awaiting judgment.

Glorfindel smiled.  “Thank you.”

***

Glorfindel awoke at the soft calling of his name.  The
moon was high in the diamond-dappled dome and he felt
refreshed after rest.  He crawled to sit upon his
bedroll.  Erestor bent his head to find repose, and
Glorfindel watched the slowly turning sky as he sang
to the shimmering stars and the night birds in the
trees.

The sweet voice seemed to lull Erestor to sleep until
he sat motionless against the tree, chin dropped to
his chest, one eye open.  Curious, Glorfindel crept
closer to peer at the pale creature’s face.  Sure
enough, one gold eye was open with a hint of
consciousness in the sparkling depths while the other
remained firmly closed to the night.

Glorfindel wondered at the habit, but returned out of
courtesy to his blankets, watching his companion and
keeping his ears open to the sounds of the night,
alert for any danger.

***

Erestor woke at false dawn, blinking his gold eyes at
the starless sky in the east, dark and grey, though
the stars still twinkled above them.  “Ready to move?”
he rumbled.

Glorfindel stood, rolling up his blankets and tying
them to his pack before settling it in place over his
shoulders with quiver and bow.  Erestor efficiently
dowsed the glowing embers with wet soil and they
departed as Glorfindel sheathed his sword, continuing
the north by northeast journey they’d set themselves
on.

In short time, they reached the border guards, the
very ones Erestor had pointed out the previous night. 
They were far within the true border of Imladris, but
Elrond had judged travel any further north than the
Bruinen to be simply too dangerous. 

Glorfindel watched with interest as Erestor’s tail
wrapped itself around his waist, disappearing up under
the shirt and vest.  It was not visible, but
Glorfindel couldn’t imagine it was at all comfortable.

They exchanged a few words with the patrol before
climbing a tree to cross the river by leaping the high
branches.  

They regained the ground on the northern side where
Erestor unfurled his tail.  They marched quickly
northward.

***

The pair managed to travel in content quietude for
near the whole of an hour.

“Tell me about your parents?”

Erestor glared.

“There must be an interesting story there.”

Erestor sniffed disdainfully and said nothing.

Glorfindel scowled.  

Glorfindel sighed.  

Then, he pouted.  “Please???”

“Oh for Valar’s sake,” Erestor murmured at the batting
of the long eyelashes.
	
Glorfindel flashed a charming smile and Erestor huffed
noisily before clearing his throat to begin in that
smooth, mesmerizing voice.  “It is said that he came
to her in the form of my mother’s lover.  They lay
together there in her Mirkwood home on a bed of
bluebells.  Twelve months later, she gave me birth.  I
was ten years old when her true love returned from
war.  Of course, he thought she had knowingly betrayed
him and cast us out.  We wandered long years the
wastes of this world -- my mother and I -- until the
death of grief claimed her in the heights of the Misty
Mountains.  In hopes of acceptance, I at long last
came to Imladris begging sanctuary of our good Lord. 
Of course, Elrond turns none in need away, be they
man, dwarf, Elf... or something else all together.  He
knew my tale for truth and I have been loyal to him
ever since.”

The golden head nodded thoughtfully.  “What do you
mean, he knew your tale for truth?”

“Elrond is the only one who knows my true ancestry. 
Other than yourself.  It is not a story to be easily
believed; the Maiar appear rarely enough in any form,
let alone that of an Elf, and for devious purposes at
that.  But he believed me right away.”

“He has Maia blood as well,” Glorfindel realized.

“Precisely.  He recognized in me a kindred spirit, of
some sort.”

Silence.

“Erestor?”

The dark Elf seemed to flinch at the sound of his
name.  “What?” he asked sharply.

Glorfindel heard the growl in the barked question and
proceeded carefully.  “I was just wondering why it was
you entrusted me with your secrets.”

Erestor furrowed his brow in thought, working out his
answer before he spoke.  “You do not know me.  But I
know you.”

“That... was about as comprehensible as usual.  What
do you mean?”

“I know I can trust you.”

Glorfindel raised a brow, an idiosyncrasy he had
picked up from Elrond long ago.  “Well, I’m flattered.
 You can, you know.  Trust me, that is.  But, how did
you figure that out for yourself?”

Erestor stopped their march for the first time that
day and turned to face him.  The golden gaze was
intense, but devoid of the usual focus, giving him a
wild look.

Glorfindel was suddenly, acutely aware of the
three-inch advantage Erestor had over him.

The dark Maia-Elf leaned forward; Glorfindel did not
dare stir even a hair in any direction.  That movement
was so slow, so determined.  Glorfindel felt as though
he were being hunted, on some base level, and had the
sudden urge to flee.  But he stood tall, breathing
heavily as Erestor leaned in toward him, bending his
face down.  Gold eyes fluttered closed as Erestor
tilted his head, black braid swinging behind him.

Glorfindel felt the heat rushing in his veins, though
he couldn’t imagine why.  He knew his face was
flushed, his breathing harsh, his sky blue eyes wide
and unblinking.

Closer; gold eyes barely closed; pale lips slightly
parted; glimpse of small white fangs.  

Erestor bent his head into the crook of Glorfindel’s
neck, and inhaled.  He breathed in the scent of his
partner and Glorfindel let out a sigh that was both
relief and disappointment, not knowing where either
emotion had come from.

Erestor continued sniffing, like a curious dog, but
gently and slow and with delicate care and a strange
sort of sensuality, never touching.  “Lord Counselor,”
came the purring rumble in a pointed ear, sending a
sudden shiver down Glorfindel’s spine.  “Why do you
smell of fear?”

“I--I do not know,” Glorfindel stuttered.

Shaking his head, as if to throw off a dream, Erestor
withdrew.  “Your scent has always comforted me,” he
explained.

Glorfindel merely stared at him.  It was clear that
the explanation was decidedly not understood.

“You smell of truth.  Liars are rank with their
deceit, but you smell pure.  You will not betray my
trust.  You never would.  It is simple.”

Still rather disturbed by the animalistic behavior,
Glorfindel told him in a timid voice, “I am glad such
things are simple for you.  I find it much more
difficult to tell the trustworthy from the false.”

Erestor shrugged and kept walking.

Glorfindel followed.  He did not ask any more
questions for a long while.

***

Avidly watching the dark Elf’s behavior, Glorfindel
let Erestor lead.  His movements seemed to grow
simultaneously more fluid and yet sharper as they
went.  Erestor strode like liquid, brown garments and
black hair blending into the forest.  But on occasion,
he would halt, his head turning like a hawk’s to peer
into the distance, ears swiveling like a deer’s,
nostrils flaring like a horse’s.  When Glorfindel
spoke, the answers he received yesterday had become
precursory grunts in his general direction today, to
indicate that he had been heard.

He seemed a great beast striding through the trees,
wild indeed; but Glorfindel was not afraid and
followed trustingly.

***

They traveled more slowly now, scouring the ground for
signs of the enemy.  They were few.  A footprint here,
offal there.  “Scouts,” Erestor growled, sniffing
along.  “Very few.  Very quiet.  They are smart.  But
long gone.”  He waved for Glorfindel to follow along
quietly. 

He did so.

***

Not long before sunset, they came upon a happy little
brook full of fish running toward Imladris.  

“Camp?” Glorfindel asked.

Erestor nodded agreement as he bent to examine the
waters.

Glorfindel lay down his burdens before coming up
behind the tracking Elf.  “What do we know?”

“They are very careful,” Erestor murmured, shaking his
finger at the stream.  “The water is clean.”  He
crouched, placing his knuckles to the mossy bank and
leaning over on all fours to sniff carefully.  “Not
pure.  Not quite.  But close enough that I would have
no qualms about drinking it.”

Glorfindel nodded, though Erestor could not see him. 
“Is a fire safe tonight?”

Erestor stood on his toes; his knees were bent and his
arms low, reminding Glorfindel of a rodent standing on
hind legs.  The eyes, the ears, the nose.  Twitch,
twitch, twitch.  “Quite safe,” Erestor reassured him. 
“For dinner.  But we must put it out soon.”

