Title: Kinslayer: Broken
Author: Merrie (merenwen_amras@yahoo.ca)
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor
Rating: R
Summary: The spirit returns but the flesh is unyielding.
Disclaimer: As per usual: not mine, etc., etc. Y'all know how it goes.
Warnings: I suppose, technically, it is AU. And there is a lot more of
the beating the emotional shit out of my favourite characters in this.
I can't help it - it's addictive!
Authors Note: This is a third installment of the series (can I call it
that now?) started by 'Kinslayer', followed by 'Kinslayer: Numb'. It
was only supposed to be one fic, but then it became two, and now, in
order to thank all people who mailed me and bothered me about wanting
a happier ending for our favourite couple, I've decided to write one
(though it's rough going to get there). As always, I hope you enjoy
reading it as much as I did writing it. And, I guess that here is as
good a place as any to apologize for the hurried nature of several of
the scenes (you'll know them when you read them). I just got very
tired of this piece dragging on with absolutely no resolution, getting
more and more off track, so I wrapped it all up. All those who asked
for a happy ending, I hope this is sufficient. Take care.


And in this time, he dreamed…the colours of life, sharp and blinding,
hope, trust, love, lust - the pain between blink and tear - hate,
lies, laugh, cry, live, die…he opened his eyes, drowning in blue
fire... 

~~~~~~~~~~

The stranger sat alone, back turned against the dim light and clamour
of patrons. Bent over his table, he seemed oblivious to his
surroundings - drunken men sloshing ale as they shouted rousing songs,
serving girls flitting like birds through the throng, the faint
clashing of metal as soldiers walked by. Long lines of steady dark
blue scrawl emerged beneath the scratching of his quill.

"Do you care to know your future, stranger?"

He barely glanced up at the lilting young voice, intent on the sheets
of parchment stacked before him. Shaking his head, he reached to pull
closer the squat candle sputtering by his elbow.

"You have no desire to know what the gods have willed for you?" the
girl child continued, doubt painting her words. She bent forward,
squinting in the soft light.

A passing soldier - grinning over the frothing lip of his mug of ale,
revealing several black and missing teeth - jostled his elbow and the
quill point snapped. Ink splashed across the sheet. He swore an oath
and dabbed hastily at the stain with the edge of his cloak. "And what
of my own will?" he questioned. Releasing a heavy breath, he shoved
the parchments aside and reached for the small loaf of oatbread lying
abandoned on his trencher. He choked slightly as the girl responded,
thinking he had spoken soft enough for none to hear.

"What, indeed?" She hesitated, drawing in an audible breath. "Do you
doubt my abilities?" she demanded. "A test then." Without waiting for
affirmation, she murmured, "Much pain, and much blood. Your life has
been full of these things." When he looked pointedly at the sheathed
blades lying near to hand, she grinned suddenly. "Not all of the
telling comes from the Valar."

Erestor's head snapped up. Drawing his dark brows together, he tilted
his head toward her, catching a jumble of impressions in a quick
glance. The frayed hem of a thick woolen cloak gripped in raw fingers,
hanks of dull brown hair caught up beneath a faded kerchief, and a
pointed face dominated by a pair of striking eyes, the white of snow
rimmed in ice. His own eyes flicked behind her. "Are you alone?" he
asked, not ungently. Then, "When last did you take food?" He signaled
to the serving girl, then searched through a side pocket of his
nearest pack for coins.

The young child sank onto the empty chair opposite him, watching as he
pushed aside his belongings, the bulging leather saddlepacks and the
writing implements laid on soft cloth. She stared at these in
fascination, then turned with reluctance to face him. "Only if I may
share your future, sir."

A shout sounded from the corner of the tavern's common room, where a
group of men sat dicing. "Where is your family?" He scanned the faces
of the men and women nearest him, measuring their features against
those of the girl before him. The men at the nearest table enjoyed
