Title: Kinslayer 
Author: Merrie (merenwen_amras@yahoo.ca) 
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor  
Rating: R 
Summary: Erestor and Glorfindel’s life is shattered by haunting memories 
of Erestor’s past (though Elrond might make out fine).  
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc etc 
Authors Note #1: This is only my second attempt and it was more fun than 
the first (it’s also longer – at nearly 20 000 words for a short story, eek - 
and – perhaps – slightly more complex – but stay with it!). Before I say 
anything else, I just want to give props to all the authors who post here – 
there are some excellent writers, some excellent storytellers, and lots of 
people just having a lot of fun, which is ultimately what fan fic is all 
about, right? So, now a few notes on mine. (1) Not beta read – all mistakes 
are mine. (Is there anyone out there who actually w/could do it for me, if I 
write anymore? Or for those I had approached before, is there something 
wrong with my account?) (2) Since I’m not a canon expert, I don’t know 
exactly who Inwe was supposed to be, but I love the name and always 
thought it should be a female – she only shows up for one scene so no 
slamming over that, please? (3) Okay, there was a writer on here whose 
story involved scars with a knife (also an Erestor/Glorfindel pairing) and 
while I like the idea of the scarring on Erestor (heehee, we beat the 
emotional shit out of this character for our own amusement) I made mine 
burns. So thanks, one the one hand, and on the other, I wasn’t ripping your 
idea, so please don’t be mad. I’m just a little writer trying her hand at 
having some fun. (4) Enjoy, and don’t be shy about flaming. I’m a big 
grrl.





The Elf lay in a motionless heap in a corner of the cell. The knowledge 
that he was held captive underground was the only true knowledge he 
possessed; the nape of his neck – now bare beneath his brutally hacked 
plaits - had always prickled when crawling through the caves as an 
Elfling. But as to how long…days had become months, and months turned 
into years, and then the effort to be aware had become too great and he 
had forgotten. The cell itself knew true darkness, shadows screaming and 
shifting against the rough stone walls; not even his keen eyes pierced the 
gloom, and his other senses had sharpened in response. The heavy scent of 
roses and the rustling of silk announced the arrival of his captors; often 
they would leave burning a squat candle, just beyond his reach through the 
bars, to stab at his tender eyes, so long unused to light, eyes now sealed 
with layers of dried blood. The brush of feathers against his arm were the 
tiny legs of his cellmates, rodents and insects that scurried through the 
grime layering his skin. It was no great burden now, to lose awareness of 
himself, his body, of the constant hunger twisting his belly and the blunt 
ache of his shattered, poorly mended bones and the sour smell of rings of 
rotting flesh. It was no burden…

Rock roses. He tilted his head slightly toward the cell door, turning blind 
eyes to the corridor. Giant summer rock roses. They returned, four this 
time, the same four from the smell, but under it all, he detected something 
unfamiliar. The door swung open with a squealing of rusted hinges. It had 
been some time since their last visit. 

“Do you remain alive, kinslayer?” 

The softly mocking voice of the lead captor sounded from far too close; he 
stood only paces from the Elf’s limp body. 

“Kinslayer?”

A low, slow moan escaped the Elf’s lips as the booted foot of his captor 
stepped squarely on a piece of raw flesh. Chains rattled as the Elf rolled to 
his side, curling around himself. 

“He sounds alive enough,” came a second voice, low and flat in tone. A 
faint chinking of metal against metal sounded as this one moved about the 
cell. “Let us hurry this business.”

“You sound almost disgusted. Was this not agreed to us by all, yourself 
included?”

“Aye, I agreed, yet there is no need to create a spectacle. There is little 
honour in this deed.”

The first one began to laugh, sharp and hollow as the cracking of spring 
ice. “Honour is such a peculiar thing. Us warriors are willing to fight with 
it and die over it –“

“And in the end, you only destroy it.”

The silence was sudden. The Elf felt the four intruders turn to face him, 
his hoarse voice having startled them all. He breathed in deeply, dirt gritty 
on his tongue.

“So the kinslayer still speaks?” 

“Can he still sing? I want to hear him sing his death songs.” The captor 
prodded the Elf roughly with his foot. “Sing,” he commanded. “Let us all 
hear your sweet voice one last time.”

The Elf lay motionless. This was their way, he remembered, taunt and 
torture and then they would leave him. But the realization that this time 
was different came to him as swiftly as the boot to his chest. The breath 
exploded out of his mouth in a sharp cry. Harsh voices swirled above his 
head, directions and orders and replies, then he was being pushed by 
smooth hands against the wall, his face pressed into the dirt floor, the air 
was gone from him, hands everywhere, scrabbling to grip his grimy limbs, 
holding him down. Over the shouts and scuffling, he could hear a sizzle, 
like a Dwarven forge, and a suddenly revealed flare of light caused red 
shadows to dance behind his lids. His breath came short and quick, and so 
did his lips move. 

“May Elbereth grant me strength,” he mouthed, and then in a flooding of 
memories, he saw his mother bending over him, praying, only her brown 
eyes visible through the long black curtain of her hair, and the verses of 
her prayer came unbidden to his lips…

“Do it. Quickly!”

“Hold him, hold the kinslayer!”

…until the words blended together in a shriek that began low in the back 
of his throat and emerged to echo against the cold stones of his prison. It 
startled at least one of his captors; the Elf felt fingers loosen, trembling, 
and then tighten with renewed vigor. Burning, no longer behind his 
eyelids, but against his body, searing pain shocking him to immobility, 
and the sickly sweet smell of scorched flesh – his own scorched flesh, like 
the scent of whole roasted boar – clawing down the back of his dry throat. 
And then nothing.

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????????????????????????


      Imladris, 3020, Third Age


Erestor jerked to awareness. A damp wind blew across his back, lifting the 
tiny hairs that crested the grooves between the raised columns of muscle. 
He shuddered, knocking against Glorfindel, who blinked sleepily and 
lifted himself on an elbow, slipping his hand beneath his pillow.

“The rains have begun,” Erestor whispered softly, and his hand trailed 
down Glorfindel’s bare arm, brushing aside a trailing golden plait. “Rest 
but a moment.” He rolled over, pulling the top blanket around his waist, 
and padded silently around the bed to the balcony doors; water lay in a 
puddle inside the room. The wind died as he pulled the doors closer 
together. 

Flickering light from scented candles laid on all the tables made his 
shadow dance on the walls. He stared through the crack left between the 
doors, listening to the soft sighing of the wind through the trees. Brown 
and gold leaves swirled through the air, sticking to the windows and the 
white stones of the balcony. Stars winked overhead and the smell of 
autumn flowers lay heavy on the air. He stood there thinking, his mind 
turning over and over like a coin the nightmare that had awoken him. So 
intent on his own thoughts was he that he started when strong arms slid 
around his chest. Glorfindel drew him gently back against his warm body, 
resting his chin on a broad shoulder.

“Why is your manner so somber, counsellor? What disturbs your slumber 
this night?” Glorfindel’s voice, heavy with sleep, sounded soft in his ear. 
The Elf lord used his nose to nudge black hair aside, licking delicately 
along the rim of a pointed ear.

“Ai!” Erestor squirmed in Glorfindel’s arms and the golden head dipped to 
his. Glorfindel’s tongue licked sharply across his lips and he turned his 
head away. “Cease your tormenting and I shall share my thoughts.”

“Another victory for the Elf lord.” With a faint chuckle, Glorfindel nodded 
toward the bed. “Are your thoughts so grave I must dress for the occasion? 
I know you find being disrobed a … great distraction.” A wide smile slid 
slowly across his face.

Erestor frowned in response, moving closer to the doors, close enough to 
wiggle his toes in the puddle. He raised a hand, staring at the long, pale 
fingers and the lumpy bones of his wrist. When he squinted, he could see 
the scars from the irons, the rings of putrid flesh around his arms. “I have 
been dead inside, for a long time.” 

“What-?”

“Please, Fin, sit, let me speak.” Erestor had seen his lover’s reflection in 
the door, the golden haired Elf rising from the bed in concern; the image 
shimmered as rain struck the pane. Now he paused, unable to speak, and 
the silence hung between them. Spinning on a heel, he faced his lover, an 
intent frown drawing his brows together. Glorfindel sat motionless as a 
statue, steady blue eyes boring into him. “Memories…” he murmured with 
a gentle shake of his head, and stepped further into the room. “So many 
memories, pressing on me, like the weight of the dead you carry with 
you.” He crossed his arms over his chest to hide the violent shaking of his 
hands and turned so the drape of loose dark hair disguised his features. 
“They fight…inside my head, I am losing control – “

Glorfindel rose to his knees in the puddle of brightly coloured bedclothes. 
“Erestor, please, these nightmares, I can help you, Elrond can help you…”

“No!” The sudden violence of his reply startled Glorfindel; he sank down, 
hands limp in his lap. Erestor stared at the floor, avoiding the harsh gaze 
directed toward him. “This is too great a burden, how could I ask you to 
take it upon yourself?” His back bumped against the wall; he had stepped 
away from the Elf lord without realization and this knowledge led him to 
look directly at Glorfindel. “Do you remember, do you remember the 
night we met?”

A small sad smile creased Glorfindel’s face, not reaching his brilliant 
eyes. His soft voice floated through the room. “How could I forget? I 
hated that campaign…”

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????????????????????????


	Fields of Fornost, 1975, Third Age
	

Pristine snow crunched faintly beneath the hardened leather of his boots as 
he strode rapidly through his slumbering camp. Thick mist swirled about 
the bases of the oaks, loose tendrils crawling about his skin and playing 
havoc with his senses. Naked branches tipped in black ice clung to the 
wool of his garments and snagged at the tight golden plaits peeking from 
beneath his hood. A wary blue eye remained on the sky, visible through 
the web of bare limbs, though his steps did not slow. 

He ducked through the flaps of his tent in time to hear Elrohir’s low voice 
declare, “Your tongue is sharp and your mind unable to control it. I would 
take more care with that mouth of yours, were I you.”

“Stop me from speaking then, if you can.”

The Elf lord ducked to hide his grin and coughed delicately into his hand. 
Three heads turned in his direction – the impassive faces of two Elven 
guards and Elrohir, dark eyes filled with anger. He nodded to the guards to 
leave; they passed by him without speaking.

“Lord Glorfindel” – the fourth head, unknown to him and dripping fresh 
blood upon the skins covering the floor, jerked up in recognition – “I did 
not hear your approach.”

He frowned. “No doubt you were otherwise occupied,” he responded 
dryly, and ignored the slight flush that rose in Elrohir’s face. Pale hands 
reached up to push back his hood as he crossed the inside of his tent. The 
corner of his cloak caught the edge of a low table and a waterfall of loose 
parchments slid to the floor. 

The strange Elf began to laugh, low and harsh. 

Glorfindel glanced up as he bent to retrieve the parchments, tossing them 
idly back onto the table. He stepped to Elrohir’s right side, so neatly 
blocking the younger Elf’s sword arm that Elrohir did not notice. The 
sudden gleam in the brown eyes of their captive told the Elf lord that he 
had. “This is the reason for my summons, I assume?” He tilted his head in 
consideration. “Almost not worth the walk across the camp.” Reaching out 
to prod the now silent and motionless heap in the corner, he was startled to 
have his foot pushed roughly aside. 

Elrohir jumped forward, left hand swinging in a short arc that Glorfindel 
blocked with ease. The sharp intake of breath and sudden cringing of the 
Elf told him more than enough. 

“Cease, Elrohir.” The younger Elf subsided under the brusque tone and 
tight grip of his commander. “There is no honour in attacking your 
defeated captive.” Blue eyes calmly surveyed the Elf, wrapped in a filthy 
cloth; he could detect the faint and sweet smell of sickness. “Tell me, who 
is this Elf? Why did you capture him?”

Shaking loose Glorfindel’s fingers, Elrohir stepped back to sink down into 
a close chair. “He was thieving from one of the supply tents.” He nodded 
toward the gash on the Elf’s forehead. “One of the guards hit him, they 
were fighting on the ground and that is when we learned –“

Glorfindel’s blue gaze caught the dark one of the stranger. “Learned 
what?” he prompted.

“That this Elf is a kinslayer.”

Golden plaits flew at the sharp whirl of Glorfindel’s head. “A kinslayer? 
How do you know?”

Elrohir stood, motioning toward the Elf. “If I may?” At his commander’s 
nod, he stepped forward and crouched beside the prisoner. The cloth 
covering him had been ripped and peeled back with ease on the unresisting 
body. “Come, see for yourself, Lord Glorfindel.”

He dropped to his knees at Elrohir’s side, staring in disbelief at the bared 
flesh. His fingers traced over the runnels and cracks of badly burned flesh. 
The Elven script was clear, the letters as large as his thumb – kinslayer - 
stretching across the fair skin of his back. Glorfindel swore an oath 
beneath his breath and now the Elf struggled weakly, attempting to cover 
himself.