Again, Glorfindel nodded and he left the Elf at the
bank to prepare a pit for the fire, wary as always of
the bright flames.  So absorbed was he in his task
that it took several moments for the blond beauty to
realize that a pile of brown clothes was growing
beside him.  He froze.  He looked.  Erestor was naked
from the waist up, and disrobing quickly.  “What are
you doing?”

A tilt of the head.  A finger to the stream.  “Fish. 
Dinner.”

Glorfindel stared.  “Ah.”

He kept staring.  

Erestor gracefully pried himself out of the tight
boots and peeled off the leather pants.  He stood nude
for a moment in the dying sun, which highlighted the
pale body in soft gold and dusky pink.  A nervous gold
glance was aimed to Glorfindel, but the blonde did not
see it.

His breath caught for he saw only what the Chief
Counselor had been hiding all those many centuries. 
What had always appeared slim or slender or thin was
in truth a tall, strong body packed with flexing
muscle under scar-wrapped pale skin.  And what was
alien was still strange, but also beautiful. 
Undeniably.  A strip of black fur ran from the nape of
his neck to the base of his tail, which wagged slowly
back and forth, the black tuft seemed a flag in soft
tendrils of ebony.

Slender feet carried the creature to the stream, where
he descended into the chill waters, tail daintily
lifted away from the rushing current.  The surface
barely reached his knees and Erestor then bent over,
hands disappearing into the cool depths.

Glorfindel quickly lit the fire and moved to sit in
the shadow of a tree to watch.  

Perfectly still, gold eyes trained on the water and
what moved within.  Frozen like a statue, only more
perfect than any stone could possibly be, and twice as
beautiful.  How could one creature be so many things? 
Elegant and wild, bold and shy, beautiful and
terrifying, sharp as a knife and gentle as a lamb.

Water lapped gently against the backs of pale knees,
pale parted lips let a tongue sneak out, fierce gold
eyes examined the field of the hunt, black hair
shimmered in the starlight.

Glorfindel suddenly wondered if he might be the only
being to ever behold this sight.  He felt blessed. 

A flick of the tail betrayed the lunge that followed
it and Erestor threw a good-sized trout up out of the
water.  Right into Glorfindel’s lap.  

The gold Elf barely reacted in time to catch the thing
and prevent it from flopping about on his relatively
clean traveling clothes.  He scowled and removed
himself to the fire, away from the brook, to attend
the disgustful job of gutting and cleaning the fish to
impale it on a stick for cooking.

Two more trout followed and Glorfindel caught them,
drinking in the sight of the fair Elf covered in water
droplets under the moonlight.  “That’s plenty for me,”
Glorfindel told him, preparing the fish before
descending to the bank downstream of Erestor to clean
his hands.  Again, he found himself watching the Chief
Counselor in all his glory, tail aligned for balance,
braid pinned up out of the way.  

He remained still for what seemed an eternity, and
Glorfindel hadn’t realized he’d done the same.

Erestor abruptly looked up at him.  A brow rose.  

Glorfindel suddenly wondered if he, too, had picked up
the gesture from Elrond.

Then he realized what he’d been doing.  A rare blush
colored Glorfindel’s cheeks when he was caught
staring, and he rose from the bank to return to the
camp and grab the burning fish away from the fire.

A snarl and a splash sounded behind him and Glorfindel
turned from his meal to the sight of Erestor emerging
from beneath the shallow waters, a large struggling
trout clenched in his teeth, fangs sunk into the
slippery scales.  Gold eyes were unfocused and hungry
as the water ran in rivulets of silver down that
scar-covered skin.  Erestor trotted on all fours up
the opposite bank to crouch on his feet and gnaw at
his meal.

Glorfindel watched in fascination, not abhorred, as he
had been the night before with the rabbit.  Now, it
just seemed natural: the nude half-spirit squatting on
the grass, fresh kill between his paws and devouring
it whole.

Glorfindel smiled and began his own meal on the other
side of the riverbank.  And he again wondered what
those odd feelings in the gut of his stomach meant.

***

Erestor disappeared into the wilds for a time.  To his
own surprise, Glorfindel found that he himself was NOT
surprised that Erestor was alone and naked in what
might be orc-infested land.  And, he was not worried. 
Only curious.

Just what was he doing out there?

Some time later, when the sun was completely gone from
the sky, Glorfindel felt his companion approach.  Blue
eyes searched all the terrain about him, and in the
trees as well, but no sign could be seen of the naked
Elf.

A small splash caught his attention and Glorfindel
turned to see the spirit-Elf emerge from the water,
black hair a mass of tangled snarls, gold eyes
too-bright in a too-pale face, blood dripping from his
mouth and from scratches along his bicep, thighs, and
ribcage.  He stepped upon the moss of the bank and
shook himself like a dog, spraying Glorfindel with
water.

Erestor moved to sit on the ground before the
extinguished fire.

Glorfindel restrained himself from pouncing on the
injured Elf to tend his wounds, instead remaining
still and calm as his sweet voice whispered, “Erestor?
 What happened?”

“I had a disagreement.”

“With what?  A rabid badger?”

Erestor shot him a dark look.

Glorfindel shut up.  He moved to his pack for the
medical kit personally stocked and supplied by Elrond.
 Glorfindel knew exactly what he needed and moved to
sit close by the dark Elf, who now sat in a miserable
puddle on the ground.  “May I?”

The thin mouth tensed.  A glance.  A nod.

Gentle hands dried the worst of the wet before
applying pressure to the wounds that appeared to be
claw-marks.  The bleeding ceased swiftly and
Glorfindel applied a cleansing ointment.  “There you
are my friend.  Good as new.  There won’t be scars
like these others.”  He brushed a hand along much
older marks along his back and arm.  Erestor shivered.
 “So what happened?” Glorfindel persisted.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Are you kidding?  I didn’t let death stop me!  You
think you can?”

“Probably not,” Erestor conceded.

It was a relief to hear him talking again, and
Glorfindel didn’t want it to stop.  “Then tell me,
what did this?”

“I did.”

“See, that wasn’t so--”  Wait a minute.  “What?”

“I did it.”

Glorfindel stared with wide eyes as Erestor stood to
don his clothing.

With gold eyes cast toward the ground, Erestor’s low
voice was deathly quiet.  “You cannot know what it is
like to have two parts of yourself wholly at odds with
one another.”

“The inscription on your knives,” Glorfindel muttered.

“Aye,” Erestor agreed as he pulled on his vest. 
“‘Strength of mind, strength of heart;
Equal always, ever apart.’  That is every moment of my
waking life: morality struggling against desire.  Wit
ever attempting to overcome instinct.  It tears at me,
especially here.  In the dark.  In the forest.  My
soul wants to run free.”

“But your mind demands a different sort of freedom.”

Erestor suddenly looked to him.  “Yes quite,” he
agreed.  Clothed once more, he turned toward a tree.

“Wait,” Glorfindel asked, holding up a small wooden
comb for Erestor to see.  “Let me tend your hair.”

Erestor stood a moment in internal debate before
returning.  Glorfindel patted the blankets.  Erestor
sat.

The golden-haired Elf inquisitively regarded the stiff
back in front of him, the hunched shoulders, the bowed
head.  “Have you never let another do this for you?”
he asked softly.

“Elrond used to, on occasion.”

“On occasions like this?”

“Yes.  When I lost myself to the Other.  When I came
back, broken and bleeding.  He would heal me and feed
me.  And tend my hair.”  He added in a whisper,
“Though he could never do the same for my heart.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Glorfindel let it go.  Instead he asked, as he pulled
the comb gently through silky snares, “The Other?”

“Yes, the other part of me.  The one without thought
or decency.”

Glorfindel almost fumbled the comb.  “The animal?”

“Aye.”

The golden-haired Elf forced his mouth closed before
probing further than was wise, simply returning the
waves of smooth hair to a clean and organized state. 
He didn’t particularly allow himself to ponder how
close he was to Erestor, that he could feel the heat
of him, the odd fur at the base of his neck, the
muscles under the leather vest and cotton shirt.  “I’m
done!” he announced quickly as soon as he tied off the
single braid, scooting away.