wine and idly moved the delicately carved figures of a gaming board.
One worried the figure of a horse in ringed fingers; he looked up,
feeling the weight of Erestor's dark gaze, and with a faint passing
glance over the girl child, turned back to his game. "No mother?
Father?" Bodies crowded the far wall, where a pair of young females
served from behind a polished bar. The windows on the front wall had
been thrown open; wind brushed across the room, swirling the smoke of
pipes and firepits to the ceiling. "Who takes care of you?"

She reached beneath her cloak, pulling forth a small bag of worn red
velvet; it chinked softly. Tilting the bag, she spilled the contents
into her palm, curling her fingers to keep them hidden. "The stones?"
she asked, voice sharpening to be heard over the singers near the
door, and raised her eyes, holding his gaze. "Or the flames?"

He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly to blow out the
candle. The melted wax quivered. His fingers slid around the handle of
his tankard and he drank deeply of the dark ale, wincing at its
bitterness. "So," he began, "you are a Seeress then? I have heard of
such things, though I have never met one such as you, a Seer-child."

A wrinkle furrowed her clear brow. "You should not mock the faith of
simple people," she retorted and dropped the clutched fist to her lap.
"Especially when they have little else."

"My apologies." A twinge of guilt - he could still feel shame, at the
least - led him to incline his head. "I have been long away from the
company of Men. My manners suffer as a result, I grow uncivil."

"I think your manner is pleasant enough, when you wish it."

A flash of copper near the kitchen doors caught the edge of Erestor's
eye. Laughing, the serving girl elbowed her way through the crowd.
Resting her hip against the small table, she set a plate before the
girl child; she whipped off the cloth cover and plunked a mug of
foaming milk beside it with practiced ease. With a wide smile, she
scooped up the few coins Erestor had deposited on the surface. "Sir,
this is too many." She peered at him and moved to drop some back to
the table. "You could buy plates for all in here."

"Take it," he urged, reaching up to close her dry fingers over the
cool metal, "for your trouble."

The green eyes flicked from him to the child, and back again. She
tucked them into the pocket of her brightly striped skirt. "And for my
silence." The coins clunked against the table as she turned, swallowed
back into the crowd.

Erestor turned back to the girl. His fingers tapped against the side
of his tankard and he nodded toward her plate. "Eat."

She reached for the mug, wrapping chapped fingers around the handle.
When she set it down, milk froth framed her mouth. She licked her lips
and wiped her face with her tattered sleeve. "You are a walking
shadow. And an Elf."

He shook his head, and glanced swiftly about, judging whether any had
overheard. Tankards slammed onto tables, the singers across the room
began a seventh verse, a gust of wind howled against the tavern wall.

"I have never met one before." She tore a bite from her bread and
spoke while chewing, words faintly muffled. "I thought there were none
left on all the earth. Where did you come from?" The bread thunked,
forgotten, onto her plate. "Where is your home? Why are you here?" She
looked sideways, to where his blades rested. "You have many weapons,"
she noted softly. "Can I see them?"

"Hush! Ai, child, you want too much knowledge." His brows narrowed at
the hail of questions. "And you possess much knowledge." He glanced
down at himself. Clad in the heavy garments of Men to conceal his
leaner frame, hair and hood drawn forward to shield his face, skin
darkened and weapons covered, he had thought his origins well
disguised. Until the girl child, none had questioned him. "How did you
know?"

The tip of her tongue darted out as she frowned intently at her plate,
struggling to cut her roasted meat with a single hand. "I told you, I
am a Seeress." The hidden hand came into view; she tossed the contents
onto the table and reached for her cutting knife. "The stones speak to
me. I see the future and I know the past. Time passes, times change…"
She speared a hunk of meat with the point of her knife. "Can I see
your ears?" she asked and popped the morsel into her mouth.

"No."