“I do not seek your pity.” He spoke haltingly, deep voice hoarse. 

“We have no pity for kinslayers,” Elrohir spat and Glorfindel nudged him 
aside. 

The Elf lord reached out, gently pulling the stained cloth over the ruined 
flesh. He stood. “What would you have done with him?” he asked Elrohir. 
“He –“

“I am dead of fear, do to me what you will.”

“ - is little more than an Elfling, and a frightened one at that.” 

“I am no Elfling!”

Elrohir cast him a glance. “He is not too afraid to kill one of his own.” 

Glorfindel released a heavy breath and moved to the table in the center of 
the tent. He poured water from decanter to cup, eyes intent on the stream 
of liquid, ignoring the captive for the moment. “From where does this 
sudden bloodlust come, Elrohir?” he questioned. The sturdy wooden 
decanter thumped on the table. “If I call you fool or coward, the mere 
naming does not lend my words truth. We have no knowledge as to the 
actions or intentions of this Elf, and so I will not accept rash actions 
against him.” He set the cup on the floor before the Elf, smiling in 
reassurance at the down-turned face. “In haste, there will be only regret 
and no justice” – he glanced again at where the words were burned into 
fair flesh – “for whomever is victim. And,” he added softly, facing Elrohir 
again, ”punishing him as you would like amounts also to the deed of a 
kinslayer.”

Elrohir frowned, standing over the huddled figure. “It appears Lord 
Glorfindel will spare your life,” he said, voice flat and cold, “such as it is.” 
Turning on a heel, he brushed past the older Elf, murmuring, “Let us hope 
this decision proves wise,” and quit the tent. 

Glorfindel followed the Elf, watching Elrohir weave through the trees and 
tents, lost in the mist and the dark. He sighed softly – Elrond had given 
him a challenge with this Elrohir, heart sick, sharp of tongue, and quick to 
anger – and turned to the guard, standing silent in the shadows, issuing 
swift instructions to the Elf.




The sheets of parchment scratched his fingertips, catching on calluses as 
he gently touched the words. The cool water trickled down his throat as he 
read the sheets. Requisition lists, poorly scrawled in a hasty hand, he 
noted, and letters to someone named Elrond, the name was familiar, the 
memory of it floating through the mists of his mind…

“There is little time for personal correspondence when in command and on 
the march.”

The relaxed voice alarmed him; water sloshed over the rim of his cup, 
splashing onto the sheets. He wiped at the top with his hand and black ink 
swept across the words. He stepped back quickly, darting a frightened 
glance at the golden haired Elf. 

“Calm yourself, these matter little.” He was like an Elfling, or a colt, 
shying from loud strangers, Glorfindel mused, stepping forward with slow 
deliberation. Unclasping his cloak, he tossed it across the table. “Please” – 
he motioned with a hand toward the chair – “sit down.”

“I will stand.”

Glorfindel shrugged and smiled. “As you choose.” He poured himself 
wine from a flask on the table, offering it wordlessly to the Elf, who shook 
his head shortly and turned his head away. “Shall I introduce myself? 
Though Elrohir began well enough –“

“I know what you are.”

The odd phrasing brought a slight wrinkling to Glorfindel’s brow. “Do 
you?” He sniffed his cup, enjoying the fresh floral undertones of the fruity 
drink, glancing at the other from under his eyelashes. Tall and painfully 
lean, he was, the planes and angles of his face stark beneath the short 
shock of black hair and layers of grime.

“There are few in Middle Earth unaware of your…infamy,” the Elf 
sneered, oblivious to Glorfindel’s scrutiny, “of the glorious legacy of Lord 
Glorfindel, mighty among the Eldar, chief of the House of the Golden 
Flower, the great Balrog-Slayer – “

“Two Balrogs, in truth,” he interrupted with a wide, bright smile. “But do 
go on.” 

“So beloved on Arda that Mandos himself released you from his Halls.”

Glorfindel drained his cup, eyes still intent on the Elf over the rim. “And 
what of the end to your tale? Now I am the heroic Elf Lord of Imladris, 
commander of the united forces marching to fight the Witchking.”

The elf shook his head. “I…do not know this part. It has been long 
since…” He shook his head again, confusion etching his features, 
replacing his mockery. “Please…” He turned, eyes wild, searching, and 
Glorfindel stepped forward, grasping him gently around the arm and 
leading him to the wide pallet against the tent wall. 

“Rest yourself, there is no haste this eve,” he told the other. When the Elf 
hesitated, glancing from his own stained garment to the blanket lining the 
pallet – though plain of decoration, the weave was fine – Glorfindel urged 
him, “Have no worries.” His hand rose to settle on the Elf’s back and with 
a cry, the Elf twisted away, staring back at the Elf lord with pained eyes. 
“What troubles you? I meant no harm.”

The lean form shook visibly. “Yet others have, and many times over.”

Silence stretched between them. “I have some little skill at healing…” 
Glorfindel offered finally. 

He turned then, without words, and began to pull the cloth from his body, 
dropping it to a heap on the floor. Each piece of flesh bared revealed the 
account of an injury, the tale of a hurt…the thin silver lines of scars across 
broad shoulders, gleaming through grime, raw rings of flesh around neck 
and wrists…

“You were chained, like some mad animal.”

…the now familiar twisted burn scars, a strange, swirling blue band 
winding around his arm, and when he faced Glorfindel again, the haunted 
dark eyes. 

The Elf lord stepped forward, hand raised, fingers lingering above the 
surface of the damaged skin. He met the dark eyes and knew his own were 
troubled. “Your wounds…why have they not healed? What manner of 
weapons inflicted these?”

“Elven weapons.”

“Elves did this? Elves are not supposed to torture their own.” This close, 
the sweet smell of rotting flesh tickled the back of Glorfindel’s throat.

He took a step back, Glorfindel’s hand suspended between them. “They 
are not to slay their own either.”

“Lord Glorfindel?”

The thin-stretching moment snapped and the Elf looked away. The Elf 
lord snagged the blanket from his pallet and wrapped it around the 
shoulders of the other, concealing him. “Come,” he called, turning to the 
entrance flap and guided the swift actions of the two returning guards. 

Only when they were alone together did Glorfindel face the Elf again. He 
had not moved during the visit of the guards, ignoring the curious glances 
slid in his direction. Now he stared at the bucket of water, inhaling the 
steam scented with lavender, and reached for the covered plate of food. 
Glorfindel snatched the small chest of healing herbs and rifled swiftly 
through its contents; he paused once or twice in thought, throwing 
contemplative looks at the Elf devouring the dried fruit and lembas.

“It is little, we are on the march.” The dark head snapped up and he 
paused in stuffing rings of apple in his mouth. “My apologies.” Glorfindel 
smiled slightly, and sniffed at a packet of herbs folded in parchment. 
“There are Hobbit archers among our company. I shall take you to them to 
break your fast in the morning.” He inclined his head, asking the question 
casually as he selected items from his chest. “What is your name? You 
failed to give me it earlier.”

After long moments of silence, Glorfindel slid a glance over at the dark 
Elf. He sat slumped on the edge of the pallet, lembas forgotten in his hand. 
“My name?” he repeated. “It has been long since anyone used my 
name…Erestor.” He shrugged at the look on Glorfindel’s face. “It is the 
only one I still remember…”




“That is most foul.” Erestor turned his face away from the cup. “You wish 
me to drink it?”

“Winter cherry, good for calming – “ The golden Elf swirled the thick 
contents invitingly, though he kept it well away from his face.

“It smells like a wet horse.” Dark eyes met blue. “I refuse your drug.”

Glorfindel sighed, hand dropping to his lap. “It will allow me to manage 
your other wounds, it will dull your lingering pain.”

“I have suffered through much –“

“Then why suffer needlessly through this?” 

Erestor frowned in reply and reached for the cup; he drank it swiftly.

“See? You only choked once.” The golden Elf smiled indulgently. “Now, 
lay back and allow me to minister to your wounds.”

He worked silently into the night, concentrating on his task at hand as the 
Elf drowsed. The warmth of the water on his own skin, snaking down his 
arm as he wiped untold layers of dirt and blood from Erestor’s form, 
revealing fine pale skin mottled with fading bruises. The gentle scent of 
lavender and the sharper tang of yarrow and snowbrush root, the cool 
salve squishing nicely between his fingers as he slicked it across the broad 
shoulders. Drafts of cold air that set candle flames to dancing as guards 
entered and departed. Erestor moaned softly as he scrubbed at the rings of 
filthy rawness, and he whispered reassurances as the flesh became pink 
and healthy again. When the other hurts had been tended, he lingered over 
the burn, tracing the deep scars with a gentle fingertip, wondering how one 
of his own kind, one of the Eldar, could do this to another. 

He leaned forward on his stool, bracing head in hands, elbows on knees. 
But what if the Elf was a kinslayer, a killer of his own kind? How could he 
defend his own actions this night? And if Elrohir was correct, and his 
decision was unwise?

“Now it is you who is troubled.”

Glorfindel started at the sound of Erestor’s voice. He lifted his head to find 
the dark eyes – one ringed with bruised flesh – so near his own and began 
to shake his head slowly.

From beneath the blanket wormed Erestor’s arm, marks bright against the 
pale skin. His hand wavered over Glorfindel’s face. “Your eyes say much” 
– he brushed a finger across pale lids – “that your mouth will not” – the 
blunt pad of a thumb skimmed a lower lip – “and your heart demands.” 
The hand slid lower to press briefly against Glorfindel’s chest. “Your soul 
is old, and weary. You carry the weight of many, alive and dead.”

Glorfindel laughed in discomfort and pulled back; Erestor’s hand dropped 
back to the pallet. “You, however, say much and perhaps know little.”

“I know that the kindness you offered this night is the only gift I 
remember receiving, and I thank you for that.” 

The Elf lord smiled wanly and reached to cover the exposed arm. Erestor’s 
eyes grew vacant in sleep and then Glorfindel deemed it safe to return to 
his correspondence. He laboured long into the morning, slumped over the 
light of a single candle, the flame casting shadows against the tent wall, 
listening to the faint sounds from the camp – the nickering of a distraught 
war-horse and the calming voice of the guard, the rasp of a whetstone 
from the tent of the armourers, the rustle of cloth and crunching of snow 
as Elves passed by. It was a whimpering, distinct and rising in pitch, that 
drew his attention from his letter. He paused, seeking its source, and found 
it to be across his own tent. 

Erestor thrashed on the pallet, tangled in the blankets, fighting an unseen 
enemy. Glorfindel hurried to his side, struggling to restrain him while 
ducking flailing limbs. Though injured, malnourished, beaten and ill, still 
the Elf possessed strength enough to push Glorfindel away. The Elf lord 
sank a knee onto the pallet and dropped his weight onto the body, pressing 
his face close to that of Erestor’s, feeling his body twist and buck. 

“Calm, Erestor, calm yourself.” He spoke to soothe, lips flirting with the 
edge of a pointed ear, and gradually he felt the body beneath him release 
its tension. “They cannot hurt you any longer.” He turned his face and saw 
awareness – and tears - in the dark eyes, and moved to stand.

Erestor’s hands gripped Glorfindel’s trailing sleeves. A tear slid down his 
nose. “Stay with me.”

Glorfindel hesitated, then reached his thumb to brush away the trailing 
drop of moisture. “Rest now, Erestor, rest with ease. I shall guard your 
dreams this night.” He shook himself loose of the tight grip, and crossed to 
the table, blowing out the candle flame. Removing his outer robes, he sank 
onto the wide pallet. He lay silently beside the dark Elf through the dark 
night, pressed close against the warm body, one pale hand resting above 
the bright blanket on his upper leg and the other tucked beneath the pillow, 
capable fingers wrapped about the rootwood hilt of a silver knife. 

When Glorfindel awoke, Erestor was gone. 




“The kinslayer has taken your horse.”

Glorfindel frowned at Elrohir. The gray-eyed Elf fell into step with the Elf 
lord, squinting slightly as the rays of Anor struck the new layer of snow. 
“Taken Asfaloth where?”

Elrohir looked mildly ashamed. “To the edge of the forest and back. He 
takes your horse now to the paddocks.”

With a flare of indigo cloak, Glorfindel changed direction, Elrohir keeping 
pace easily with his old tutor as they walked through the camp, passing out 
of the trees onto the knoll where most of the host rested. When he saw 
them, the Elf lord called orders to his lower officers, traded witticisms and 
good-natured barbs with members of the Gondorian companies, and quiet 
words with the few Dunedains, men who kept close to their fires and their 
weapons. Elrohir spoke to few, though he nodded to those he knew and 
accepted a mug of steaming herbal tea from one fire, watching the golden 
Elf closely.