“I thank you.”

He nodded and allowed Erestor to move to the base of a
tree and assume his rest position.

Glorfindel rolled beneath his blankets to look up at
the stars.  He spoke without thinking.  “You are so
different from me, from the rest of us.  Aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“What is it like, Erestor, to see the world through
those eagle eyes of yours?”

Erestor did not answer right away, looking up to the
stars and then over to his partner.  “I do not know
what to tell you, for I do not know what it is you
see.”

Glorfindel shrugged carelessly.  “Just tell me.  Tell
me everything.”

Erestor almost laughed.  “Everything?  That would take
more time than you or I have at the moment.  More
hours than are in a day.  More days than are in a
year...”

“I’ll never learn a thing if you don’t begin,”
Glorfindel teasingly pointed out.

“All right.”  Erestor agreed.  He looked to the sky,
and his partner did the same.  “I feel as though I can
see every star in the heavens, billions upon billions
of lights, flickering at different intensities in
different colors.”

“Different colors?” Glorfindel asked.

“Yes.  And every leaf holds ten shades of green. 
Every tree holds a hundred.  Every forest holds a
thousand.  I can count the bats that circle overhead,
the spiders on the trees.  Every hair on your golden
head, every speck of green in your sky-blue eyes.  I
can see the scars you think have become invisible, the
one above your eyebrow, the other on your lip.”

Glorfindel looked at him, shocked.  “But they’ve
healed...”

“Certainly they’ve healed.  But the skin once marred
can never return to perfection.  I see the echo of
pain on your face, and in your hands, the pain you
hide from the world.”  He grimaced.  “I see more than
I care to, at times.”

“Like what?” Glorfindel asked breathlessly.

“Like the flush on your cheeks and the confusion in
your eyes.”  Erestor met those eyes unblinkingly, and
then turned away.  “Go to sleep, Lord Counselor.”

He did.

***

They exchanged watches in the night and rose early in
the morning, clearing any sign of their passing and
moving north across the stream, into the territory now
claimed by the orcs.

Any signs of the enemy were old.

Glorfindel could not go long without speaking.  “Then
you never knew your father?”

“Nay.”

“Was it difficult?”

“To be cast out of society and lose my mother to grief
while I barely understood the half of myself that I
inherited from her, let alone the other half from an
unknown father?  What think you, Lord Counselor?”

Glorfindel bowed his head in self-rebuke.  “I think I
asked a stupid question.”

“Mmm,” Erestor agreed, tail twitching violently.

***

Glorfindel eyed the bruised lip on his companion. 
“How are your wounds?”

“Fine.”

With a mock frown, Glorfindel scolded, “You know what
it means when someone says, ‘fine?’”

*sigh*  “Do enlighten me.”

“It means, ‘Don’t ask me how I am because things are
not, in fact, fine, but I won’t tell you the level of
my suffering because you’re annoying me and I don’t
want to talk about it.’  Of course, other times it
just means, ‘fine.’”

“And how do you know which is which?”

Glorfindel smiled.  “If the speaker looks in your
eyes, he’s fine.  If he doesn’t, he’s lying his ass
off.”

“Your mouth needs adjustment.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my fucking mouth.”

“Oh, honestly...”

“I am fucking honest.”

*growl*

***

Glorfindel found those growls becoming much more
frequent, along with the mindless look in gold eyes
and bearing of fangs along with tail twitches.  He
wondered what so upset his companion.  “What’s wrong?”

Erestor started.  He turned to Glorfindel.  “What
makes you think something is wrong?”

Glorfindel pointed to the animated tail.  “Your mood
indicator is off the scales.”

Another growl.  “There are many orcs in these woods:
here where the woods are thick, they do not fear to
move in daylight beneath the boughs that block the
sun.  Still, there are few signs; it bothers me that I
cannot see them.”

“What do you hear?”

“There is a large encampment ahead of us, a base of
some sort, but we will not reach it before nightfall.”

“Then perhaps we should make camp now, where it is
relatively safer, and continue fresh in the morning.”

Erestor nodded, sniffing the air.  “That would be
best.”

***

There was no fire this night.  Glorfindel dined on
berries and apples, huddled beneath the tall trees
with ears to the wind while Erestor disappeared,
returning from his own meal later.

Erestor joined his companion and sniffed the air. 
“Nothing within a league.  We should be quite safe
until morning.”

Glorfindel nodded.  “Agreed.”

When he noticed Erestor staring at him, Glorfindel
attempted to stare him down in retaliation.  But he
could not manage it, finding patience to be a virtue
only in the most important of matters.  “What?”

Erestor cast one of his almost-grins at the Elf.  “I
was just wondering what your question would be this
night,” he mused.

“Ah,” Glorfindel said, satisfied.  He snuggled deeper
in his bedroll until he was comfortable and then gazed
thoughtfully at Erestor as he pondered.  “You never
stop smelling the world around you, do you?”

“Never,” he confirmed.

“What does your nose tell you?”

Erestor leaned his head back against the trunk, eyes
closed, furry black tail waving slowly in contentment.
 “Ah, so many things.  The scents of the world tell me
more than eyes and ears together.”  He began, “A fox
passed this way but one hour ago, pursuing a young
rabbit.  This tree is sick with rot; no, you cannot
see it, and it will be long before the elm falls, but
fall it will, in due course.  Three days ago, a
scouting party of five orcs crossed this place, full
of adrenaline and anger: the air is rife with it, even
days later.  Mmm, there is a blueberry bush behind
those pines, frequented by a family of black bears.”
He sighed.  “There is so much to tell.”  A smile. 
“Then there is you.”  Gold eyes opened, piercing
Glorfindel with their intensity.

“Me?” he asked with a yelp, taken aback at the sudden
attention.

“Of course.  You smell delicious.”

Glorfindel did not quite know what to make of that. 
“Delicious like fresh steak?” he asked cautiously,
though without any real fear.

Erestor actually chuckled.  “No, my friend; I would
never eat you!  You smell of goodness.”

Glorfindel blinked.  “How is possible to smell of such
a thing?”

“In the same manner demons smell of evil.  It is quite
tangible.  You smell of happiness, a great joy in
life, despite the pain I still see in your eyes.  You
smell of an open sort of love, of never-ending
delight, of generosity and kindness.  You smell of the
woods and of the strawberries we ate.  You smell of
that apple-scented soap you are so fond of, and of
daisies.”

“Daisies?!”

“You slept quite near a patch of daisies the night
past.”

“Oh, right,” Glorfindel recalled now, the white
flowers under moonlight before he lost himself to
sleep.  “Wow.”

With sunset near, neither Elf was interested in rest,
but neither were they inclined to talk, and so sat in
contented silence, perhaps thinking on what the coming
day would bring them as the sky dulled to a cold blue
followed by dull grey.

Then, Erestor spoke.  “Lord Counselor--”  He stopped
his words short, and began again, “Glorfindel.  May I
ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” he allowed, perking up at the words.

“What was it like?” Erestor asked in a whisper. 
“Death?”

Wide blue eyes appeared lost as they searched the
grassy ground, sunny face going pale at the query. 
His voice was so quiet.  “It is not something any Elf
should know.  No, nor even Men nor Dwarves.  My time
came in those dark days; I knew it was coming.  I
beheld that demon of the underworld and knew he meant
my death.  The battle was fierce, and all the more
frightening because I knew I would not survive it.”  

Blue eyes were focused on nothing, as Glorfindel
calmly recited the little details, “I was struck by
the whip of fire, and dragged down into the bowels of
the earth.  Wrapped in flame, choked by smoke, blinded
by the terrible burning blaze and endless darkness of
the earth.  I have never known such pain.  I still
fear the pain of fire,” he admitted, rich voice now a
whimper as he continued.  “It is a torment I would not
wish on the vilest of creatures.  Horrible,
disfiguring, tearing, burning pain that could have
lasted an eternity for all the awareness I had of it.