One thin shoulder raised and lowered in a shrug. "Are you a warrior?
Like those in the tales?"

"Once, mayhap, but no longer." The stones she had thrown sat between
them on the table. He reached out a finger to right one caught in the
edge of a gouge but her small hand knocked his aside.

"You cannot touch them." Her eyes widened in horror; the white eyes
swept across the stones and she shuddered. "You cannot interfere."

He struggled to make his face blank even as he leaned back from the
table. "Even if I do not believe?"

"The Valar believe in you, and I believe in the Valar." She gathered
the stones - of varied sizes and colours, though thoroughly polished;
he saw his reflection in one black orb - and slid them back into the
bag. "You are favoured among them. This, you have always known, even
if you have not always believed." The delicate brows drew together in
a frown as she looked down at her plate. "Is there no more bread?" Her
eyes darted across the table to the untouched remainder of his meal.

He laughed, short and bitter, then jerked his chin at her forgotten
plate. "Eat," he said again and tossed the remains of his oatloaf onto
the girl's plate. Silently, he watched her, signaling for a second mug
of warm milk, until she pushed away the empty plate and turned
expectant eyes to him. "Of all these Men in here" - he waved his hand
- "why did you come to me? I do not seek anything from - "

"You seek someone." The quiet assurance in her voice stilled the
question on his lips. "You are alone, last of your kind, or so you
think. There is none left to mourn you, none to weep at your passing."
She shook her head slowly, brown hair dancing on her brow as her
kerchief loosened. "You are doomed to wander the forests and hills
until you will yourself to death, or until the very ending of the
earth." Her eyes glittered, sharp as ice, and as warm. "You punish
yourself for decisions long made, choices long past, you seek
redemption in the dark, a shadow living yet no longer alive."

He turned his head, hair sliding forward in a thick curtain of black.
"You are only a child," he said, and anger warmed his voice, "empty of
hard sought wisdom. Little girl," he spat, "playing with stones,
seeing things where there is naught."

"You seek a warrior who did not die as befitting a warrior." In quick
movements, she reached across the table - spilling his half-full mug
of ale; it dripped from the edge of the table onto his knee - and
grabbed his hands, holding them with a startling strength that belied
her years. "He had neither a gloriously honorable death on the field
of battle, nor the pleasure of ending his aged life in the close
embrace of loving family." She turned his hands over, staring at his
palms; her thumb trailed across the base of his fingers. "His life lay
here. For a time." He made a sound deep in his throat, a sound of
warning, and she hissed, "What do you think of the truth thus far?"

He jerked his hands free of her grasp and pushed her back into the
chair. "Enough of this." He cursed as the corner of his parchments
bent in his haste to pack them.

A look of injury slid across her face and she rubbed her wrists
gently. "Why do you want to hurt me?" A lone tear trailed down her
cheek, catching in the corner of her mouth. "And why do you not
believe?"

His chair legs scraped the floor as he stood. "I take a hand in my own
fate. I do not let all be blindly decided by the Valar." He reached
for the sheathed blades and his saddlepacks, slipping the straps over
his shoulder. "Go home to your mother, little girl, and leave the
doings of the Valar alone."

"The Valar?" she repeated, with a dismissive snort. She stood as well,
hands braced on the table. "Where do you think to go? They will find
you, now that they know you still live." One of her hands floated up
between them; of a sudden, she sought to placate him. "I know," she
began, and snagged the wide sleeve of his tunic as he turned to leave,
"I know that you seek an old soul. He struggles, yet he is a warrior
still, he has fought this way before - "

Erestor shook off her hand and pushed his way into the crowd. A man,
smelling strongly of spirits, backed into him and the dark Elf pushed
him roughly back. He slipped into the crowd, the white-eyed girl's
voice burning in his ears.

" - and he will find his way back…"