“You seem quite content this morning, Lord Glorfindel,” he hedged and 
while Glorfindel nodded his agreement, he did not give voice to reasons. 
“Was it the kinslayer who so affected your mood?”

“He is called Erestor,” Glorfindel replied mildly, “and it would reflect 
well on you to refer to him as such.”

Elrohir shrugged and sipped at his cup. He reached to pull his cloak tighter 
together as a gust of wind crested the hill and knocked against them. 
“There is your kinslayer now,” he commented with a nod of his head, 
pulling the elder Elf to a halt. “Does he weave a spell upon your beast?”

Erestor and Glorfindel’s horse were walking toward the trees. Erestor 
paced to the side of Asfaloth, leaning shoulder to shoulder, chatting softly 
with the animal and gesturing with his free hand; the bruises were dark on 
his flesh but he moved with ease. The reins trailed behind them in the 
snow and the horse ducked his head as though in understanding. The Elf 
laughed, then caught sight of the two cloaked figures on the hilltop and his 
face blanked. He skimmed along the snow, up the hill, with the horse in 
tow. 

“He will not even respond to me that way, Erestor,” remarked Glorfindel 
as Asfaloth reached his side and butted his shoulder, big nose nudging his 
hand in search of sweets. “No treats this morning, I fear,” he murmured, 
rubbing the nose.

Erestor reached wordlessly beneath his cloak – a dark blue wool 
Glorfindel remembered as being folded in the bottom of his saddlepacks – 
and pulled free a pair of withered winter apples. Large lips plucked the 
fruit delicately from the dark Elf’s palm. He rubbed the horse between the 
eyes, murmuring softly as he stroked the thick winter coat.

“Perhaps you slayed an Elf for thieving your own horse?” Elrohir 
suggested. Slinging the contents of his mug onto the snow, he spun on a 
heel and turned back to the camp, soon lost in the crowd of soldiers. 

“Dismiss him,” Glorfindel said, “he speaks with a loose tongue and is not 
himself.” Grinning suddenly, he gestured to the other Elf. “Come, then, I 
shall take you to the Hobbits.” He reached to snag the reins of his horse, 
but Asfaloth ducked his head and side stepped closer to Erestor; 
Glorfindel frowned. “I see then that you at least have made your choice. 
Come, Erestor.” 

They walked easily through the camp, one to either side of the war-horse, 
Glorfindel speaking occasionally across the wide back. He could see 
curious glances being thrown in their direction; evidently rumours had 
circled the camp through the night, though neither Elves nor Men spoke ill 
words to Erestor, whose hood was pulled forward on his head. When they 
passed the armourer’s tent – for so the ringing of the small forge, the 
crowd of soldiers milling about, and the racks of weapons proclaimed it – 
Glorfindel halted.

“Are you competent with bow or blade? We march to war and if you stay 
with us…” The golden Elf hesitated; he had not mentioned Erestor’s 
future and neither had the dark Elf. 

“I will swear no oath to you. You cannot expect from me blind 
obedience.”

“I ask no oath of you.”

With a quick nod, Erestor wove through the throng of waiting soldiers, 
stopping before a rack of blades. “Is that a challenge then, Lord Glorfindel 
of Imladris?” he asked, voice rising to be heard over the assembly. A 
mocking grin hid at the corner of his mouth. 

“Challenge! A challenge with Glorfindel!” 

The cry was taken up among the soldiers in line and lingering nearby, and 
the laughing golden Elf found himself unable to refuse. A few short 
moments later found Glorfindel divested of his heavy cloak, standing 
alone inside a ring of cheering Men and silent Elves, gripping his blade 
and peering through the forest. “Where, then, is my opponent?” he 
demanded with a smile.

Erestor dropped from the tree nearest him in a swirl of cloak and a shower 
of green needles, into a graceful flip that landed him face-to-face with 
Glorfindel, a curving Lorien blade in his fingers, the flat of a straight 
sword flirting with the underside of his chin. A stray shaft of sunlight 
glinted along the Elven script etched into the blade and a cheer rose from 
the assembly. A golden brow lifted and Erestor blinked, then dropped his 
gaze quickly down and back, gesturing for him to look. Blue eyes 
followed, catching sight of the sword tip flirting in an underhand grip 
perilously close to the unprotected joining of Glorfindel’s legs to his body. 
Grinning humourlessly now, Erestor sprung into a smooth low back roll, 
releasing the clasp on his cloak and coming to his feet with the sword held 
before him.

Glorfindel lunged to begin the attack.

“They make a striking pair,” more than one soldier commented softly to 
his companion. 

Grunts of effort and low laughs of amusement punctuated the whirl of 
Elvish blades and the screech of iron sliding along iron. The crowd 
watched in silence, but every eye followed every movement, Men 
cheering loudly when Erestor danced beneath the sweeping blade of 
Glorfindel’s sword. The golden Elf stood lean and tall, glowing pale 
against the darkness of the battered Elf. All present could view the 
damaged flesh the Elf sported. Another roar sounded when Glorfindel 
swept Erestor’s feet out from under him; the stranger hooked fingers into 
the commander’s leather belt and they tumbled to the gritty snow in a 
tangle of gold and ebony hair. They scrambled to their feet. 

A charge across the clearing and Erestor had Glorfindel in his arms. 
Erestor pressed his body back against the trunk of a bare beech tree, 
feeling the lean muscles of Glorfindel’s chest against his own ribs. The Elf 
lord panted in his ear, even as he panted against the notch Glorfindel’s 
neck made with his wide shoulder; underneath the saltiness of sweat, he 
could smell the woods. “Is this all to be expected of the mighty Eldar?” he 
taunted in a breathless whisper, and tilted his face up, nosing through 
golden hair to lick the tip of a pointed ear.

Glorfindel started, head turning sharply to slam his brow against Erestor’s 
nose. Tears burned his eyes, blinding him, and the golden Elf pushed him 
away. “You do not fight fair.”

“A draw,” someone shouted, and the crowd took up the cry. “They are 
evenly matched.”

Erestor paused, nodding to the crowd, and turned to face Glorfindel. He 
raised the tip of the Lorien blade to his forehead, nodding slightly. “You 
are a worthy opponent, Lord Glorfindel,” he declared loudly, “and I would 
tremble to meet you on the field of battle. Your fame is rightly earned and 
well deserved.”

The golden Elf nodded in return and sheathed his blade, tightening the 
chest harness. “You have some skill with a blade, my friend.”

“Perhaps then the slain kinsman did not suffer too greatly.”

Glorfindel turned to the crowd, all gaiety lost from his face. “Who speaks 
those words?” None spoke or offered their companions. “It appears as 
those the courage of at least one has fled this morning. Let us pray to 
Elbereth that the courage of the rest remains.” He flicked a glance at 
Erestor’s face, pale and hard; he turned aside to retrieve his cloak. “Go 
now, break camp. We march before midday.” Glorfindel waited until the 
crowd had begun to disperse before turning to the dark Elf. “Come now, 
there should be enough time to have second breakfast with the Hobbits.” 
He cast a glance through the lattice of branches overhead, gauging the 
distance between the sun and the horizon. “Then we march to war.” 

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????
	

      Imladris, 3020, Third Age


“The Hobbits always had the best breakfasts. We were different, but we 
found something to unite us.”

“Like that war.”

 Glorfindel sighed, shaking the images from his mind, the smile slowly 
leaving his face. “But that was long ago.” He glanced over at Erestor; the 
dark Elf now sat curled inside the window, long legs drawn up to his 
chest. “Why do you retrieve those memories?”

“These are the ones that haunt me now, Fin. Shall I never be free of them? 
Will they follow me to Mandos’ Halls and torment me there?”

“Erestor!”

The dark head shook, long hair whispering across the woolen blanket 
wrapped around his lean body. He turned, dropping his feet to the floor. “I 
told you…I could not remember, what had happened, why this” – he 
jerked the blanket away, revealing the burn scars, still red and raw, even 
after all this time – “had been done to me, what I had done to earn this 
punishment, from my own kind….” His voice was steady, though his 
hands shook. “I could feel in my soul that I should not live, that my crimes 
had been so horrid that my death was not unreasonable….” He began to 
pace now, long strides from one end of their chamber to the other, his 
reflection wavering in the windows as he passed, the blanket flaring 
around his ankles. “That battle….” He shook his head shortly. “I was not 
supposed to leave that field. It was my intent to lie there, unmourned for 
all the ages, with none to weep for my passing.”

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????
	

      Fields of Fornost, 1975, Third Age



Frozen pellets of snow stung his exposed skin, the hooves of horses and 
boots of soldiers alike had churned the ground into a mass of mud, and 
Erestor sighed. If he was dead, that was fine, but if the place he had gone 
to – which did not resemble his imaginings of Mandos’ Halls – was no 
better than the place he had just left, that was something else entirely…. 
He came back to himself, mere moments later, the sharp pain across his 
chest giving him violent testament to the fact that he was not as dead as he 
had hoped or thought. 

A strange silence had descended on this area of the battlefield; over the 
whistling of wind in his ears, he could hear the clashing of metal and the 
cries of Men and Elves beyond the valley. He became aware of other 
sensory knowledge, closer to him – the crisp snapping of a pennant, the 
flat tang of blood on his lips, the emptiness of his hands. Rolling over onto 
his back, he glanced around, seeking his borrowed weapon, sucking it 
from the cold mud. He wiped the curving blade against the cloak of a dead 
rider sprawled nearby, then struggled to his feet, surveying the battlefield 
as he slid the sword into the leather sheath harnessed to his back. The 
valley floor was littered with the casualties of war – stiffening bodies 
draped in blood and now a thin crust of snow, broken swords and shattered 
shields that gleamed dully in the early evening light, torn silk pennants, 
hacked limbs, tack and knives and a lonely leather boot…

“Weapons ready, wait for my command!” He had been on the far edge of 
the line, on a borrowed horse, with borrowed weapons and Glorfindel’s 
clothing, knowing that they could turn the flank of the Witchking’s 
cavalry as long as they remained wider than the other line. “Hold the line! 
Hold it!” The deep voice of the officer had floated across the lines of 
riders, flaring into arrowhead formation. “Hold the –“ His voice, and the 
orders, had ended violently in a wet gurgle as an arrowhead pierced his 
throat. 

Erestor shook his head and glanced at the sky. How long had he been 
lying there? How long since the battle joined? How –

The faint voice reached him under the wind. Someone was singing, very 
softly, a song he did not recognize. He unsheathed his sword and walked 
slowly in the direction of the voice. A few steps, then pause, listen for it 
again, more steps - was the voice still there? - walk further, and then he 
was standing beside the body of a dead horse, snow clinging to the brown 
coat. The voice had grown fainter, he crouched down now, peering 
beneath the shoulder of the animal.

He could see a flash of bright cloth. “Are you injured?” he shouted, using 
the tip of his sword to scrape at the ground.

“Go away.”

The voice was familiar, though lacking in hostility at the moment. “Is that 
Elrohir, son of Elrond? Do not be foolish, Elrohir. Are you injured?” 
Erestor rose, sliding across the back of the horse, and saw Elrohir’s pinned 
body partially covered by that of another Elf. He pushed the stiff body 
aside. 

“Nay, kinslayer, I lie in the mud for fun,” came the reply. Elrohir coughed, 
body jerking, blood spilling across his chin. 

Erestor crouched beside Elrohir, aware of the vulnerability of his exposed 
back and bare nape as he assessed the Elf’s injuries. “I suppose your horse 
died, not your sense of humour?” The feathered tip of an arrow waved in 
the wind; it had pinned the Elf’s leg – a shard of bone stuck out at an 
awkward angle - to the belly of his dead horse. The dark Elf curled fingers 
around the narrow shaft and tugged slightly, recoiling at the shriek 
suddenly released. He had heard the grating of metal against chips of 
bone.  Elrohir’s breath came fast and shallow, awareness only a glaze in 
the stormy gray eyes. 

“Save yourself. Leave me,” Elrohir pleaded when Erestor bent closer to 
examine the arrowhead. “Inwe knew –“

“We leave this field together, I owe Glorfindel that much.” Erestor gently 
probed through the torn cloth surrounding the wound. “Who is Inwe?” he 
asked, smothering an oath. “Is she your lover?” The arrowhead was 
barbed; it had torn flesh on its entry, and would tear more on its removal.

“She would be…stubborn Elf.” He coughed, choking, and Erestor reached 
up to reposition Elrohir onto his side. “I wanted her…”

“You wanted her to what?” Erestor asked, but a quick glance revealed 
empty eyes. He worked swiftly now, ripping free the arrowhead in a gush 
of blood. From there, it was a simple matter to slide Elrohir’s body from 
beneath his horse, to toss the slack form over his shoulder, and to begin 
the slow crawl out of the valley. 