“Then comes a moment, a moment out of time, a moment
full of nothing but emptiness when the thread of life
is cut, soul severed from body.  I wandered, lost,
amid a world of shadows until the call of Mandos
reached my ears.  My spirit approached the doors,
nothing but cold stone gates leading to halls of more
grey stone.  It is a place of coldness and loneliness,
full of windows.”

“Windows?”

“Windows to a remembered life.  Windows to the past. 
Where you live again every moment in grief of what has
passed and in regret that you cannot change it.  It
was an all-encompassing horror to me that there was
very little in those windows that made me smile or
gave me comfort.  Little to be proud of and less to
celebrate.  The Lord of Gondolin led a very
disappointing life with too many duties and not enough
friends, full of the dreary monotony of day-to-day
toil and no rest at the end of it.

“Except there, entombed in stone where I had eternal
rest, forever glimpsing fellow shimmering spirits just
around the corner, always out of reach.  My only
companions in that place were my despair and my pain. 
And Mandos, who condescended to speak with me on
occasion, though I can’t imagine he found me worthy of
it.  My death was as boring and pointless as my life
had been.  At least, that’s what I thought.”

Erestor straightened and moved to object, but
Glorfindel spoke first.  “I died bravely, I died well,
I knew this.  But there was so much, so much I never
did or knew or learned or cared for or took the time
for.”

He ceased his tale and Erestor spoke.  “Then Elrond
came.”

“Yes; a voice full of power demanding entreaty.  I
couldn’t believe at first that he risked his own life
to resurrect me.  I was even more stunned when I was
granted it.”

“And then you made yourself a little vow,” Erestor
guessed.

“Damn right I did,” Glorfindel agreed with an affected
foppish attitude.  Then, he smiled freely.  “To live.”


= = = = =

INTERLUDE (In other words, THE MIDDLE)

They were woken long before dawn by a cold rain, slow
and relentless.  Wordlessly, the pair rose from their
huddled positions between the trees, each taking a sip
of the precious miruvor to warm and enliven them. 
Glorfindel removed a grey rag from the rucksack and
tied it like a shawl over his head to hide the
brilliant golden tresses from enemy eyes; in such
small numbers, they couldn’t be too careful, even in
the pitch-black rainy morning.  

Swiftly, they began the march north, both praising and
cursing the rain as they went.

“At least our scent is drowned in this downpour,”
Glorfindel said as the drops fell heavier.

“Yes, and signs of the enemy deleted,” Erestor pointed
out, watching as footprints were washed away before
their very eyes.  “And it dampens my sense of smell as
well.”

“Oh, right,” said Glorfindel, spirits darkening as the
possible desperation of their situation set it.  “This
could be dangerous,” he needlessly advised.  “Should
we turn back?”

Erestor halted their trek to address him directly. 
“And leave Imladris vulnerable to who-knows-what?  Is
that what you want?”

“No, but perhaps we should wait until this rain
settles.”

Erestor shook his head, resuming their hike.  “Nay. 
It shall shield us as well as hinder.  Let us proceed,
though with care.”

A nod of the covered head agreed and they took off
through the trees at a gallop, stopping as Glorfindel
searched the ground for tracks and Erestor sniffed the
air, following where the scant signs led them.

Now, they were far past the borders, but still some
leagues from the mountains, and the sounds of orcs
filled the air: stomping and snarling, the shouts of
soldiers and clank of metal on metal.

“We are closer than I thought,” Erestor whispered,
pointing upward. 

Glorfindel again nodded agreement and the two Elves
quickly scaled a small tree, leaping from branch to
branch, unhampered by the rain-slick bark that made
their road until they reached the higher canopy of
older trees.  

Finding a high, level fork in an old oak, they settled
down to watch the orcs beneath.  The enemy was loud
here; not the vigilant force that had been attacking
the borders, they tramped heedlessly through the
brush, arguing amongst themselves as was their wont. 
The beasts marched in loose formation, accompanied by
groups of goblins and riders on wargs.  The Elves
watched in silence for a long while, wary of moving.

Eventually, Glorfindel spoke, his words no more than a
whisper barely heard by the only one intended to hear
him.  “How many, do you think?”

“Does the word ‘legion’ mean anything to you?” Erestor
replied dryly, his own voice pitched low, but while
Glorfindel’s tenor blended with the wind, Erestor’s
rumble mingled with the pattering rain.

“Shit.”

Erestor nodded.  “What do you see in this pitch black
rain?”

Glorfindel squinted carefully down, the only light
reaching his Elvish eyes from scattered torches
carried by the enemy.  “Crude weapons.  Motley armor. 
Nothing out of the ordinary.  Except that they are far
too close to our land.”

Erestor nodded again.  “Nothing out of the ordinary,”
he mused to himself.  “We must have missed their
sentries in the blackness of this storm.”  He peered
at the line moving steadily southwest.  “Tents, do you
see, there?”  He pointed to rough canvas rolls being
hauled by a shorter crew of orcs.  “And covered crates
on wagons.  We can’t risk a closer look, but I want to
know what’s hidden in those carts.”  A growl betrayed
his frustration.  “We shall learn nothing here.  We
must move north, find their base.”

Glorfindel regarded him with worry.  “I don’t like it.
 You’re right, but I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Erestor pointed out
wryly.  He trod carefully along the branch into the
next tree and the next, followed by a wary Glorfindel,
leaving the slow-moving army behind.

***

They halted at the top of another tree to speak.

“No catapults, no spears, few bows,” Glorfindel
stated.

“No weapons of assault,” Erestor confirmed.  “At least
they do not mean to invade.”

“They merely expand their territory.”

“But now we have larger troubles to worry us,” Erestor
pointed out.  His eyes were closed as he tilted his
head to the wind, uncaring of the rain sluicing down
his face and hair.  “The stronghold is near.  Many
orcs.  Too many.  And goblins as well.  Wargs.  Maybe
trolls.”

“Workers.”

“Aye.”

Glorfindel watched curiously as Erestor screwed up his
face in concentration, scenting the damp air as his
ears swiveled carefully.  “What’s wrong?”

“I wish I knew,” he murmured, finally opening those
shocking gold eyes.  “Something IS wrong.  I can’t say
why.  There’s just something a little... off.  In the
air.  On the air.  My gut tells me there is something
gruesome waiting for us, something more evil than I
have known in long years.  I hear cries of anguish,
but if they be Elf, orc, or otherwise, I cannot say. 
Fires burn, but not forges.  I smell the burning of
flesh.”

Glorfindel shuddered reflexively.

Erestor noticed, but said nothing of it.  “My best
guess is that there is a torture chamber of some sort.
 That is where our missing fellows have gone.”

Another shudder answered this statement.  When
Glorfindel spoke, his sweet voice was low and weary. 
“But why?  What could be their reason?  Why tempt
fate, so close to Imladris?  Why would they...?”

“We shall find out,” Erestor told him with a small
shrug, turning to continue.

“Wait!” Glorfindel begged, stopping him with a hand on
his shoulder.  “We know what they are doing.  That is
what we were sent for.  The ‘why’ can wait; as much as
I want to know, we can risk no more!  We must turn
back now and alert Elrond to the situation.  We have
what we need,” he repeated, blue eyes wide and
pleading.  “Let’s go back.”

Erestor turned away, facing the north.  “I am not
satisfied.”  He looked again to his companion.  “Go,
if you wish.  You are right.  But I feel I must know
more.  There is something not right here.  I must know
what it is.”

Glorfindel watched him.  For many moments, their eyes
met unblinking, a challenge of wills, with a tanned
hand still gripping a strong shoulder.  

“I am not so sure that is our wisest course of
action,” Glorfindel advised.  “But I see your
determination, and would not leave you here.  I shall
go with you.”

After a moment, Erestor nodded.  There was a grateful
look in those haunting eyes, though he said nothing of
thanks.  “Quiet as a mouse, swift as a fox.  Let’s
go.”

***

Mute as mice, fleet as foxes, the two Elves raced
along the upper branches of the forest.  Quickly they
came nearer their destination until Glorfindel, too,
could smell the stench of death and hear the cries of
agony.