~~~~~~~~~~

"…to me safely."

Glorfindel winked quickly. "I always do, lover." His teeth flashed
whitely in the eerie gloom of early morning. Beneath him, Asfaloth
danced in a tight ring and his fingers released the reins to soothe
the animal.

"A fact I attribute more to the skill of your warriors than to any
great care taken on your part," the dark Elf replied archly, but his
mouth curled into a reluctant half-smile. His own hand stole up to
stroke the thick winter coat covering Asfaloth's neck, skimming over
the back of Glorfindel's bare knuckles.

The dark blue eyes squinted as a sudden gust of wind swept stinging
snow across the ridge and against his face. Leaning down in the
saddle, Glorfindel lightly touched the hilt of the long knife peeking
over Erestor's broad shoulder. "Guard well the House in my absence,"
he murmured, "and those who remain behind in it."

"I understand my orders, Captain." The blades had made a reappearance
a few days ago; the counselor had found them lying atop his table,
nestled starkly next to his rolled scrolls and broken quill tips.
Erestor stared at the face so close above his. Later, in a matter of
days, a well-aimed sword might slice open that face, spilling the
quiet intelligence and gently mocking humour he had come to cherish.
He reached up a hesitant hand, seeing in his mind the flesh of
Glorfindel's face flaking away like ash beneath his touch, then halted
and shook his head fiercely. "It is my home now as well. I shall guard
Imladris and her residents with my very life."

Asfaloth turned his head to butt against Erestor's shoulder, tugging
encouragingly on the reins. Glorfindel glanced back at the ranks of
swiftly moving warriors. "I must leave," he said.

Erestor nodded his chin toward Inwe sitting her horse a discrete
distance away; her piercing green eyes seemed fixed on the figures
passing down the road below. He knew both Elrohir and Elladan rode
along the lines of warriors. "I know." Erestor handed up Glorfindel's
helm, watching as he slipped it on to cover the burnished gold hair.
His hand dropped to rest on Fin's leg, near his knee. "Go safely, Fin.
May the Valar protect you."

"And may their hands guide you as well."

He laughed, sharply. To their left, a frightened bird exploded from
his perch, shrieking. "You know the Valar bear no love for
Kinslayers."

Asfaloth tossed his head then and stamped with impatience. Glorfindel
swore under his breath and Erestor stepped aside as the nervous animal
danced in tight ring. The golden Elf brought him to heel with effort,
glancing again at the counselor. In the pale light, his eyes had
darkened to black. "Erestor, I - "

Now he smiled. "I know."

Glorfindel kneed the horse closer to Erestor and reached out his free
hand. The long dark strands of Erestor's loosely bound hair slipped
through Glorfindel's fingers, catching briefly on the newly plaited
warrior's braids. He kissed the dark Elf, hard enough to taste blood
on his lips, thick like fine wine, though the kiss strangely lacked
passion - no lovers kiss then, but one of undying love and friendship.
"It is a good thing," he stated as he drew back, "to go to battle with
you a part of me."

Erestor licked at the blood still clinging to his lips as he watched
Glorfindel guide Asfaloth down the ridge, speaking earnestly to Inwe
riding at his side. He spun on his heel and crossed to where his own
mount waited patiently, covered in a thin layer of snow from the late
spring storm. He let the battle mare have her head, cantering down the
road back to Imladris. Her hooves threw sparks against the stones as
he crossed the bridge, though the sound was deafened by the roaring of
the river, and he nodded to a sentry as he guided her to the stables.

The swish of heavy cloth and Elrond's familiar woodsy scent - that
mixture of healing plants and, if Erestor spoke with truth, green
mould - alerted Erestor to the Lord's presence. Head bent, he
unbuckled the gold embossed straps, tossed the saddle over the stall
door and pulled off the protective blanket beneath. He said nothing,
offering only a nod to the other Elf. 

Elrond leaned against the stone wall of the quiet stable; the Elven
lord watched Erestor's movements with a blank face. When he spoke, it
was sudden enough to startle the dark Elf momentarily. "He gave you
great responsibility."

Erestor glanced over his shoulder, the dark eyes coursing over
Elrond's features, before returning to the blanket he was folding. "It
is not beyond my abilities, Lord."

"Of that, I do not doubt."

"Do you not trust in his judgment?"

The sound of cloth whispering over stones sounded as Elrond moved
across the stable floor. "I have trusted his judgment in matters of
great import for many an Age. But I do not substitute it for my own."

Erestor raised his head to meet the gray gaze. "Then do you not trust
in your own judgment?"

Elrond laughed. "It is indeed a risk to put you in defense of our
home," he conceded with a graceful nod. "I have heard from other of my
counselors on this matter. It is the wish of a few that I release you
of your duties now that Glorfindel has departed, and perhaps take the
mantle of defense upon my own shoulders once again. As though I were
not already burdened with the daily politics of serving my home…"

"And will you honour their wishes, my Lord?"