Men and Elves hurried about the camp, darting between tents and trees 
with bodies and weapons, exchanging shouts and yells, ordering officers 
and healers. Erestor slid through a patch of bloody mud near a cookfire, 
kicked through a pile of bandages and packets of herbs, bumped against a 
shrieking Dunedain – who turned empty holes to him where his eyes 
should have been – and knocked aside an unseen Hobbit archer. The 
fluttering pennant of Imladris flew high above the heads and Erestor 
turned in that direction, seeing the clusters of soldiers standing about the 
commander’s tent. 

Warm blood dripped steaming pockets in the snow as it rolled from 
Elrohir’s limbs. “Take him!” Erestor dumped the gray-eyed Elf’s limp 
body into the arms of a nearby soldier, turning away to find a familiar 
face. Anxious blue eyes met his over the heads of Elves and Men; 
Glorfindel had been searching for him as well. He began pushing through 
the crowd, roughly elbowing past wounded soldiers. 

Glorfindel’s hands gripped his forearms. Blood glittered in his hair like 
rubies, casting lurid patterns on his pale face and staining the front of his 
shattered breastplate. “Are you injured?” he mouthed, eyes travelling over 
Erestor’s frame. He shook his head, dismissing his wounds, but 
Glorfindel’s roaming hands had slid beneath his tunic and discovered the 
jagged gash running across his unprotected ribs. “Are you trying to kill 
yourself?”

“If only Elbereth would grant me the luck,” was the answering murmur.

The Elf lord dismissed his comment and began to turn away, seeking out a 
healer.

Erestor reached for the golden Elf, pulling him close, holding him with 
strong hands around his shoulders. “I am not afraid,” he shouted, but 
Glorfindel shook his head; the sounds of battle were far too great for the 
Elf lord to hear his voice. He wrapped arms around Glorfindel’s body, 
sliding his mouth close to the pointed ear, speaking low to be heard. A pair 
of soldiers jostled them from behind; he could hear voices yelling for the 
commander. He inhaled Glorfindel’s scent, running his hands – covered in 
blood – up Glorfindel’s neck, pulling back to meet Glorfindel’s eyes, the 
many layered blue that was sea and sky together. “I am not afraid to die. I 
do not seek this immortal life any longer.” Then front teeth scraped across 
front teeth, nipping sharply at a dry lip, the taste of blood – Glorfindel’s 
blood – filling his mouth like thick wine as he pulled away from the rough 
kiss, arms dropping to his sides, releasing the body so close to his. 

Hands reached for the golden Elf, but they did not belong to Erestor. 
Glorfindel struggled against the sudden crush of surrounding bodies, 
watching Erestor’s back disappear into the crowd. He called the dark Elf’s 
name but there was no sign of recognition, no wave farewell, no final 
glance, just a dark cloaked figure stained in blood swallowed by the 
crowd. 




Long past moonrise, Glorfindel ducked from Elrohir’s tent; the half-Elven 
son of the Lord of Imladris now rested comfortably on his pallet, overseen 
by one of Elrond’s own healers. The golden Elf inhaled the crisp air, 
drawing it deep into his lungs, and turned wearily toward his own tent. He 
nodded at guards moving silently through the dark; it was long since his 
last rest. This day he had fought and fallen and risen to fight more, and the 
ache in his body travelled to his very bones. He had not been this weary 
since the First Age.

He recognized the form of Inwe standing alone – the first time he had seen 
the high ranking soldier such since the march began – and moved to her 
side. Her slanted green eyes were sunk deep into her pale skin, fixed 
intently on the leaping orange flames of a cookfire. “Inwe, how do you 
fare?” he asked softly, eyes roaming across her features.

She forced a smile. “Well enough.” 

“How was the battle?”

She glanced at him with drawn brows. “Cold, wet. It was simply 
Elbereth’s luck that I am used to fighting in the mud.” She drank deeply 
from a simple soldier’s cup. “I set a company of riders to finding the 
wounded. Most of the Elves have been brought in, the Men see to their 
own.”

“There were many losses?” 

Inwe waited until the soft voices passing nearby had died down. “More 
than we could afford. Lord Elrond will not – “

“Lord Elrond is not here, Inwe. All fought with much courage and 
resolve.”

“Perhaps it was the inspiring commander?” She cast him a sidelong 
glance, and this time her smile was less strained. “How…” she paused 
awkwardly, long fingers dropping to wrap around the silver braid about 
her sword hilt. “How is Elrohir? I have not seen him since he was brought 
in. Your kinslayer caught many unawares this day.” She drank again, 
swallowing deeply. 

“Elrohir will recover, he rests now, though he was asking after you.” 
Glorfindel stepped closer to the soldier, pushing aside – for a time – his 
own pain and fatigue. “He has been heart sick for a long time. Is there no 
peace you may give him?”

Inwe tucked her chin against her chest; short wisps of dark hair swept 
across her broad brow as a gust of snow-filled wind hit them. “I may find 
some, Lord Glorfindel, on my walk to his tent.”

Glorfindel smiled slightly, catching the sleeve of the soldier as she began 
to turn. “One moment longer, Inwe, I have a question to ask you.” He 
paused, continuing when the dark eyebrows raised in encouragement. 
“The kinslayer? Has his body been recovered?”

“None of my officers have reported such.” She tilted her head to one side. 
“Shall I have word put out for him, in your name?”

The golden Elf shook his head; he released Inwe and brushed back a loose 
plait dangling over his ear. “That is not necessary, Inwe, I simply wished 
to…know of his fate. It is no matter. Go now, see to Elrohir.”

She nodded once and turned on a boot heel. The sole sound of her passing 
was the whisper of her cloak against the ground. Glorfindel watched her 
back until she slipped between the entrance flaps of Elrohir’s tent and was 
lost to view. Catching the loose edges of his own cloak together in a 
chapped and raw hand, he turned away.

Someone had anticipated his post-battle comforts – fresh water and 
bandages, food and medicines, candles lit and placed about the tent. The 
anticipation had been much too early, however. The water was cool to his 
fingers, the lembas dry and the sliced fruits dark, the candles guttering in 
their holders. He used the squat remains of a sage scented candle to light a 
taller wax column, settling it in the center of the table, and gently blew out 
the other lingering flames. The thick leather walls muffled his sounds, 
including the faint groan that escaped him as he began to undress, 
dropping his cloak carelessly to the hide-covered floor.

He fumbled with one hand to unclasp the buckles of his dented armour, 
but his numb fingers slipped against the gold and then pale hands – still 
bearing the faint shadows of old injuries – were there, one holding his 
gently swaying body upright, the other dropping his broken and bloody 
breastplate to the table. A wide warm hand slid down his arm, raising the 
small hairs to attention; he shivered. 

“Erestor…” The dark Elf stepped before him; his face was blank as 
parchment. He smelled like dried blood and sweat, but under that, 
Glorfindel could detect his own earthy scent, much more immediate than 
that of the candle. The golden Elf brushed his mouth softly against 
Erestor’s salty lips, pulling back with a smile. “It is good that you 
returned. We have matters outstanding.”

The blank face shifted, a weary smile creasing the stained face. “I was not 
afraid, I was willing to die a gloriously honourable death on the field of 
battle.”

Piercing blue eyes skimmed across the features so close to him. “Then 
why are you here?”

Erestor shrugged, hands busy unbuckling the backplate of Glorfindel’s 
armour, reaching arms around his body.  
“Those…from before“ - he shook his head violently, short strands curling 
on his forehead - “they took what they wanted from me, with no thoughts 
to the things I wanted, that I needed…” He glanced up to hold Glorfindel’s 
eyes. “In the many days I have been in your company, you have asked 
naught of me and you have not made me feel shame.” His fingers slid 
along the edge of Glorfindel’s tunic, moving without thought as he spoke, 
tracing the neat stitching. “Yet I do not know where that leaves us…”

“Return to Imladris with me.”

“I cannot, that is your home…” Erestor shook his head, tugging on the 
laces of the tunic.

“Come to Imladris, even if only for a short time.” Glorfindel’s hand was 
steady as it rose between them, trapping those of Erestor against his chest. 
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Erestor’s, close enough 
for the two brown eyes to blend into one orb. “You have nowhere else to 
go, my friend,” he whispered, “and my home is open to you.”

Erestor paused, hands stilling, feeling the warmth of the Elf lord’s chest, 
the muscles moving as he breathed, the rhythm soothing. “I have not had a 
home for a long time.” His own voice was soft; he tilted his head so the 
two faces were shrouded by dark hair. “I fear then that I must accept your 
offer, for a time. I can make few promises, I have no wish to hurt you.” A 
pair of soft lips brushed across his own. 

“I have no such fears.” Glorfindel’s smile was brilliant. 




“These are fine weapons. Are they the commanders?” The armourer’s 
head bent over the blades, running a precise thumb along the edge, fingers 
skimming over the inlaid silver. “I shall return them shortly.”

“Lord Glorfindel shall require them as soon as possible but” - Erestor 
shook his head slightly, feeling the heat of the fire on his brow - “there is 
no more use for that.” He gestured to the curving sword with the gouged 
blade and nodded deeply. “My appreciation, and that of Lord Glorfindel,” 
he said softly, but the armourer waved a hand at the Elf, already moving 
the weapons across his tent. 

Erestor drew the hood of his borrowed cloak over his head and slipped 
from the tent. Ithil shone high over the trees, clearly lighting his winding 
path through the camp. Glorfindel’s tent, set at the base of a large naked 
oak, was dark when he stepped inside it. The body of the golden Elf lay 
spread on his pallet, lumps concealed by a blanket; the sound of his 
rhythmic breathing filled the interior.

Erestor moved to the pallet, standing over Glorfindel and pulling off his 
cloak, tossing it idly across the nearby stool. The blue eyes stared vacantly 
across the space as the golden Elf rested for the first time since freeing the 
captive. The dark head tilted; Erestor did not remember the last time he 
had seen another sleep…

Hours later, he was seated on the chair, flipping slowly through a tome he 
had found buried in Glorfindel’s chest. The pages were streaked with age, 
the parchment like dry leaves beneath his fingers. The sudden voices at the 
tent entrance caught him unawares, and his head jerked up at the sound of 
the first.

“Lord Glorfindel, where is he? We have come to hail him for his victory 
this day.”

Erestor stared at the tall cloaked figures poised near the entrance; he threw 
an exaggerated glance at the slumbering form, then back to the strangers. 
“As you can clearly see, he is resting.” Erestor stood slowly, setting the 
tome gently on the table. “I will give him your regards when he awakes.”

One of the figures stepped further into the tent, the only thing visible on 
him his soft hands and long nose. “Who are you? Why do you linger in 
Lord Glorfindel’s tent?”

“Are you his new lover?” sneered the second hooded figure, gesturing to 
the tome Erestor’s fingers still rested atop. “Perhaps then you should read 
the account of his past as written by Elrond and leave behind that 
Gondolin story prevaricator.”

“If you are his new plaything,” added his companion, with only a slightly 
warmer tone, “I warn you to be wary with Lord Glorfindel. His heart lies 
with another and has for many years.”

Dark brows drew together and he struggled to maintain a blank face. “I am 
advisor to Lord Glorfindel,” was Erestor’s smooth reply. “And I demand 
to know who seeks to disturb his rest this night?”

“We are emissaries from Lorien.” The first Elf turned back the hood of his 
cloak, revealing a spill of silver hair. “We seek counsel with the Elf lord 
from Imladris.”

Erestor stepped closer to the Lorien Elves; his voice was low, out of 
respect for the sleeping Elf, and blank as that of an envoy. “I shall send 
him to attend you directly after Arien rises. Has your party been seen to 
yet?” He glanced from one Elf to the other. 

“We have only just arrived. Our party await us at the border of your 
camp.”

“Very well.” Turning on a heel, Erestor snagged his cloak and draped it 
about his shoulders. “Come, I shall ensure you and your company are 
established for the night.” He gestured for the two to precede him, and 
with a final glance at Glorfindel, he ducked from the tent. 




Brilliant blue eyes pierced the gloom, following Erestor’s every move as 
he returned to Glorfindel’s shelter. “How long have you been awake?” he 
asked softly, standing near the table.

Glorfindel shrugged a bare shoulder, visible under the rumpled blanket. 
“Long enough.” He looked away and back, holding the other’s steady 
gaze. “I do not think you my newest plaything,” he declared, voice low.

“I have no intention of becoming such.” Erestor broke eye contact with the 
golden Elf, bending his head to watch his fingers play with a loose quill, 
rolling it across the table. “I choose. Every time, I choose.”