The forest ended at a line of trees, revealing before
them a wasteland of tortured earth: trees ripped from
the ground, trenches of filth, smoke rising from
cracks and small canyons.  Orcs idly patrolled
throughout, coming and going through holes in the
earth leading down into dark places of pain and
despair.  The most obedient of wargs were chained
down, and gnawed savagely on the rank red flesh tossed
to them by their riders.  Pitched tents and grossly
hobbled buildings made up a primitive but efficient
perimeter of the place.

The two spies in the trees did not speak, for fear of
being overheard, even so high up and undercover of
dark and rain.  They merely watched.

Many minutes they stood their guard.  Waiting.  The
two could not have said what it was they awaited, but
they did.  They waited for something.

Clear blue eyes clouded with sorrow at the sight
before them.  Glorfindel wondered how this could have
come to pass anywhere, let alone so close to home,
without notice.  He wondered what drove these
creatures, he wondered if some magic protected them,
and he wondered what their true purpose was.

Suddenly a horn rung out, loud and discordant, that
forced Erestor to cover his ears.  The two Elves
looked carefully out at the rain-washed land for sight
of what had been signaled.  A large rock, jagged and
heavy, was moving in the ground, rolling away to
reveal a gaping maw in the earth -- a pitch black hole
from which echoed distant screams.  How far down did
it go?

They watched in wonder as two little orcs scurried
out, pushing worker goblins out of the way as they
shouted something in their harsh tongue.  Using what
looked like angry two-pronged pitchforks, they forced
back curious onlookers that gathered.  A common tongue
curse rang out.  “Make way, pigs, grovel before your
betters!  Down, you idiot beasts!”

A row of several squat soldier orcs, in slightly
better kept armor than most, marched almost in unison
from the dark hole.  Gruesome helms covered yellow
eyes and rotting teeth as they held the large iron
swords in thickly gloved paws.  The row parted into
two lines, making a clear path of torn earth from the
uncovered cave.  

Glorfindel gasped.  Erestor shook his head in wonder. 


Large, black beasts with yellow fangs and black claws
emerged.  They marched three-by-three in roughshod
boots and large clanking black armor.  Strong and
tall, these were no orcs.  Nor goblins either.  Black
hair fell in strings from high foreheads. 
Muscle-corded arms carried heavy javelins and maces
and shields.  Strong legs pounded the earth as they
marched, roaring at the crowd of orcs and goblins that
appeared puny beside these formidable creatures.  The
mass whimpered and cowered as these soldiers
approached, although they shouted each in their own
tongue at these new animals that crawled from the
earth.

Stamped on each helm, forged on each shield, was a
white hand.

Forgetting their precarious position, Glorfindel
spoke, though his voice was a muffled whisper.  “What
*are* they?”  Fear and wonder laced the subdued tone.

Erestor could only shake his head, though he glared
murderously down at the things, growling deep in his
throat.

As they watched, a large orc -- piggish and muscled --
climbed atop a small promontory of rock to shout down
the crowd.  The foreman snorted and squawked until he
had most of their attention.  “Look, you swine! 
Behold, the new race of darkness!  These are the
fighting Uruk-hai!”

A cheer went up, full of screams and howls as the dark
beings celebrated the birth.  They stamped the ground
and threw fists to the air, rolling their ugly eyes
and laughing their ugly laughter.  The Uruk-hai gazed
with cool indifference at the world around them,
snapping large jaws at any that came too close.

The cacophony went on until a whistle blew somewhere
in the ravaged camp, signaling the rise of the sun. 
With amazing speed, the clearing emptied -- the
creatures all disappearing like rats into holes. 
Wargs were herded into a large fissure of darkness. 
Huge trolls stamped into the caves.  Goblins, orcs,
all fled.  

Still, the foreman remained with arms crossed,
resolute upon his pedestal as another horn blew and
the great rock began its movement into place, forced
by unseen wheels turned by unseen hands somewhere in
the depths.  This mean orc waited as the Uruk-hai
turned round to make their way back into the darkness.

The troop moved efficiently as the foreman finally
hopped down to scurry into the cave before the great
rock fell into place.  A half dozen of the new
creatures were still out when one of them suddenly
halted, a hand coming up to stop his nearest
companion.  They all of them ceased the march, looking
to this one who sniffed the air and growled.  

Erestor and Glorfindel watched with horror as the Uruk
turned away from the darkness to look out over the
scarred land, through the rain, to the trees.  He
sneered as the others questioned him.  Grinning
savagely as he raised his sword, the Uruk-hai cried
out, “Elf!”

TBC


=====
Ivy:  You can be high on things besides pot!  I'm high on life!
Rooney:  You can't be high on life.  You're at Fredonia.  ...It's not 
allowed.





TITLE:  Feral Form (2/2)
AUTHOR:  Ezra’s Persian Kitty
(ezraspersiankitty@yahoo.com)
PAIRING:  Glorfindel/Erestor
RATING:  NC-17 (violence and sex)
SUMMARY:  More ANNNNNGGGST.
DISCLAIMER:  Not mine.
WARNING:  Here is the violence of which I spoke.  

= = = = =

CHAPTER THE THIRD: OH SHIT...

“Blood!”

The cry went up.

“ELF-BLOOD!  ELF-BLOOD!”

Frozen for a moment like cornered rabbits, the Elves
remained perched in the trees, thoughts flying.

Blood.

Erestor.

It must have smelled the wounds, the blood on his
clothes from the other night.

Glorfindel could see Erestor mentally cursing himself
even as they both turned and fled, practically flying
through the trees in their panicked desperation. 

Without knowing he had done so, Glorfindel pulled
loose his bow and notched an arrow into place. 
Erestor raced ahead as the golden Elf halted to turn
and gauge their pursuers’ distance.  The Uruk-hai were
directly beneath him.

Black arrows shot toward him.  Glorfindel hopped away
and loosed an arrow of his own.

His aim proved true and a fierce howl sounded from
below.

“Glorfindel!  Run!” Erestor ordered, already a good
distance ahead.

He ran.  

The Elves remained above, but put no distance between
themselves and the tireless enemy on the ground. 
Black arrows continued their assault, the ugly bolts
flying far too close for comfort.  The sound of wargs’
howls grew loud.  The clanking of heavy armor never
ceased.  “Can we reach the border patrol?” Glorfindel
panted.  

“We had better,” Erestor answered, though there was
nothing of hope in his voice.

The sun rose as they fled, infusing the world with a
hazy grey light through the clouds and unending rain. 
Arien’s presence did nothing to delay the enemy.

Erestor came to a halt at the top of a tall tree. 
Glorfindel stopped beside him.  “What?”

Erestor held up a hand for silence.  “Listen,” he
instructed.

Glorfindel strained to listen through the pattering
rain to the world around them.  “They’re ahead of us,”
he realized with a mix of awe and terror.

“We’re surrounded,” Erestor confirmed.

“I had hoped we weren’t going to need this,”
Glorfindel muttered, fumbling in his rucksack only to
pull out a battered red stick with fletching on one
notched end.

Erestor shook his head fondly.  “Mithrandir and his
fireworks,” he muttered.  It was almost prayerful.

Glorfindel awkwardly notched the makeshift arrow in
his bow and aimed to the sky.  “On your mark,” he
whispered.

The dark Elf nodded, taking between thumb and middle
fingers the wick that dangled off the fletching.  Gold
eyes flared as Erestor muttered some ancient word,
snapping his fingers.  The cord burst to life, flaring
an obscenely bright orange in their world of grey. 
Erestor watched the traveling flame closely, speaking
lowly.  “Three.  Two.  One.  Shoot.”

Glorfindel let fly the firework, which sped truthfully
past the canopy, fighting its way through the rain to
light the sky above them in a shower of red sparks
released by a deafening bang, and singing orange
fizzes that multiplied, lighting up the dark sky
above.