Elrond did not respond immediately. He leaned against the stall door,
reaching into one of the deep pockets of his heavy over robe to pull
forth a pair of withered winter apples. He tossed them across the
width of the stall, watching as large lips plucked the fruit
delicately from the dark Elf's palm. Erestor bent down to retrieve a
handful of golden straw, enjoying the silence as he gave the mare her
rubdown.

"Did he come to you?"

Erestor's dark eyes stayed focused on the straw crumbling to dust in
his hand as he rubbed it against the warm flesh of the animal. "Yes."

"Was it good?"

"Yes." Now a smile flitted across his face. Rocking together in the
wavering candlelight and unbroken silence, Glorfindel had trembled in
his arms at the end.

Elrond's eyes glittered with half-buried memories. "It is always good
before a battle."

Erestor leaned forward to tug a few loose straws from the dark mane.
"And after," he whispered. 

"Very well then." Elrond clapped his hands together, spinning on a
heel. "Captain" - he slight stress he put on this one word escaped
neither of the Elves - "I await your presence in my study to discuss
your duties. I do not doubt Glorfindel's thoroughness, but I have made
some additions I think of note."

"Certainly, my Lord." He waited until the half-Elf had disappeared
around the corner of the stone building before pressing his forehead
against the horse's warm shoulder and smiling.



He stood in the middle of Erestor's antechamber, sunlight streaming
through the tangled gold of his hair. The dark Elf kicked the door of
the bedchamber closed with his foot; he glanced toward the saddlepacks
lying in a dusty heap on the table and stared at the Elf. "You
returned early." He winced at the inanity of his comment, but
Glorfindel simply blinked, long and slow. "I did not hear your
arrival…"

"I have not slept in nine days, Erestor," the golden Elf murmured,
"not since I left the rest of the host behind." He shifted, throwing a
shadow across the floor, and began to move across the chamber. "I
nearly broke Asfaloth in my haste to return to you. Can you not hear
the stable boys chastising me still?" The dark blue eyes never lowered
from Erestor's. 

"And why such haste?"

"It has been a long few years, Erestor." Glorfindel's fingers -
slightly rough from use of his blades - brushed across Erestor's
cheekbone. "I was unsure there would be something for me to return
to." Eyes wide open, he leaned forward, enough to touch his mouth to
Erestor's unresisting lips. "Is there?" He nipped at the wide lower
lip.

Erestor drew back several paces, drawing his robes protectively around
himself. "No word, I have had no word since your departure."

A slight flush rose to stain the pale cheeks. "We fought a war…"

"You sent word to Elrond, near daily missives." Erestor swallowed the
slight tremor shaking his words.

"Requisition requests, casualty listings, far from the sweet words I
knew your eyes wished to see." The golden Elf spun on a dusty bootheel
and marched over to his saddlepacks. He tore at the stubborn leather
lacing lashed across one pack and rummaged through the contents. He
pulled forth a rolled scroll, much handled if the battered case was
any indication, and tossed it to Erestor. "Go ahead, open it."

Stuffing the scrolls he carried already beneath his arm, Erestor
pulled off the case top and slid the weathered parchment into his
palm. After a moment, "Glorfindel, the parchment is blank," he stated.

"Not quite, Tor. Please. Look again."

The dark eyes skimmed over the stained sheets. Blots of blue ink and
angular scrawl viciously scratched out - there were holes in more than
half the first lines - were scattered across the surface. "You began
but could not finish?"

"My fingers could not find the words. But there were many and they lay
here still." A finger rose to tap the warrior's temple. "They are not
forgotten."

Erestor set the parchment and its case on the nearby table, staring
down at where his hand still covered the scrawls. "Word of your
safety, from your own hand, would not have been remiss."

Glorfindel stepped forward hesitantly. "I know, Tor, but I could not
bear the thought that there were none here save Elrond who would care
so deeply for that knowledge." A weak smile came to his lips. "I am
whole in body, if one had a mind to look. Do you?" He reached out a
hand, but Erestor turned away, his dark hair, left long and loose,
braided only at the temples, sweeping across his translucent skin. "Do
you fear me, Erestor?"