At Erestor’s faint words, Glorfindel moved to sit up, intent on the dark Elf 
standing in the shadows before him. “That is fair.” With his free hand, he 
pushed golden hair from his face. “I seek naught from you.”

“Perhaps not as of yet. There are few on Arda who do not seek something 
from another. Why should you differ?” The wool of his borrowed cloak 
caught the rough skin on his hands as he pulled it from his shoulders. 

“It is quite easy for you to sit there and pass judgement on me, is it not?” 

“We are more than what others see, and we always desire more than we 
speak.” 

Glorfindel stood then, wrapping the blanket about his waist as he took a 
hesitant step toward the dark Elf. “Allow me the opportunity to earn your 
trust, and with it, the opportunities to make my own mistakes. Do not 
judge me for the actions of those in your past.”

“You have lived so long, experienced enough to fill tomes” – Erestor 
picked up the book of tales and tossed it toward the golden Elf, who 
caught it one-handed against his chest – “perhaps whole libraries with 
your deeds, and still you have not learned…you are blind, you cannot see 
that –“

“See what?” Glorfindel stepped closer to Erestor, close enough to meet the 
flashing brown eyes. 

“You cannot see that my own deeds of the past cannot be redeemed by my 
actions of this one day.” His voice was low, the anger floating beneath the 
surface. “You do not understand that I was not worth…”

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????


	Imladris, 3020, Third Age


“…saving, not worth dying for, not then, perhaps not even now. All this 
time, greater than a millennia together and still you remain blind to such 
simple truths.”

Glorfindel slid from the bed, crossing to the window, struggling to keep 
his face calm, not reflecting the torrent raging within him. “Please, Tor, 
come to bed, we shall –“

“No, Fin, do not touch me.”

The golden Elf reached out, laying a gentle hand on Erestor’s shoulder, the 
other on his hip. “Please – “

“Do not touch me!” Reacting swiftly, Erestor placed both hands against 
Glorfindel’s bare chest and pushed him away, bracing himself against the 
window ledge. “Do not…!”

Glorfindel retreated, backstepping until his legs bumped the edge of the 
bed. He whispered, voice gentle against the other’s sudden violence. 
“Erestor, I would never hurt you…”

Erestor’s face was drained of colour. “But I would hurt you.” He shook his 
head, loose hair sliding across his pale shoulders. “I did not speak falsely 
all those years ago. I would hurt you…”

“Why do you say these things? You have done nothing…”

“Not yet, but I shall, in time.” His brown eyes were wild. “I am a 
kinslayer, Glorfindel, I slew my own brother.”

Silence lingered. Glorfindel sat without moving, hesitating; his words 
were a rush when he began to speak. “Marks on your flesh do not mean it 
is truth, Erestor. I have said this before, it is what I believe - ”

“I do not speak of these marks, I speak of these memories I have, of this 
deed I have done,” he interrupted and he watched the transformation of his 
lover.

“So you have lied to me?” Glorfindel’s features hardened; he slid 
backwards off the bed. “You remember?”

“Only now, of late, and I never spoke amiss.” The dark head shook. “If 
anything, you allowed yourself to be deceived.” He pressed a hand against 
his forehead. “No, no, I say things, things I do not mean. Fin, it was not 
my intent to hurt you.”

“The words were meant to wound, even if you regret them now.”

Erestor spoke from beneath his hands. “Always I have good intentions, 
and yet all that I touch crumbles to dust beneath my fingers.”

The lines of Glorfindel’s body were stiff; he stood with arms around his 
body, head bowed, shielded by the veil of his hair. “So what does this 
mean for us?”

“I must leave Imladris.” The words dropped like stones down an empty 
well. “Too long have I remained here, sheltered within your close 
embrace. Too long have I lived with only pain and fear.”

The golden head snapped up at those words. “So I have done naught for 
you?”

“That is not the meaning of my words –“

“By the grace of the Valar, Erestor” – Glorfindel’s voice was strained, 
pain swimming in his blue eyes – “what am I to you?”

Erestor looked away from those bright eyes, feeling the stones of the wall 
press against his shoulder blades. “The answer is not as simple as you 
need it to be.”

“Why now?”

“This cannot wait. I must do it now, I must go now, while my resolve 
lasts. To linger much longer risks ruining it for all.”

“So you do this for our benefit?” The scathing words, so unfamiliar 
sounding from Glorfindel’s mouth, came easily now. “You act like some 
silly young Elfling running away in fear.”

The dark head was shaking. “Please Glorfindel, know that this is not a 
decision I make free of concerns and questions and even doubt.”

The golden head turned away from him; he turned on a heel, the muscles 
of his back tight. “Where will you go?”

“I do not know.”

“How long, then, until your return?”

“I do not know that either.”

The Elf lord flicked a glance over his shoulder at Erestor. “Then I would 
not consider your plan well thought out, Erestor,” was his biting response. 
“If you leave, I can make no promise to wait for you.”

Erestor sighed heavily and when he spoke, the anger that had been floating 
beneath his voice broke free to taint the room. “Wrong or right, 
Glorfindel, everything is always so simple with you. 

“No, Erestor, that it unfair.” Now the golden Elf whirled, head shaking 
violently. “No.” His voice softened, the pain in it evident. “Always before 
have you turned to me, for comfort, for strength, for love, and now, now 
when you need that strength and comfort and love most, you turn from 
me. How do you think that makes me feel? I love you…”

“Not enough,” Erestor murmured, dropping his head. “Or at the least, not 
exclusively.”

“What do you say?” Blue eyes opened wide as Glorfindel turned to view 
Erestor.

“If there are no more lies this night…” The corner of Erestor’s mouth 
lifted slightly. “I see the way you look at Elrond, when you think none 
other watch.”

Glorfindel stilled. “You have never mentioned such to me before.”

“To what end?” 

For long stretching moments, the only sound in the room was the slap of 
wet leaves against the window. “I do feel a connection with him,” 
Glorfindel finally admitted, “but it is you I love. There is a place for 
Elrond in my heart, but it is you whose touch I crave, you whom I wish to 
touch in return.” He drew his golden eyebrows together. “You who now 
turns from me.”

“He returns your feelings, Glorfindel, though he has not acted on them 
since my arrival. Regardless of how he felt toward Celebrian, it is you he 
cared for deeply.” 

“As I do him, but this is not about Elrond, it is about you and I and our 
commitment to one another. Aye,” – Glorfindel shrugged his shoulders – 
“we have been companions several times over the ages, it is comfortable. I 
spoke of this to you before. Elrond and I  know much about one another 
and where others have entered and departed my life, he has always 
remained. But it is you I love.”

“Do you?” Erestor spit, shaking his head. “I think you do not, you cannot. 
After Elrond, you just needed to care about whomever it was that came 
walking into your life, and there I stumbled. You would have said those 
same words to any other lying in that bed with you.” 

Glorfindel walked around the end of the bed, stepping closer to Erestor in 
the window. The dark Elf faced out into the night, where the weak light of 
Ithil caught between the trees. A sudden gust of wind threw rain against 
the windowpane and whistled against the partially open balcony doors. “Is 
that truly what you believe of me?” He reached out an unsteady hand to 
grasp Erestor’s unresisting chin, forcing the advisor to look at him. “My 
devotion to you is strong, my love.” He bent to brush Erestor’s lips with 
his own, running the tip of his tongue along them.

“I do not need someone to take care of me, Fin.” Erestor’s lips brushed 
Glorfindel’s as he murmured. “Once, I thought all I needed was a great 
passion.” He shook his head. “I was wrong. It takes more than passion to 
make a life.”

“What are you saying? I love you, Erestor.”

“Yet I need more than that. Glorfindel, I always have.”

“All this time, all these years…and no words you spoke, no voice given to 
your feelings? What more could I have done, given, been?” Glorfindel’s 
breath washed over Erestor’s temple. “How much did it take to simply be 
enough?”

Erestor tilted his head. The dark eyes glittered behind their thin shield of 
dark hair. “You told me once that you had had many lovers, male, female, 
it mattered naught to you, and all still lived within your heart.” His voice 
was so low, the golden Elf had to lean forward to hear the whisper. “Know 
this then, Glorfindel, that their shadows danced in my bed every time you 
came to it.”

Glorfindel closed his eyes. “But it was always your bed I came to…”

“Shall I thank you for that?” Erestor jerked his chin from Glorfindel’s 
fingers; they slid down to rest against his neck. “Shall I be grateful for any 
small piece of yourself you gave to me?”  He took a deep steadying 
breath. “You speak often of Elrond, of the others, as though being with me 
makes you fade a little each time.”

“You say this to me, you say this now, after all we have done, all we have 
been through?” Glorfindel’s blue eyes were blank with shock. “You can 
say this to me even as my fingers touch your flesh” – the pad of his thumb 
slid into the hollow at the base of Erestor’s throat, pressing lightly against 
the pulse tripping wildly there – “and your lips are wet from my tongue?” 
The taut muscles of his body quaked against Erestor’s. “I do not want 
another, I want you, and all that comes with that choice. It is mine to 
make, not yours, not Elrond’s –“

“No, Fin, it is my decision. I cannot be with you the way you want.” 
Glorfindel’s hands left him as the golden Elf stepped back suddenly, 
pushing against Erestor. “Please, I need you to understand.”

“So where does that leave us?” He looked at the hanging tapestries on the 
wall as he spoke. 

“I will stay in the guest quarters until I depart, I think that is – that is best, 
now.” Erestor pulled on the blanket, wrapping it securely around his waist. 
“I shall make my farewells to Elrond and the children, and be gone within 
a fortnight.” He padded on bare feet across the chambers, stepping around 
the silent figure. Fingers traced the trailing carvings on the door, along the 
twisting vines as he pulled the oaken portal open. 

“Once again” – the sharp voice of Glorfindel sounded, shattering the 
silence – “you choose duty over desire.”

“Always. Even knowing its cost.” Erestor slipped into the corridor and 
pulled the door closed on Glorfindel’s pale face, turning to the guest wing 
of the Last Homely House. 




Elrond drowsed in the warm rays of Arien, listening with one ear to the 
clanging of metal and grunts of effort emanating from beyond the garden, 
listening with the other to the gentle hum of an inquisitive insect floating 
near his hand. He seldom had peaceful moments in his function as Lord of 
Imladris and he sought to enjoy the few opportunities whenever they 
arose. Now he sat in Celebrian’s bower, inhaling the rich perfume of late 
blooming flowers and, ostensibly, reading the newest set of dispatches 
from the border guards. 

The low voice of Elrohir sounded from the edge of the gardens – he was 
returning from the practice field near the river – but it was the answering 
murmur from his advisor Erestor that snapped his eyes open. Setting the 
rolled missive to one side, he turned and peered through the tangle of 
foliage as the two Elves passed through the stone wall, dark heads bent 
toward each other as they spoke in earnest. Erestor wore the brown and 
green leathers of a guard, and strapped to his back were a pair of hunting 
knives. Elrond stood, rearranged his robes and stepped into the roses. 

Intent on Elrohir, Erestor did not notice the Elf lord until Elrond backed 
onto the path. Elrohir’s head jerked up at sight of his father, and he turned 
worried gray eyes to the counsellor. Erestor shook his head slightly and 
greeted Elrond. “I trust you fare well?”

“Ah, Erestor, Elrohir, I was simply enjoying a moment of peace in the 
gardens.”

“Those moments are rare indeed.” Erestor’s voice was flat, not escaping 
Elrond’s keen attention; the dark Elf glanced at the young Half-Elf. “I 
need to speak with your father, Elrohir. If you can attend to those matters I 
spoke of earlier…”

Elrohir nodded sharply, black plaits bouncing on his broad shoulders. “I 
shall meet you later. Father.” Turning on a heel, he stalked up the stone 
path, brushing past the roses, throwing a final glance over his back.

“Come, Erestor, walk with me.” Elrond turned and continued down the 
path. His fine silk robes brushed the stones, the richly embroidered hem 
catching on thorns. He studied his advisor with a blank face. “I have not 
seen you bear arms in many years,” he commented easily.

“My body has not forgotten the way of the blades,” Erestor replied even as 
a drop of bright blood dripped onto Elrond’s boot. At the upturned lip, 
Erestor tugged up his sleeve, displaying a long shallow gash across his 
arm. “Aye, well, perhaps a little.” 

Elrond halted on the path, reaching over to rip Erestor’s sleeve and 
improvise a bandage. His head bent over Erestor’s arm, he asked, “Did 
you simply seek some training with my son? Or did you lose a game at 
dicing and so seek to regain your honour?” He grinned fully at that, tying 
a small knot in the material. 

“I needed to remember the feel of a cold blade in my hand, that is all.” 
Erestor’s brown eyes stared over Elrond’ shoulder. “I have not always 
borne the silk robes and soft hands of a seneschal.” 