“Let’s hope someone sees that,” Erestor sighed.  The
war calls from below doubled in volume as the enemy
circled beneath them.  Gold eyes met blue in a moment
of something close to despair.  “Prepare to run.  Stay
in the canopy.  Move fast.  Pray for the best.  And
get ready to fight,” the Maia-Elf grimly instructed.

Glorfindel nodded agreement and led the way, leaping
into a neighboring tree and continuing the route home,
ignoring the angry shouts beneath them and the black
bolts that still flew toward them.

They ran.

They stayed in the trees.

They moved fast.

But not fast enough.

Glorfindel cried out.  He fell.  Like a wounded bird
he plunged downward, gold hair streaming as the rag
flew off, the red blood streaking the air behind him
to lend the rainfall pinkish drops of precious
lifeblood.

The trees stood round him in grey columns as he rushed
to meet the muddied earth.  

Later, he couldn’t decide which sickened him more, the
splat that his body made as it hit the earth, or the
snapping of his leg.

But those two sounds rung absurdly clearly in his ears
before the pain consumed him.

A jarring nausea rolled over the Elf in a wave as fire
flared along his left leg, broken at the knee.  The
painful heat that spider webbed out from his right
shoulder, from which protruded one of those
revoltingly thick arrows, was almost an afterthought. 
His head pounded, his heart quailed, and he could
barely see the dark shapes swarming toward him through
the misty rain.

“Erestor.”  It was no more than a whimper.

The shadowy figures advanced, moving into focus with
frightening clarity: the gruesome faces, hideous
claws, deadly weapons all outlined with stark
precision against the grey backdrop of the forest.

Pain ricocheted through his body as he reached for the
hilt of that ancient mithril sword.  

They were before him now, black faces and yellow eyes
and cruel fangs.  Steel edges. Claws.  Hate.

The faithful blade whispered against the leather
sheath as he withdrew it.  The movement felt so slow;
could he really be that badly off?

“Back, you demons,” he hissed.

Laughter welled up from their deep, wretched throats. 
Humorless.  Evil.  A barbarously edged weapon
descended toward him.

“Erestor!”  His voice was shrill, laced with fear as
he brought his brightly shining sword up in a weak
defense.

But the attack never fell.  Blue eyes blinked.  A
brown-clad form stood before him, the enemy’s weapon
in his hand.  Glorfindel could not see his friend’s
face, but the expression on the Uruk-hai was one of
confusion.  Erestor crouched down, a growl low in his
throat.  He snapped the rude cutlass in two and threw
the useless pieces aside.  The other creatures watched
curiously as the Elf met the Uruk, face to face. 
Erestor’s growl increased in pitch and the Uruk
answered in kind.  The two animals roared, a challenge
understood only between them.

Then, the enemy charged.

His great, hulking form ran headlong into Erestor’s
tall body, but he barely recoiled, catching the lunge
with an armored bicep in each hand.

For a moment they were as two great stags, meeting in
a careful dance, testing strength and determination. 
They pushed against each other, neither moving, though
feet dug deep in the earth to retain their positions. 
Many moments the struggle continued as the Uruk shook
his black head in anger and Erestor wagged his black
tail in hatred.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the test was ended. 
The Uruk looked up in shock, feeling his combatant
shifting, feeling the strength in that super-Elven
body.

Erestor pulled.

The left arm came off first, black blood spurting from
the socket as the Uruk howled.  The limb came crashing
down on the helmed head with great force.

Glorfindel allowed himself, for but a second, to dwell
on the absurdity of Erestor attacking the thing with
its own arm.

A gurgling sound emitted from the throat and Erestor
threw down the clawed limb.  He grasped the Uruk close
and with a guttural, hungry growl lunged at the
thing’s neck. 

In the moment before death, yellow eyes were only
portals of fear.

Little fangs tore the black flesh and Erestor tore out
its throat, more blood spurting—though weakly—from the
dead body.

The Maia-Elf spit out the bit of flesh and dropped the
carcass to the mud.  Black blood ran down from his
mouth, staining chin and neck and vest.

He turned suddenly to face the Elf lord curled up on
the forest floor behind him.  Glorfindel quailed to
see not the slightest sign of intelligence in those
flashing golden eyes.  “Erestor?”

His only answer was a tilt of the magnificent head.

He was animal, through and through.

Then came the attack.

Erestor didn’t need Glorfindel’s warning, shouted too
late anyway.  The dark Elf spun like a whirlwind,
lashing out to break the back of his closest opponent,
snap the knee of the next, and decapitate the one
after that by grasping the head and simply pulling it
off.

The last Uruk in this first wave of attack encountered
a clawed hand that struck through the black
breastplate to gorge through skin and bone to rip out
the still beating heart, black and red and twisted. 
Erestor held the heart to his mouth to suck out the
creature’s cold blood.

Glorfindel turned away from the grisly sight to vomit
up what little food was in his stomach.

When he recovered himself and returned his sight to
the battle, he let out a low, keening wail as the
Uruks fell like a hideous, black deluge upon his
companion.  It seemed Erestor was buried beneath the
hacking blades and tears welled up in Glorfindel’s
fierce blue eyes, overflowing down cheeks that grew
pale at loss of blood and loss of life.  He shouted
the name of his dear friend.  But Erestor could not
answer.  And Erestor could not be seen beneath the
Uruk-hai that swarmed like shadowed mutant maggots
atop him.

Erestor was lost to him.

And in that moment Glorfindel realized . . . that cold
counselor had become very dear to him.

He was seized without warning, strong claws trapping
his arms and carrying him swiftly away from the battle
and toward the camp they had run from.  Glorfindel
felt his strength fading and removed himself from
consciousness, letting the comforting nothingness
overwhelm him.

***

A distant sort of awareness informed Glorfindel of the
world about him.  He was carried some ways, the gray
trees wrapping up a hall of mist that he was born
along like a broken rag doll in a stream of sewage. 
The arrow was pulled from him, mercilessly torn from
his flesh; it hurt far more coming out than going in
and he was glad of the distance he maintained from the
physical world at the moment.  He was stolen away
behind the great rolling stone and carried deep into
the belly of the earth where there were only shadows.

Screams of Elves and orcs rung throughout the caverns.
 He could smell again the burning flesh.  But he did
not open his eyes until they passed further down into
a cold cave where the signs of torment were distant
and he was left alone.

Then, at long last, he did open bleary blue eyes. 
Somewhere a torch burned.  He could not see it, but
the flickering offered just enough light so that he
could make out shapes and shadows.  There were three
walls, a floor, and a ceiling to his stone prison. 
And a stolid progression of cold black bars keeping
him in.

The more aware he grew, the more the pain intensified.
 He grumbled amicably to himself as he reached down to
straighten his broken leg and fix the bones back into
place.  He allowed himself a short scream before
resuming unconsciousness.

***

Time passed differently for him in the weak, healing
sleep, but he knew he could not have been sleeping
long when the clanking of shod feet on stone steps
awaked him.  He opened one pale blue eye to a narrow
slit, watching the shadows dance beyond the bars as
someone drew near.  Finally, two rickety orcish slaves
came into view, toting a tall body between them.  He
watched carefully as one withdrew a key and muttered
some magic, thereby opening a door in the bars.  The
skeletal creatures heaved in the brown-clad body and
quickly locked the door before clunking away again.

Glorfindel cocked his head, ignoring the heat that
flared in his shoulder and the agony that echoed in
his leg.  Erestor lay nearly atop him in their small
cell.  Glorfindel smiled to himself.  He could not see
whether his friend be alive or dead, but surely nobody
would imprison a corpse.  

Content with the relief that Erestor yet lived,
Glorfindel rested once more, ignorant to the tears
streaming down his own chilled cheeks.

***

Consciousness crept upon him like a forming icicle. 
Dreams came in slow drips until a cone of awareness
began to build itself up like an anthill.  There was
only a sort of low, internal cognizance at first.  The
pains of his body thrummed in a heated ache, but it
was no longer intense.  There was hunger and thirst
and a slowly maturing headache.  Eventually, thoughts
began arranging themselves into words and Glorfindel
wondered that perhaps death had been kinder to him
this time.