He glanced up and when he spoke, his voice grated with emotion. "No,
never, but I did fear for you." He reached out and pulled Glorfindel
to him roughly, pressing his mouth against the warm neck. "Your return
is most welcome."

They stood together for some time, reacquainting themselves with the
smell of one another, the feel of the strong body pressed against his
own, the taste, Erestor thought, as Glorfindel's tongue swept
teasingly across the ridge of his ear. He squirmed, but that only
brought his body closer to the golden elf, and then he jumped,
grabbing at the hand that had trailed down and around his hip. He
laughed and tried to easy himself from the embrace. "Fin," he
murmured, a hint of anxiety creeping into his voice as the hand
pressed harder against hardening parts. "I was trying to complete some
work. It is most important that…"

The golden Elf smiled and ripped the scrolls from beneath Erestor's
arm. He tossed them onto the low chair nearby and turned back to
Erestor. "I need you now," he whispered with such urgency that Erestor
trembled. "More than your work does."

Erestor quivered slightly as Glorfindel's lips trailed wetly across
the notch of his neck. "They wait on me in the counsel hall," he
protested weakly, and sucked in a sharp breath as teeth nipped at his
now bared shoulder. "I have only moments to deliver those scrolls."

"If I promise to be swift…"

The counsellor felt something bump against the back of his legs; he
glanced over his shoulder and saw the applewood chest. Glorfindel's
eyes burned blue fire. "Hurry then," he urged and his breath caught as
he turned around.

Glorfindel needed little urging, however. One warm hand on Erestor's
back bent him over the chest; the other delved under the long formal
robes the counsellor wore, pulling them up to expose pale, smooth
skin, stretched taut over lean muscle. Erestor moaned softly as cool
air passed over his warm skin and Glorfindel said, "I cannot be
gentle."

Erestor moved enough to press himself against Glorfindel. "I do not
need you to be."

Glorfindel shoved Erestor back at his words. He fumbled with his own
garments, finally shoving his leggings aside enough to release his
length. Wetness gleamed at the tip. "Erestor, what about…?" He
hesitated, then spun Erestor around. The dark brows drew together in a
frown, until Glorfindel tugged at the robes and Erestor understood.
Together, they pulled the robes over the counsellor's head, baring his
entire body to Glorfindel's blue gaze.

The Captain dropped to his knees then. Where he had liked to take time
in exploration, nuzzling and licking, sucking and biting, now he
simply drew Erestor's length into the warmth of his mouth. Erestor's
fingers caught in the golden hair and he stared down at where
Glorfindel pleasured him, hearing his breath begin to quicken. In mere
moments, Erestor felt the familiar tightening; he threw back his head
and then things moved at a much faster pace.

"It has been too long, Fin," he panted, head thrown back and eyes
closed, "I cannot last." His release trembled through him.

He felt the close mouthed kiss Glorfindel pressed to his lips - he
licked his lips, tasting himself - and then Glorfindel spun him back
around. The golden Elf's strong hands spread him apart and then he
felt the warmth on himself and the smooth push of a tongue, then 
Glorfindel's length probed his entrance, sliding in with enough
resistance to rip a groan from Erestor's lips.

Glorfindel's voice sounded soft and wonderingly in Erestor's ear. "You
are so tight, love…have you not…taken your pleasure?"

Erestor shook, feeling the warmth of Glordindel's skin pressing
against him from back to knees. "There have been none but you," he
whispered in reply and pushed back eagerly, the scent and feel of
Glorfindel overriding the pain the loving act caused.

"And there will be none but me."

Glorfindel eased in and out a few times, working his way in, preparing
his lover for the storm they knew would follow. The hand on the back
of his head pressed his upper body down; Erestor reached out his arms
to brace himself on the floor. Glorfindel's thrusts quickened, his
breath grew shallow and more rapid, warm on Erestor's back as he stove
to finish, to end it for them both.

Glorfindel struggled to help him dress after, laughing gently, and
then he walked down the halls of Imladris with Fin's taste on his
tongue and his slick warmth sliding down the inside of his leg. While
not late to meet the other counselors, rumours of Glorfindel sightings
and the gentle half-smile lingering on his lips hinted at his recent
actions. And later still, lying close to the warm body in a nest of
soft wool, wrapped in the musk of their bodies together, Erestor
snapped quickly to awareness. Faint simpering reached his ears. He
turned his head on the pillow and reached for Glorfindel. Tears
gleamed silver on his cheeks.