“Your hands were never soft, my friend,” came Elrond’s gentle murmur as 
his smile faded. “And like mine, they will always possess their bloody 
knowledge. Still” – turning away, Elrond reached out to tear a few leaves 
from a nearby bush – “they will always have the knowledge to heal.”

“Your hands, perhaps.” Erestor nodded to the hands in question, now 
crumbling to dust the dead leaves. “That talent never belonged to me.”

They walked in silence for a time then, around the gardens, Elrond 
pausing every while to attend to his plants. Erestor closed his eyes, 
enjoying the warmth of Arien on his face, turning to the Elf lord only 
when Elrond’s calm voice broke into his contemplations. 

“It is a pity I cannot spend more time here.” Elrond had crouched down to 
gently straighten the broken stalk of a tall flower; he tilted his head back 
so his gray eyes could land on Erestor’s face. “No matter how many years 
pass, Erestor, this is always my…”

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????


	Imladris, 1975, Third Age 


“…favourite time of the year.” The low voice of the Elf lord of Imladris 
sounded from behind the bower, shaded with spreading greenery. 

Erestor turned to glance around the gardens, unconcerned by Elrond’s 
sudden appearance. Many flowers were dead, dried brown stalks mashed 
into the dark earth; others were dying, bright petals fading, leaves 
browning. He shook his head. “So much death…”

“But this time must come,” Elrond replied, moving onto the path in a 
whisper of silk, “before there can be new life.”

“Your words are most profound, Lord Elrond.”

The gray eyes filled with mirth; Elrond threw back his dark head as he 
laughed, a rich warm sound. “Glorfindel did mention briefly your sense of 
humor.” The laughter faded though the open smile remained. “Why do 
you seek the refuge of the gardens? Why do you not enjoy the 
celebration?”

“I found the banquet hall stifling.” The air had hung heavy with the scents 
of musky flowers, fragrant candlewax and roasted vegetables. The 
murmur of voices had mingled with the clink of goblets, and the sound of 
wine sloshing in decanters underscored the soft music emanating from the 
corner. Erestor had hidden behind a flowering plant, cursing his borrowed 
finery – he continued to trip over the trailing hem of his robes and the 
embroidered neck prickled his skin – before moving into the garden, 
passing beneath the graceful arch of the door, to where the breeze swept 
through the flowers and trees. “I am unused to occasions as grand as this.”

Elrond stepped closer, walking slowly past tall candles in stone holders; 
the flames waved gently in the breeze. “I wish I were as able as you to 
simply disappear at events like this. But” – he sighed deeply – “it is a 
courtesy we extend to all our guests, even those who wish to be 
elsewhere.” He nodded graciously, silver winking in the hollow of his 
throat, on his forehead and at his wrists, and turned slightly, frowning. 
“Elladan, I know you linger in the shadows. Come forth.”

Erestor turned as well, watching the oldest son of the Elf lord step from 
behind a tall stone pot. Elladan glared at the dark Elf, the pale skin 
covering his face tight. He drew himself to a halt before Erestor in a swirl 
of crimson robes and black braids.

Elladan spoke with preamble, voice harsh in the dark. “My brother swears 
that you saved him from the fields at Fornost and for that debt, he owes 
you a life. To either take or protect, it will remain your choice.” The gray 
eyes flashed, startling Erestor. “Do you accept this debt, Erestor of – “

Erestor shook his head at the Elf’s pause. 

“If you state aye, he will offer it again, before proper witnesses, and you 
shall be bound to him for its duration. Be warned that a debt to an Imladris 
Elf is not to be considered lightly.”

“I did not intend to make one so powerful as your brother indebted to 
myself. If truth must be told, I only performed the deed out of the 
knowledge of the meaning of Elrohir to Glorfindel.” Erestor did not flinch 
beneath the similar gray gazes. “And he did not make me feel shame for 
it.” He drew his arms together across his chest, hands lost in the trailing 
sleeves, and nodded to the twin. “I accept the offer Elrohir presents and 
shall attend him as soon as he bids. You may tell him this.” 

Elladan nodded sharply in return, flicked a guarded glance at his father, 
and spun on a heel. He walked loud enough for the others to hear his steps 
as he passed back into the main House. Elrond turned to face the dark Elf 
once the sounds of the celebration covered the sound of his son.

“I would have a few words with you, Erestor.” The Lord of Imladris 
continued only after catching Erestor’s attention. “Glorfindel is a dear 
friend of mine and I know he extended to you an invitation to remain with 
him. We spoke at length, he told me of your deeds at Fornost, and he 
shared with me a few pieces of your tale, the few that he knew…” He 
paused, eyebrows raised in encouragement, but Erestor’s face remained 
blank. “I trust his judgment, he has been counsellor to me for many years 
and his wisdom and diplomacy, and his friendship, have served me well. 
More than any other, I wish him happiness” – he stepped close enough for 
his robes to brush Erestor’s, voice dropping slightly to accentuate the 
importance of his next words – “and more than any other, I will not 
tolerate those who cause him grief or despair.”

Erestor stepped back from the Elf lord, feeling the silk catch on a rose 
thorn. He tore it free, heedless of the material. “Calm yourself, Lord 
Elrond, I have no intention of staying much longer. He has not asked me 
to stay – “

“Only because you continue to elude me.” The deep voice of the golden 
Elf floated down the stone path. Glorfindel turned the corner around a 
spreading beech tree. “The libraries, the kitchens, the cottages of the 
artisans, the river, alone, with servants, with Asfaloth” – he ignored 
Elrond’s sudden laughter, walking slowly toward the pair – “never with 
me. One would begin to think you avoid my company..”

“I do not avoid you, Glorfindel. I simply wished to see more of your 
home.” A small smile turned the corner of Erestor’s mouth. “You have 
Elbereth’s luck, to live here, with your family.”

Glorfindel’s blue eyes slanted to Elrond, who nodded and retreated down 
the path, before meeting Erestor’s dark eyes. “Elrond has agreed, that if 
you wish to stay, you are welcome. We will find you a position, we will 
find you a place. Here.” His voice lowered, so only Erestor could hear 
him, and he leaned forward. “With my family.”

Erestor shook his head. “Glorfindel, how can you ask this? I do not belong 
here,” he said softly. “I am not one of them, one of you. I never shall.”

“Stay, here. With us. With me.”

“I cannot, Glorfindel. You know…I will make you hurt.”

Now Glorfindel’s nose brushed Erestor’s, his breath warm on Erestor’s 
cheek. “You are a risk I am willing to take.” The wide lips settled on those 
of the dark Elf, warm tongue gently parting the others. 

Erestor ducked his head, breaking the intimate contact. He began to laugh 
softly. “Why could you – the great Balrog slayer, the heroic chief of the 
House of the Golden Flower – have an interest in me? Already can I hear 
them, the talk of the Elf lord’s plaything, simply anther dalliance in an 
endless and strutting line stretching back to the First Age…”

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????


	Imladris, 3020, Third Age 


“…shouts that have become whispers, yet I have heard them for a 
thousand years, and for a thousand years have I fought them, simply so I 
may be with Glorfindel.” Erestor halted on the path, tilting his head so the 
warrior’s braids slid forward. “These thoughts have consumed me. The 
nightmares return…” 

“Is there anything I can do?” Elrond questioned gently. “It is a small 
matter to brew some medicines.”

“No. There is nothing, though I thank you for your offer.” Erestor stared 
down at his boots, and sighed. He dropped his hand onto the hilt of the 
knife through his belt. “I am leaving, Elrond.”

“Very well.” With a supportive smile and a nod, Elrond began to turn 
toward his roses. “I shall see you at dinner.”

Erestor’s laugh was harsh and choked. “You misunderstand, my friend.” 
He waited for Elrond’s gray eyes to rest upon his face before continuing, 
“I am leaving Imladris. And I depart alone.”

“So the time has come.”

“This game that he and I play has much danger. We had to know it could 
not continue much longer. There has been much talk of us since the 
beginning. Those who think me kinslayer…” – he shook his head shortly – 
“…would not wish me upon him. He is much valued here.” Now he stared 
up at the ivory clouds scudding across the sky. “Among his people.”

“He will not care. He will go with you.” The reassurance in Elrond’s voice 
caught Erestor unawares. “The way he looks at you, he looks at no other. 
He will not accept your decision willingly, no matter what he knows to be 
right.”

Erestor shook his head again, feeling the soft slide of his braids against his 
neck. “I will not take him from his people.”

“You may not ask but he would offer, to go with you, if you only gave 
some indication…” The Elf lord’s voice was soft and the look on his face 
not without empathy. 

“Go to what fate?” Erestor spun on a heel and began to pace from the 
roses to the trees, boots stomping over green vines trailing across the path. 
“I have thought on this at great length. Neither you nor Glorfindel nor any 
other may speak thoughts to me I have not considered. This was never…I 
never meant to hurt anyone. And yet now I must hurt him. Why do we do 
this, Elrond?” He could not keep the faint waver from his voice. “Why do 
we hurt the ones we love more than those we despise?”

“I have no simple answers for you, Erestor.”

“I do not seek simple answers.” He passed through a band of sunlight, 
casting half his face in shadows, and paused briefly. “What you have done 
for me, Elrond…there are no words to express my appreciation. Your 
strength and your compassion do you justice, and all the Elves shall miss 
that when you depart for Valinor. I have no right and yet – I would ask a 
boon from you.”

“Anything, take anything that you need for this journey of yours.”

“It is something that must remain.” A crooked smile lifted the corner of 
Erestor’s mouth, though there was no sign of mirth on his features. “I need 
your strength now, to give Glorfindel the strength that I cannot.”

Elrond nodded graciously, dark hair sliding forward to shield his features. 
He swept it back with a long pale hand. “Consider it done, my friend.”

“I know that Glorfindel holds you in high esteem.” Erestor held up his 
bloodstained hand to prevent Elrond speaking. “He will need you, once I 
am gone.” He spun on his heel before Elrond could respond and 
disappeared up the stones, crossing through the empty courtyard, leaving 
the Lord of Imladris watching his back.

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????????????????????????


	Imladris, 1976, Third Age


Glorfindel stood in the middle of the courtyard, in close conversation with 
Elladan. Erestor leaned against a high table near the garden doors and 
tilted his head in consideration. Brown eyes travelled lazily across 
Glorfindel’s broad shoulders and back, twisting easily beneath his close 
emerald tunic. The front of his hair had been pulled back and twisted; the 
rest moved gently in the faint breeze, revealing a glimpse of pale throat. 
Erestor dropped his eyes to the stones, seeing in his mind an image of 
Glorfindel standing before the mirror in his chamber, long fingers sliding 
through the golden strands; his tongue darted out to dampen his suddenly 
dry lips, and there was a low chuckle in his ear. His eyes flew open. 

Blue eyes lifted to meet brown, nose brushing Erestor’s jaw, breath warm 
on the dark Elf’s neck. “You are beautiful to my eyes tonight.”

Erestor pulled back slightly, glancing pointedly at the abundance of 
ethereal beauty floating around the courtyard, not least the Elf standing 
before him. “How many have you spoken those words to this eve?” he 
asked, eyebrow lifted in a dark slash.

“Many,” Glorfindel admitted, and Erestor started to draw away; 
Glorfindel’s hands rose to clasp his elbows. “But only once have the 
words been truth.”

Erestor leaned in closer. “Such pretty talk, golden Elf. But I prefer actions 
over words. They have much substance.”

Glorfindel pressed his wide soft mouth to Erestor’s without pause. The 
dark Elf smiled under the others’ mouth, feeling the tip of a tongue tracing 
the outline of his lips; they parted, and Glorfindel’s tongue darted in, 
touching his in gentle greeting before retreating. He pulled back, his own 
golden eyebrow raised in question.

The smile on Erestor’s face, for once, did not fade away; he nodded 
slowly. “Such pretty actions to match your words.” Glorfindel smiled 
broadly; it had taken many long months for Erestor to trust him enough to 
respond to him thus. “More.” 

Glorfindel lifted Erestor’s palm to his mouth, smiling against the soft flesh 
in the heart of his hand, then pressed his lips to the skin. The tip of his 
tongue darted out to deliver a long, slow lick to the center of his palm, 
dragging down to the inside of the wrist to lap at delicate veins and faded 
scars. Erestor shivered violently in response, jerking his hand away, but 
Glorfindel’s grip tightened. The golden head bent over again to lick a 
steady line from his wrist, back across his palm and down the tip of his 
middle finger, swirling briefly over the skin at the base of the finger, 
hardened from hours spent with sword. Erestor’s breath caught; the next 
sound he was aware of was a pair of footsteps approaching from behind. 
He glanced up slowly, tensing when Elrohir walked around the corner. 