But no, this was no death.  Simply a hell devised by
hellish creatures for no seen purpose.  

A sudden urge to scratch his leg overcame him, but the
lord did not move.  The itching meant the healing was
in full force, and he was content to let his body take
care of itself until he was better able to do so.

Finding that wakefulness was not this time accompanied
by pain and terror, Glorfindel thought he might open
his eyes.  He thought about it for a long time
actually, weighing all the whethers and whether nots. 
He could not think of a single happy reason for
opening his eyes, but the need to see Erestor alive,
if not well was strong.  

Then, he finally decided to pay attention to what his
ears were telling him.  There was a scuffle scuffle
scuffle scrape, scuffle scuffle scuffle scrape.  And
there was a bit of a breeze at every other scuffle as
well, blowing against his face.  Someone was pacing.

And indeed, when he conceded to opening his eyes, the
faint light of the place revealed Erestor pacing
determinedly from one wall to the other.  The cell was
only three paces square, barely enough room for one
Elf to lay down, let alone two, and the Maia-Elf’s
head nearly brushed the sliming stone ceiling that
dripped with ooze over the decades.

If Erestor had suffered any great injury, it was not
apparent.  His fine brown shirt was lacking a sleeve
and the leather vest was scraped and slashed.  The
pants were torn and the boots scuffed, but there
wasn’t a single mark upon the fine white skin, except
for a cruel gash that still burned red along the
delicate line of his neck.

Feeling the headache ripen, Glorfindel groaned a bit
to himself, raising a hand to press down on his eyes. 
“Erestor?  Are you in your right mind again?  Or shall
I find you delivering mice to my feet like a proud
kitty cat?”

“You’re awake,” Erestor answered gruffly, ceasing his
self-torment to kneel before the golden warrior.  “I
bound your leg.”

Glorfindel glanced down to see Erestor’s missing
sleeve wrapped tight around his knee.  “It’s getting
better,” he agreed.  “But I don’t seem to heal so
quick as you.”

Erestor shrugged shyly, lowering to sit on the cold
ground.  “I am sorry.”

“I don’t know what you are apologizing for.”

“I—”

“And I don’t care,” Glorfindel said.  “Stop it.”

“But . . .”

“This is no more your fault than mine or Elrond’s or
anyone else.  We are here to do a job and we still
are.  We shall discover who is orchestrating this
madhouse and why.  Then, we shall escape, rescue the
prisoners, and return to Imladris, where its
Half-Elven Lord shall scold us and send us to bed
without supper.”

“Well, thank the Valar for Balrog-slayers and their
cunning plans,” Erestor murmured.  “It’s a fine one,
but I do not anticipate any sort of escape from this
hole.”

“Why not?” 

Erestor punched out at the bars beside them, the flat
of his palm violently striking the metal with a
flinch-inducing thunk.  “Magic.  The place breathes
with it.  My strength might bend iron bars alone, but
not when they held here by magic.  A dark magic.”

“Only dark magic could have created those black
beasts,” Glorfindel muttered with a shake of his
glorious head.

Changing the subject, Erestor stood, letting his tail
fall down from where he had wrapped it round his waist
sometime during the battle.  “What strength have you
in your arm?” he asked, indicating Glorfindel’s right
arm.

Curious, Glorfindel shrugged.  “I know not.  What
strength do you need?”

Erestor sighed and bit at his lower lip in an
uncharacteristic show of indecision before weaving his
tail outside one of the bars and back into their cell.
 He waved the furry tuft at Glorfindel.  “Take hold.”

Glorfindel did so.

“Now, pull.”

“What?!”

“Pull.”

“But I—”

“Do it!” Erestor commanded in a fierce growl, and
Glorfindel abjectly obeyed.

Erestor strained against the bars, pushing himself
away from them.  There was a disconcerting pop from
his lower back and Erestor immediately reacted,
shimmying and twisting until the tail tore loose. 
Blood streamed down the back of Erestor’s pants, but
he paid no heed as Glorfindel stared at the obscene
tail free in his hand and wiggling madly.

“Thank you,” Erestor told him, taking the tail away. 
“Should they discover me to be more than mere Elf, I
do believe I would have a hard time of it.  They shall
be suspicious as it is when I heal more quickly than
they anticipate.”  Erestor stripped some of the fur
and skin away from the base of the tail and began
gnawing at the red flesh.  

Realizing the absolute horror with which Glorfindel
stared at him, Erestor ceased moving mid-bite and
swallowed what was in his mouth.  “You must be
hungry.”  He held out the still squirming prehensile
limb.  “Want some?”

Glorfindel stared, blue eyes grown wide.  He slowly
shook his head.

Erestor chewed up a bit more of the stringy flesh,
spitting out the tiny bones that made the tail so
flexible.  He tried to peer down along the corridor,
but could see little, even with his gold eyes
sparkling in the darkness as they seemed to. 
Glorfindel had never noticed that before.  “The darker
it is, the more your eyes glow.”

Erestor regarded him with the classic raised eyebrow,
though his companion could barely make it out in the
darkness.  Ignoring the statement, he sat again beside
the wounded Elf.  “We are Elves, and though we cannot
starve, we can still suffer from hunger.  I doubt they
will offer us anything edible to eat, if anything at
all.”  Again, he held out the severed tail, which now
only twitched on occasion.  “Taste of my flesh, Lord
Counselor.  It will sustain you like nothing else in
this place will.”

Glorfindel made a gulping motion with his throat, but
since his mouth was dry, it only made him cough.  He
blinked, those depthless blue eyes still wide as
saucers.  His look was uncertain, but he reached up a
trembling white hand.

It was incredibly soft he realized now that he thought
about it.  Those many short furs were smooth and soft,
and the broken limb was warm.  He closed his mind and
brought the bloodied flesh to pale lips.

Erestor watched indifferently as Glorfindel took
several healthy bites of his tail.  When Erestor
turned away again to look out between the bars, he
sensed the blue gaze on him.  He turned to see
Glorfindel thoughtlessly eating but staring at the
place where his tail used to proudly hang.  “The wound
is sealed already.  It will heal quickly and grow back
again in time.”

Glorfindel wordlessly nodded, handing back the
bleeding stump and not bothering to question how his
mysterious friend knew such a thing.  Erestor quickly
consumed what little meat was to be had, sucking up
the plentiful blood, his tongue lapping at it in
little pink swipes.  He carefully plucked the fur from
the remaining pelt and torn the skin into little bits,
letting them scatter and fall to the floor unseen
amongst the shattered bones.  No trace remained of his
most obvious anomaly.  

Erestor looked to his companion, who was trying to
wipe away the red blood from his mouth with a scrap
torn from his sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing
it about.  Erestor knelt and took the rag from him,
spitting upon it and carefully cleaning Glorfindel’s
pale face.  

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

***

They sat in silence many hours.  Erestor had fallen to
a moody stillness after the loss of his limb, and
Glorfindel didn’t blame him.  The dark Elf had
suggested that he sleep, but Glorfindel could not do
away with awareness now that he was healing and within
the confines of the enemy.  He could not put down his
guard.

It seemed the length of the day passed in unmoving
quiet and peace until such time as the sun would be
setting, could they see it.  Then came the footsteps.

They came in great number down the stair, and it was
the largest and ugliest of them all that pointed
within the cell to where Erestor now stood snarling at
them.  “That one.”

To Glorfindel’s eyes, it all became a blur.  He gained
his feet and rushed at them, despite the singing pain
in his broken knee, but they pushed him back and he
fell and when he looked again Erestor was gone, though
he could hear the angry howls for many minutes more as
they bore his friend away.

“Elbereth protect him,” Glorfindel murmured.  He said
it again. 

He said it again and again and again.  

Until at last they came for him.

***

It was the same as before: cruel hands and tearing
claws carrying him along.  A deep-seated fear awoke in
him when they entered a huge chamber full of fire and
smoke.  The black smoke stung his eyes and his vision
darkened and the black smoke stung his lungs and he
coughed in the polluted air.  Something was forced
into his mouth and he was surprised at the refreshing
miruvor.  Until realization set it.  They wanted him
alive.