"Fin?" He kept his voice soft. Outside, he heard wind shaking the tree
branches. "Why do you weep?"

The dark blue eyes opened. "I dream," he whispered, "wishing I could
control my dreams."

Erestor's thumb swept the wetness from Glorfindel's warm skin. "And of
what do you dream?"

"No," Glorfindel murmured, "no, I would not share what I have seen
with you." He pressed a finger against Erestor's mouth, open to argue.
"Please do not ask it of me."

Erestor reached up to link his fingers through those of the other Elf.
"You bear the wounds of a warrior and I would not ask you to bleed
them for me without cause, love."

Glorfindel lay silent for a long while, long enough for Erestor to
relight the squat candle beside the bed and sink back into the
mattress. When the golden Elf spoke, his blue eyes bored into the dark
brown ones. "Tor," he began softly, "I am so tired of this life." He
nodded in the direction of the far wall, where his blades - freshly
cleaned and oiled - hung. "So tired. Two lifetimes have I devoted to
war. I have done enough." He bent his head, staring at his hand, once
again gripped tight by the dark Elf. "There is much else I can do,
there are new warriors to train, new tomes to read…" He grinned weakly
and again met Erestor's eyes.

Erestor took a deep breath, speaking slow, making his words clear. "I
would not have you regret your decision." Glorfindel's warm breath
brushed against his cheek. "Neither of us should feel as though I am
your second choice. I do not want either of us to get hurt…"

"Not from the beginning, have you been any other than first." He
pressed their linked hands tight against his chest. "And I would never
act to hurt you…Do you remember when we fought on the Fields of
Fornost?"

"I remember," Erestor murmured. He turned his head slightly and the
light from the candle threw his eyes into shadow. "We almost died,
there, in the snow…"

"When I first called the retreat, I did not want to follow. I looked
for you. One of the captains, one of the Men, he grabbed my arm and
would not let me move forward. 'The battle shifts' he yelled at me" -
a golden brow rose at the absurdity of being stopped by one of the Men
- "and I told him I could not yet leave. He asked me if I was mad." A
low chuckle trickled from his lips. "Mayhap I was, by then, mad at the
thought of losing you before I had truly had you. All I could smell
was blood and torn flesh and the stink of fear, and I turned away from
the field of battle and said that I must find you."

"I did not know."

"I told Inwe not to reveal my words or actions on the field, but that
was later, after I was assured of your safety." His eyes softened.
"She stood behind me, I did not even see her approach, and her
face…streaked with blood, there were drops spangling in her eyelashes,
drops…falling from her chin. She was the one who told me that your
section had been on the front lines and that those same lines had been
slaughtered…"

Erestor's thumb smoothed the wrinkled skin between Glorfindel's brows.
"I sought my own death that day, I did not know…"

"Know this, Tor, never have I felt regret where you are concerned."
Tilting his head forward, he kissed the dark Elf softly, running the
warm, moist tip of his tongue lightly across the curve of Erestor's
bottom lip.