Elrohir moved without trace of a limp. In the time since the return from 
Fornost, he had healed swiftly, regaining all strength and speed, and now 
he worked on gaining the trust of Erestor. He nodded to the pair, the 
astonishment on his face fading. “Lord Glorfindel, Erestor,” he murmured. 
“My apologies for intruding.”

“It is no matter,” Erestor replied, tugging gently so the golden Elf would 
straighten. “Is there something you required of us?”

The dark head shook, a faint blush rising in his pale face. “I merely sought 
a private space for Inwe and myself. She arrives soon.”

“We shall find ourselves another lover’s nest.” Glorfindel’s thumb played 
across the back of Erestor’s hand, hidden in the folds of the dark Elf’s 
robes. “Go and bring your Inwe.”

With a nod, Elrohir turned to leave. Glorfindel stepped before Erestor, 
who eyes drifted shut. He could feel silky hair against his cheek, then the 
sensation of Glorfindel’s soft lips brushing across his lids replaced his 
thoughts. Then there was nothing.

“Come.” Glorfindel held out his hand, pale against the the bright green 
flare of his sleeve.

“Where?”

“Do you trust me?”

Erestor’s brown eyes met Glorfindel’s blue easily. “With my life,” he 
replied softly, and placed his hand in the other.

Glorfindel led him through the courtyard, pulling him close against his 
side. Erestor could feel the warmth of his body through the thin robe he 
wore, the bones of his hand against his skin, he could smell Glorfindel’s 
scent and taste him on his tongue. “I want you.”

He smiled. “I want you too.”

With a startled jerk of his head, Erestor realized he had spoken aloud. 
“Hurry,” he said breathlessly.

They ducked through a break in the wall and under the low-hanging 
branch of an oak. The river was little more than a trickle here; they 
jumped it easily and started up the path to the stairs. Moonlight filtered 
through the interwoven branches above. Erestor’s boots rasped as they ran 
up the stone stairs; to each side, the hill garden fell away in a mass of 
shadows, the blooming spring flowers waving, rustling as they brushed 
against each other. Glorfindel paused at the top, head tilted slightly.

“What do you hear?” Erestor whispered and Glorfindel lifted a finger to 
his lips.

“Voices,” he breathed into his ear. He smiled quickly. “Come.” Fingers 
tightening on his hand, he pulled him down a side path of narrow stones, 
pace quickening. When he led Erestor beneath the spreading shelter of a 
willow tree, he was breathing heavily.

Glorfindel pressed him against he trunk, his lips dropping in a swift and 
hard kiss. Erestor pulled away, still breathing hard, struggling to gasp in 
air. 

“Hold but a moment, Fin,” he begged softly and in reply, his lips moved to 
Erestor’s throat. The dark Elf squirmed under him, catching his breath as 
his tongue trailed along the length of his neck. Glorfindel was moaning as 
he sucked at the tender flesh and Erestor reached for him. “We are among 
Elves tonight, Fin, take care.”

Glorfindel’s hand moved down to slide beneath the edge of Erestor’s robe, 
feeling the soft skin covering firm flesh. “Let them hear,” he whispered. 
“Release that precious restraint of yours for one time, Erestor.” His breath 
was soft on his neck; Erestor drew in a breath as Glorfindel’s thumb 
played in the hollow of his throat. “I need you.”

“Restraint?” Erestor murmured, and tilted his head to lick Glorfindel’s ear. 
The delicate pointed tip was a constant source of desire; he loved to run 
his tongue along its length. His hand neatly evaded that of the other Elf’s, 
sliding beneath thin layers of clothing to touch the cool flesh of his belly. 
The golden Elf quivered against him, sharply drawing in a breath. “Where, 
now, is your restraint?” Fingers stroked softly, barely skimming over the 
surface of his skin, as Glorfindel closed his eyes and muttered soft Elvish 
prayers beneath his breath.

After long minutes, he opened his eyes, bits of sapphire fire, and reached 
for Erestor’s hand. “No more torment,” he told the other. “End this for 
me.”

Erestor pulled away, reaching up to grasp Glorfindel’s wrists. “Not here,” 
he murmured. “Come with me.”

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????????????????????????


	Imladris, 3020, Third Age


Glorfindel waited in the corridor near Erestor’s guest quarters, pacing up 
and down its length. He nodded to passing guests – a contingent of riders 
sent by Celeborn had arrived earlier that day, and Elves walked silently by 
him. He had simply directed their leader to Elrond’s study for a private 
consult. Now he waited for his lover, the Elf he had not spoken to in 
nearly a fortnight, not since their heated conversation in their shared 
chambers. He reached the end of the corridor, turned on a heel, and came 
face to face with the very Elf he sought. 

Erestor nodded once, and brushed past Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Is there 
something you required, Lord?” he asked, continuing down the hall. 
Erestor returned the greetings of Celeborn’s riders but did not pause. 
“Speak swiftly, Lord, I have little time to dally.”

“You have not called me Lord since you arrived at Imladris,” was all 
Glorfindel could say, following the tall figure down the shadowed hall. 

“It is more appropriate at this time, I believe, Lord.” Erestor had reached 
the door to his chamber, and pushed inside.

Glorfindel slipped into the chamber before Erestor could close the door. 
Though the dark eyes narrowed, the golden Elf moved farther into the 
room, glancing about before beginning to laugh gently. “This is the same 
room as you took before.” He glanced back at Erestor. “The same room as 
where I took you first.”

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????????????????????????


	Imladris, 1976, Third Age


The dark Elf had left a single candle burning this night and it now wavered 
in a puddle of wax when he followed Glorfindel into his chamber, pulling 
closed the heavy oaken door. Shadows danced along the walls as the 
flames winked in the sudden rush of air. His boots crunched faintly on the 
rushes covering the stones, giving off the soft scents of clary sage and 
ravensara. Erestor dropped the handful of extra candles – snatched from 
the store rooms on their hurry through the house – onto the table, using the 
old one to light the new columns of fragrant beeswax; he jammed the fat 
ends into sturdy iron holders, the flames leaping with his motions. The 
sudden blaze of light made him turn away.

Erestor leaned against the table and faced the low bed, placed near the fire 
pit in the small chamber. Given his selection of the guest quarters, Erestor 
had chosen the smallest chamber nearest the river. Glorfindel had told him 
upon choosing that it had been a storeroom for over a thousand years. 
There was no fire, just a faint twinkling from the coals, enough to 
illuminate the body on the bed. He lay on his back, golden hair spilling 
freely across the sheet, gleaming in the light; one arm was outstretched, 
the other resting across his bare chest. Glorfindel’s tunic had not made it 
back to Erestor’s quarters either. His brilliant eyes were open, and he 
watched Erestor watch him.

The blue eyes asked the question. In silent reply, Erestor smiled and 
reached for the hem of his own tunic, pulling it slowly over his head as he 
shuffled toward the bed. Glorfindel rose to his knees, reaching out helping 
fingers, long and pale. They grasped his under tunic, dragging it from the 
lean body. His breath was hot and heavy in the hollow between Erestor’s 
neck and shoulder; his fingers ran down smooth skin. He tossed aside the 
garment and bent to run his lips down Erestor’s throat; the dark Elf slid his 
hands down the bare muscles of Glorfindel’s back, tracing the bumps of 
his spine. 
 
Erestor found it hard to speak as Glorfindel’s golden head bent over his 
chest, his tongue swirling across the smooth skin, but he framed the other 
Elf’s face with his hands, stilling all movements. “Take care with me, 
Fin,” he murmured, “it has been long since…”

Glorfindel pressed a soft kiss to Erestor’s lips. “Have no fears, my friend. 
When your own strength gives way and you tremble in my arms, trust me 
to be strong enough for us both.”

“I do.” 

Erestor crawled then onto the bed, pushing Glorfindel down to the 
mattress, a smile beginning to crease his face. His leg swung over a lean 
waist; he knelt with his weight resting on his legs, propping himself up on 
his hands. Light cast half the beautiful face in shadow, hiding the planes 
and angles he had begun to know like his own. Leaning down, Erestor 
used his lips to trace across the golden Elf’s face, running his tongue along 
the bridge of a straight nose to his mouth, loving the salty taste of him; he 
kissed him wetly, measuring the length of the warm tongue. He pulled 
back to stare at Glorfindel, holding his blue eyes, then he moved to brush 
the wide, soft lips in a gentle kiss. He sucked on the lower lip, feeling the 
Elf lord’s hands sliding down his back, cupping his hips and moving him 
slightly. Glorfindel’s eyelashes drifted shut as Erestor wandered down his 
lean body, trailing the tip of his tongue in a line from his chin to his 
nipple. The nub swelled under his attention; slowly, he bent farther, toying 
with the dip in his belly. Glorfindel squirmed, eyes flying open, and made 
a sound of astonishment. 

Erestor lifted his head, propping his chin on Glorfindel’s hip. “Did you 
giggle?” he breathed softly, fingers tugging gently at the material under 
his cheek. 

“No.” He sucked in a sharp breath at the heat of Erestor’s mouth. “No.”

With a smile, Erestor dipped his tongue into the hole again, and Glorfindel 
arched up, leaning on a single elbow. 

“Stop that, it tickles.” The blue eyes were hooded. “I am no Elfling. Do it 
lower down if you must.”

Erestor pressed a finger against his mouth and murmured, “Quiet.” He 
smiled against thin skin, now revealed, pressing a small kiss over a 
delicate blue vein, and a shiver ripped through the body beneath him. He 
began the lazy return trip, leaving a long trail that cooled the heated skin 
of Glorfindel’s stomach. Muscles jumped and bunched beneath his lips 
and he tilted his hips, leaning up to kiss him as the golden Elf rose on his 
elbows. Erestor’s face slammed against the broad chest. 

He jerked back as if he had been burned, hands scrambling to his nose. 
Tears stung his eyes and he slumped down on the mattress. Dark accusing 
eyes met blue, over his fingers. “I think you have broken my nose,” he 
informed him crossly. 

“I doubt we require a healer.” Still Glorfindel sat up quickly, reaching to 
pull unresisting hands away from Erestor’s face. There was a small trickle 
of blood between his nose and his top lip, and Glorfindel wiped it away 
with the blunt pad of his thumb. Warm fingers gently traced the edges of 
his nose, pressing at spots, making inquiring noises.

Erestor had stopped thinking about his nose by this time, however. 
Stuttering candlelight swept across the planes of Glorfindel’s lean body, 
glinting in the hollows of arm and leg. His gaze trailed lazily along his 
body; he smiled slowly. 

“Your nose is unharmed,” the Elf lord murmured, the words rolling on his 
tongue like fine wine. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to the bridge. 

Erestor’s eyes drifted shut now; he settled back into the mattress, hair 
spiking against the pillow. Glorfindel’s lips moved across his cheek, slid 
down his jaw. He nudged with his chin, tilting his dark head up. He guided 
Glorfindel down to him with one hand low on his back, fingertips drifting 
over smooth muscles, the other at his neck. His tongue explored the ridges 
on the roof of Erestor’s mouth, moving soft and restless; his fingers 
curved around, sliding down Glorfindel’s hips, pressing low against his 
belly. The room was filled with the sounds of his soft panting; 
Glorfindel’s mouth moved lower, motions without haste, and the gasping 
pants became muffled against his wide shoulder. 

“Glorfindel, please.” Erestor’s fingers drifted down to bury in the fall of 
golden hair; now he held the Elf lord, urging him faster, with greater 
urgency. He could hear only the sounds of his own panting, the rushing of 
breath in and out of his body. “I can take this no longer.”

Glorfindel lifted his head. “Do you wish me to stop or continue?” 

Erestor was unable to answer; Glorfindel’s warm breath washed over his 
cool flesh. He urged the dark Elf to turn over, and then long lashes danced 
across the smooth sensitive skin of his lower back; Erestor shuddered. 
Glorfindel lingered there with lashes and tongue, ever mindful of the 
healing skin. Erestor pressed his flushed face against the coolness of the 
sheet, feeling limp and boneless until he felt warm wetness trailing 
through the runnels of his burn scar. 

“Why do you weep?” He turned his head enough to see Glorfindel 
bending over him.

Lips softly explored the ruined flesh. “I wish I could have kept you safe. I 
wish someone had kept you safe.”

“You did not know me and a kinslayer has no protection.” The voice was 
sad; Erestor began to slide from the bed, halted only by Glorfindel’s 
hands.

“Where do you go?” The Elf lord’s puzzlement was clear. “You cannot 
leave me now, here.” His eyes bored into Erestor’s. “I seek only to give 
you some peace.” Long fingers trailed down Erestor’s body, teasing his 
sensitized skin. “Please, my friend, let me give you this.” 