Clothes were stripped from him and everything was hot.
 There were more flames.  There were screams as well
on the air.  He thought he recognized the voice of a
young Elf that had once been under his command and had
disappeared several moons ago.  He also smelled burnt
flesh.  The scent was strong here.  Then he felt the
flames and heard his own screams and smelt his own
flesh and he ceased to think at all.

***

When Glorfindel woke this time, he was back in the
cell again, but there was no distant ache.  The
torment was very present in the heat that ran all
through him, from feet to head.  He turned his head to
look at the hand beside him.  It was blistered and
red.  A lock of blonde hair fell in front of his eyes.
 It had been burned away to little more than a few
inches.  The throbbing pain seemed unbearable and
Glorfindel closed his eyes; even that little move was
filled with its own brand of agony.

This was too much like the flames that had choked him
down in a past life.  Tears welled up silently and
escaped the barriers of his lids to fall on blackened
cheeks; the salt water stung, but at least it was a
sensation different from the constant burn throughout.

He paid little heed to the approaching sounds.  He was
in a haze of pain and did not realize there were
people near the cell until the door was open.  He
heard Erestor’s growl of anger and yelp of pain as
they tossed him in and slammed the door in his face. 
At least his friend was conscious.

Erestor growled at the enemy and barked through the
bars.

Though not sane.

Glorfindel listened to the little whines that his
companion emitted.  They were moans of pain, he knew,
and he felt sorrow for Erestor sing within him along
with the pain and the fear and the anger.  He cracked
open his eyes to see Erestor, shirtless and dirty and
dripping wet, cowering in the far corner.  Glorfindel
licked cracked lips and spoke in a cracked voice. 
“Erestor?”

Erestor ceased the action of licking at his hands and
looked up swift as a raven to the voice that had
called him.  Without warning, Erestor bound toward him
in a single leap like a flying hound to crouch above
Glorfindel’s burnt form and sniff all over him with
vigorous intent.  Glorfindel recoiled at the heat of
Erestor’s body and the multitude of drops that fell
like rain from Erestor’s drenched form.  “Too hot,” he
whispered.   

But Erestor did not understand.  He sniffed and nosed
at Glorfindel’s unmoving form, whining his little
moans.  Glorfindel wept anew when he looked up to see
Erestor’s gold eyes also full of tears, though as
before in the previous day’s battle there was no sign
of intelligence in them.  

Finally, Erestor sat back on his haunches.  He lifted
his face to the ceiling and let out a keening, eerie
howl; it was a noise unlike any Glorfindel had ever
heard, full of anger and regret and sorrow and despair
and mourning.  The echoing croon carried down the
corridor and reverberated in his soul and Glorfindel
wanted more than anything for it to stop.

But Erestor did not stop and the howl went on like a
sighing wind, full of pain.  And even though
Glorfindel knew little of Erestor’s other life, he
knew that mourning wail was for him.  Erestor mourned
what had become of him, in this burnt and blackened
state.

And Glorfindel cried for them both.

***

Glorfindel did not remember sleeping or having fallen
asleep.  But then he was waking up, and so reasoned
that he must have – at one point in his recent past –
slept.

There was an unhealthy stillness in the air.  He
opened his eyes to again see his hand.  The blisters
were healing to red and white scars, the black crisp
of his outer skin having fallen away.  He tried to
move, to look about and see if Erestor was near, but
the raw pain was too great, and so he played a game
with the stone floor, seeing which of them could
remain still the longest.

He thought he might be winning when a pair of
intelligent gold eyes suddenly filled his field of
vision.  “Can you move?”

“Not really,” Glorfindel murmured in a cracked, burnt
voice.

Erestor’s eyes traveled over his body and Glorfindel
could tell he was worried.

The golden lord attempted a smile.  His voice was a
creaking whisper, “I have recovered from worse than
this.  The fire of orcs is nothing to the fire of a
Balrog.”

“Your tears belie your statement,” Erestor argued.

“Oh, am I weeping?”

“Aye.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel wondered.  “That’s odd.”

“I have to get you out of here.”

Glorfindel was too tired to argue.

***


This time he woke up shivering.  Perhaps it was the
miruvor or perhaps his own determination that had him
healing at a surprising rate.  But his skin only
tingled now in remembrance of the fire, and naked on
the stone floor he felt the chill abruptly.  

It seemed darker than it had before.  Maybe the
distant torch had gone out?  So Glorfindel did not see
Erestor until the strong creature pulled the shivering
form into strong naked arms.  “Erestor?”

“We are Elves, and though we cannot freeze, we can
still suffer from cold,” the rumbling voice hesitantly
told him.  “I know what it is to be cold.  Let me warm
you.”

Glorfindel was content in the embrace and relaxed
within Erestor’s hold.  “You are warm,” the lord
sighed into the cold air.  “I think I might be able to
sleep like this.”

“Then do so,” Erestor suggested with a slightly
irritated sigh.

And he did.

***

A straining tension lined Glorfindel’s back.  He
awakened to the feel of Erestor’s arms still warm and
tight about him, but the dark Elf behind him had grown
tense, and the feeling had spread to wake Glorfindel
from his healing slumber.  “What is it, Erestor?”

The counselor’s voice was a lowest pitch whisper.  “Do
you know what it is they do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Their purpose,” Erestor was quietly vehement.  “Their
intent, have you discerned it?”

Glorfindel remembered only the pain.  “No.”

“I think I have,” came the answer, ever quieter than
all the words before it.

Glorfindel shifted restlessly in the tightening
embrace.  “Then tell me,” he begged.

“Millennia ago, Elves were twisted, tortured to become
orcs.  Now, this new breed – these Uruk-hai – have
been cultivated.  They seek Elves now for these morbid
experiments.”  His voice sunk to a tremulous hiss, “I
think they seek our immortality.”

“Until they have our spirits, they cannot have our
eternity,” Glorfindel immediately answered.

Erestor pulled him close, burying his nose in the
short length of golden hair to whisper, “You will not
be able to tell them that.”

Glorfindel jumped with fright when Erestor flinched. 
“What is it?” he asked, sensing the other’s alarm.

Erestor rose into a crouch, releasing his grip and
sniffing the air.  Gold eyes flashed dangerously
bright.  “They come.”

Immediately Glorfindel began to shiver.  His voice
wavered with pain.  “I do not want them to take me.”

Erestor made no answer.  There was no comfort to be
found in words.  Instead, he gently squeezed
Glorfindel’s shoulder and moved to the door to meet
their captors.

Glorfindel was too weak to rise to battle, but he
watched with pride as Erestor deftly murdered the
first being to open the door.  The next would be of
little use in battle after Erestor had finished with
him.  But then the dark Elf was finagled into a set of
mithril manacles and dragged along the darkened
stairway.  

Several orcs advanced into the open cell.  Again,
Glorfindel could do little, but he struggled valiantly
with the last of his strength as they carried him to
the cavern of fire and bound his body and set him
aflame.

***

Mandos came to him in a dream.  Even in sleep, the
pain was real, but in this one dream so separate from
life, all was peace and contentment.  Glorfindel tried
to explain this.

Mandos understood.  How could he not?  Death was his
realm after all, and often accompanied by pain and
torment.  He smiled at the familiar face and offered
words of comfort that would be forgotten upon waking.

Mandos really wasn’t so frightening, especially for
all the long time Glorfindel had known him, and he
radiated the wisdom and eternity common to all the
Valar.

When Glorfindel awoke within the cell, he had indeed
forgotten all the goodly advice and bold reassurances.
 The words were gone from memory, but their intent and
their vehemence was not.  The pain was seductive in
its suggestion of peace by death, but now Glorfindel
knew he must not give in.  He must not.

And though the pain was undoubtedly worse, he felt it
less and he retained a calm mind, a mind easily
removed from the physicality of his existence.  He
could even smile a bit, had he a mind to.

But he did not; there was his friend to consider.

Glorfindel pushed himself upright, sitting cold and
naked in their harsh stone cell to watch Erestor prowl
in an endless circle a