Erestor became aware of the feel of Glorfindel’s bare skin brushing 
against his back, the slow pound of his heart against Erestor’s more rapid 
one, reacting to his nearness. Glorfindel felt it as well, and dropped his 
head to press a wet kiss to the base of Erestor’s neck, moving so that his 
lips pressed against each bump along the groove of his back. A shivered 
rocked him against Glorfindel, and then the Elf lord rolled him over again.  

Thoughts fell away, leaving only small broken images. The scents of 
ravensara and wax replaced by their musk; the tangle of sheets, bunching 
under Erestor’s back, the tight nubs of embroidered flowers scratching, 
like the wall against his foot, the back of his hand; the small subterranean 
quivers, shaking his belly, soothed by the touch of the other, fingers 
gripping, searching, reaching; soft rolling phrases, whispering across slick 
skin; Glorfindel’s, salty in his mouth, he was licking the tip of a pointed 
ear, searching for it – 

“How are you?” The voice was low and rough, the face pressed against a 
sweaty neck. “Am I hurting –“

“No.” The reply was breathless. “I trust you. You will not hurt me.” 

- through the damp curtain of gold; the candles hissing as they 
extinguished, replaced with a burning blue fire that held his gaze, close to 
his face, bone pressing against bone, heavy breaths washing over his face; 
the warm flesh covering him and being surrounded by him; the frantic 
fighting near the end, where the struggle was to become closer, not to 
break away, apart.
      
After, Glorfindel’s long lean body curled against his back, hand snaking 
around to rest gently on his chest. The sheen of sweat – his own and that 
of his lover - on his limbs began to evaporate. Glorfindel’s breath was 
warm on his neck, his hair spreading against the pillow, a tangle of black 
and gold. Erestor’s own hand slid across warm skin to rest lightly on the 
Elf lord’s leg, fingers curling and straightening rhythmically as he drifted 
in and out of awareness. 

"Sleep, Erestor," he whispered in her ear. "I will guard your rest this 
night."
      
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????


	Imladris, 3020, Third Age


“What do you seek now, Fin?” Erestor’s low voice floated across the 
small floor. “There is naught left to say.”

“I did not come for talk, I came for – “

“What?” 

Glorfindel did not reply; he crossed the chamber in a few steps, grabbed 
Erestor by the shoulders, and slammed him back against the door. His kiss 
was fierce, tongue demanding entrance at Erestor’s mouth. He pulled back 
only when he realized the dark Elf failed to respond.

“Is this what you came for?” The derision in Erestor’s voice hurt as 
though he had slapped the Elf lord. Erestor stared over Glorfindel’s 
shoulder, eyes intent on the stone wall. “If you take this from me now then 
I will have been little more than the plaything I have been accused of 
being.”

Glorfindel’s hands reached to unlace Erestor’s tunic, tugging the leather 
from his lean frame. “Please, I need you, I need this.” Now his fingers 
fumbled at Erestor’s waist, sliding down to touch warm flesh. 

Erestor could feel the bumps of his braids against the door when he shook 
his head. 

“I cannot do this without you,” Glorfindel said, and Erestor knew he did 
not refer to the physical loving.

“Then you shall not have it done.”

 Glorfindel’s reaction caught Erestor unawares. The Elf lord spun him to 
face the door, holding him against it with the weight of his body alone. 
Smooth wood slid against Erestor’s cheek, beneath his splayed hands; he 
had made no move to stop Glorfindel. He could sense Glorfindel tearing at 
his clothes, feel the wash of cool air on his bared flesh, the hand reaching 
around to tease him before reaching to ready him. “If you do this” – even 
to himself, his voice sounded distant – “you will remember me only as the 
kinslayer who played whore for you. You will act like those before who 
took from me only what they wanted, with no thoughts given to me.” 

After a moment, Glorfindel’s body slumped against his own, breath harsh 
on his neck. “By the Valar, Erestor, how can you allow me to use you 
such?”

Instead of responding, Erestor dropped his hands to Glorfindel’s arms and 
in a short, swift motion, reversed their positions, using his chest to press 
Glorfindel against the door. His own hand now trailed down Glorfindel’s 
back, dipping below his waist. “Because I need to use you such as well.” 

Later, Glorfindel sang softly, voice soft and deep. Erestor lay drifting, 
feeling limp and heavy, forehead pressed hard against his lover’s, storing 
memories to see him through future nights alone. Their loving had been 
hard and fast, anger and hurt rising above tenderness, until Erestor had 
cried out against Glorfindel. The golden Elf had pulled back, fearing for 
him, but Erestor had thrown him down onto the bed, climbing above him 
and urging him on with the unrestrained violence of teeth and hands. 
Glorfindel’s breath now brushed softly against his skin, and he drew in air 
full of the smell of him, earth and trees and the musk of them together. He 
could feel the tips of Glorfindel’s fingers resting lightly on his neck, the 
pad of his thumb stroking the angle of his jaw. 

Erestor wanted to look at him; blue eyes snapped open, startling him. He 
smiled slightly, touching the swelling bite marks decorating the Elf lord’s 
shoulder. “You stopped singing.”

“Erestor, I need you,” he whispered.

“Your eyes have gold in them.”

“Stay.”

“They match your hair.” Fingers rose slowly to touch the silk spread 
against his pillow; Erestor turned his face, pressing it into the hair, soft 
and heavy, damp with sweat. 

“Stay with me.” The words were softer than before.

“For tonight.”

His lashes were long; when he dropped them, they fanned across the pale 
skin of his cheeks, pale gold to the tips. “For always.”

“Only for this night. When I am gone, you will hardly notice.”

“Do not speak those words.”

“For me, it will be a lifetime. For you, but a turning of the seasons.”

“It will always be forever for me.”

“Such pretty words.” Erestor shook his head slightly. “Please, speak no 
more this night, Glorfindel.”

Sheets whispered as Glorfindel slid from beneath them. He reached for his 
tunic lying abandoned on the floor and pulled it over his head. “I cannot 
stay with you any longer than,” he announced, voice faintly muffled 
behind the wool. He twisted, to drop a soft open-mouthed kiss to Erestor’s 
motionless lips. “Safe journey, my friend. May it be a good one.” 

“Glorfindel – “ He shook his head as the golden Elf glanced at him over 
his shoulder. There was nothing else to say, nothing to ask for. Erestor 
watched Glorfindel open the door, he heard the sound of a Elven greeting, 
and then the muffled thump of wood closing. 




Erestor rose before Arien, dressing quickly and wrapping himself in his 
cloak. His packs were full, waiting for him near the door. With silent 
motions, he armed himself, turning away from the bed, where the sheets 
still smelled of trees and earth, of Glorfindel, of him and Glorfindel 
together. The leather straps of his packs were hard in his hands; he 
departed his chamber. His footsteps echoed through the halls but he saw 
no one. Near the side door that opened into the main courtyard, someone 
had forgotten a platter of food; he snatched a chunk of stale bread from it 
and leaned his shoulder against the door. 

“Erestor.”

He glanced behind him, startled. Elrohir stood at the far end of the hall; 
with his dark hair and robes, still dressed for the feast of the night before, 
he blended into the shadows. He moved silently toward Erestor. “Please, 
Elrohir,” he begged softly. “This is hard enough…”

The twin stopped before him. “My thanks to you, Erestor of Imladris.”

He shook his head in incomprehension. “Thanks, Elrohir? What have I 
done to earn your thanks?”

A pale hand rose from the folds of his dark cloak, moving without speed 
to rest against Erestor’s cheek. “You saved my life that day,” he 
whispered. “We will miss you as any other part of our family. We need 
you to hurry back to the Last Homely House.”

Tears spiked Erestor’s lashes; he ducked his head, feeling Elrohir’s palm 
warm against his face. “You are beautiful to my eyes.”

“And you to mine.” The other hand lifted so he could frame Erestor’s pale 
face. His lips were very soft as they met those of the counsellor, softer 
even than Glorfindel’s. He sucked briefly at Erestor’s lower lip, then 
pulled 
back only far enough to meet his eyes. “I owe you a life, Erestor. There is 
a bond between us. Do not hesitate to call for it.” He pressed his lips once 
more to the dark Elf’s, hard and fierce, then stepped back, turning into the 
shadows and retreating down the hall. 

Erestor turned as well, pushing his way through the door, standing at the 
top of the stone stairs. 

Altaire already awaited him in the courtyard, patiently pawing at the foot 
of the silent figure standing nearby. Erestor shoved the forgotten bread and 
cheese into his mouth and handed the saddlepacks over his shoulder to the 
guard holding the horse’s reins, pulling his hood against the rain. Someone 
had outfitted the warhorse with gold-studded armour, smooth polished 
metal lined with soft wool to prevent chafing. He ran a finger under it, 
smiling briefly. 

A few torches burned low in their holders and from the north blew a sharp 
wind that tugged at his hastily plaited hair. His fingers lashed his weapons 
to the packs and then turned, beyond striving for discretion as he saw 
Elrond’s familiar form on the balcony high above the courtyard. Erestor 
dipped his head, pressing a hand against his heart, and watched the Lord 
of Imladris step back toward his chambers. 

He looked for Glorfindel, but there was no sign of the golden Elf. Altaire 
snorted, drawing his attention as he turned back to run a hand along his 
smooth shoulder. He murmured soothing sounds, then finished checking 
the straps. 

“Do you require anything more, Lord Erestor?” The calm dark eyes of the 
guard swept across his face. “Lord Elrond has instructed me to provide all 
you require.”

He shook his head slightly in reply. “I have taken enough from the Lord of 
Imladris.”

The guard released his hold on the bridle, resting his palm over the head of 
the horse. He spoke under his breath, soft enough and fast enough Erestor 
did not understand the words. Glancing up, he met Erestor’s curious eyes. 
“It is a prayer for you, Lord, seeking your safe and swift return to these 
lands.”

Erestor smiled sadly at his words. Altaire nodded his head as though in 
agreement. 

“Fare well, Erestor of Imladris, and safe journey. May the blessings of the 
Valar be carried with you.” Stepping back from the warhorse, the guard 
crossed the courtyard, head bent against the rain. 

There was a flash of black across the stones, catching at the corner of 
Erestor’s vision. Glorfindel stood, half hidden in the shadows, watching 
with flat blue eyes. Murmuring to his horse, Erestor released the beast and 
moved toward the golden Elf. 

“I did not think you would be here,” Erestor breathed. Glorfindel did not 
reply; he simply stepped before the dark Elf. 

They stood pressed close, standing face to face with hoods drawn against 
the rain. Predawn dark washed everything in muted shades of gray; robbed 
of colour, Erestor’s eyes gleamed darkly from his bone-white planes of his 
face. Glorfindel’s fingers tightened on the hand in his grasp, as troubled 
blue eyes swept Erestor’s features, committing them to memory – the 
curve of dark lashes lying on soft, translucent skin stretched tight over 
wide and flat cheekbones, three pale freckles forming a triangle on his left 
temple, the wide lipped mouth Glorfindel now reached up to touch. 

“This is best,” Erestor murmured softly, “in the end.” The tip of his tongue 
darted out to caress the end of his lover’s finger.

Glorfindel shook his head, soft golden strands of hair snaking from 
beneath his hood to rest on his brow. “Best for whom?” he whispered, 
voice hoarse. 

“Please, Fin, do not make this more difficult than it already is.” Erestor’s 
hand floated from the folds of his riding cloak to capture the one cupping 
his face; he slid it inside his garments, pressing their linked hands tightly 
to his heart. “This has haunted me overlong. I must learn about my past 
before I can make room for you in my future.”

The Elf lord leaned forward, close enough for his nose to bump the 
pointed tip of Erestor’s ear, his warm breath gently ruffling the dark hair. 
“I shall not simply be a memory. I will be your life,” he said fiercely, “or I 
will be nothing to you.” He brushed a tender kiss across Erestor’s mouth 
and stepped back from the counsellor, far enough to sever their fragile 
link, far enough to draw his robes close around his body, far enough to 
feel his loss acutely. 

Erestor nodded. “We were doomed from the beginning, my friend. The 
Valar were not about to allow us to be together.” He turned to Altaire, 
checking for a last time the tightness of the girth, the strength of the reins 
– this day he rode with tack – and then he mounted smoothly. He kicked 
the beast lightly on his flanks, there was the muffled sound of hooves on 
damp stones, and in a swirl of darkness, he was gone. 

Glorfindel watched the spot he had last seen Erestor for a long time, until 
dawn streaked the sky above the trees with orange fire, and the sounds of 
the House waking – the soft greetings of the change in guard, the light tap 
of feet in the hallways, the creak of leather as Celeborn’s riders trooped 
past him toward the stables – intruded on his silence. Gathering his robes, 
he turned on a heel and retreated through the arching doors to the family 
wing. Unknown to him, gray eyes followed his motions, then Elrond 
smiled.