The lip curved more as Erestor smiled. He reached behind him, knocking
about on the bedside table for the candle. The short column toppled
over and rolled onto the floor, extinguishing itself with a hiss.
"This, then," he whispered, "will be our time."

~~~~~~~~~~

Erestor blinked; raindrops spangled on his eyelashes. With a gentle
knee, he urged Ebon down the narrow path, hooves sliding in the mud as
she topped the slight rise. She snorted sharply, loud over the raging
of the swollen river to his left, and tossed her head. "Easy, girl,"
he murmured and patted her neck. "Easy." He glanced at the road,
splitting further ahead. 

It had rained steadily since he'd taken to the trail, heavy for the
season, this close to the harvest. After days of slogging through mud
and huddling beneath dripping bows over a sputtering fire, he was
ready for a warm room and warmer food. He shook his head and reached
to pull forward his wet hood. Enough to risk re-entering a town of
Men? Ebon swung her weary head around, enough to send him a baleful
glance with her dark eye. With a half-smile, he turned down the left
fork, toward the small, nameless village.

Light and noise spilled from the open doors of the tavern in the
middle of the town, barely penetrating the thick gloom beyond the
covered opening. He passed the tavern, swinging Ebon toward the
stables, where a young boy, rubbing his eyes and yawning, scrambled
out of the hay to greet him.

"A terrible night for riding, sir." He squinted at the sheath strapped
to the saddle. "Did you come for the gathering?"

"What gathering?"

The boy shrugged. "There was army of brigands seen a few days ago and
talk of a slaughter. The village men gather to decide whether to
pursue." His eyes widened as Erestor dismounted and he reached to
touch the animal. "She is a wonder, sir," he breathed.

"Can you take her for me, bed her down for the night?" Erestor spoke
even as he unlashed his saddlepacks. "She needs a good rubdown, a
check of her feet, and a feeding."

"Aye, sir, you can trust me with her." The boy's grubby hand fished
into his pocket, pulling forth a dusty lump of sugar Ebon carefully
plucked from his palm. He took the reins from Erestor and began
leading him back into the depths of the stable.

Erector turned back toward the tavern, squelching through thick black
mud. He scraped off the excess before stepping beneath the low door
arch and into the warm depths of the common room. Near the far wall, a
man spoke, arms crossed over his great dark beard. Over the shouts of
rough Men, the banging of wooden tankards and the stomping of boots,
he heard little of what the man said. Shouldering his packs, he slid
along the wall toward a swinging door leading to kitchen.

"Can I be helping you, sir?" a girl asked, stopping and wiping a hand
down the front of her skirt while carefully balancing a tray of mugs
and used plates. Her bright green eyes swept over his still dripping
form. "Mumma's just put on more stew. If you give me but a wink, I can
fetch some for you." With a bump of her hip, she set the door swinging
and disappeared inside the kitchen.

He stood in the corner, near a row of smoking candles set on a shelf,
and strained to hear the men at the front of the room. His dark eyes
scanned the assemblage, seeing few weapons of note, certainly not
enough to capture an army. And why had he heard nothing of such an
army?

The green eyes girl popped up at his elbow, smiling. He bent closer.
"This army the stable boy spoke of? Where are they from?"

She shrugged. "None know." She set a deep bowl, steaming under a thin
cloth, near the candles. "They are evil men, to be sure. Moving along
the coast, burning villages to the west and slaying those who stand in
their way. He destroys things of value. None say tell what he is
wanting…"

"Mayhap he seeks someone instead."

She sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "Can I be helping you with
anything else?"

He shook his head quickly, then reached up to push back his sodden
hood. His wet hair, clinging to the rough wool, pushed back to expose
the delicately pointed tips of his ears. It was not until he heard the
girl gasp that he realized. Glancing up, he saw her stepping back,
hand over mouth, eyes wide.

"You - " She sputtered, then stopped moving and swallowed. "You are
one of them, one of the Firstborn."

"Some have named me such." He hastened to pull forth his hair, feeling
a damp braid slap and stick to his cheek.

"Do you know him, then?"

"Whom?"

"The leader of this army, they say he is a Firstborn as well."

Erestor spun on a heel and elbowed his way back through the crowd. He
ran through the night, shaking water from his high cheekbones as he
turned back to the stables. Ebon had not yet been unsaddled and he
ripped the reins from the boy's unresisting grasp, swinging recklessly
atop the battle mare. He sawed on the reins to swing her toward the
stable doors, and their dark shadows burst into the dark of night.

~~~~~~~~~~

Wide winged seabirds soared overhead, hanging on the salt winds. The
faint smell of drying fish floated up the hill on the sun-drenched
breeze. Thick grasses formed a smooth carpet over the ridge, scattered
with summer flowers, thin stems dropping under the weight of heavy,
perfumed heads. His shadow climbed up the black rock face and he knew
they rested undisturbed…

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, three hard days of riding beyond the storm, tendrils of thick
greasy smoke clung to his skin as he cantered along the seashore. His
senses blurred. The long drawn hiss of the undertow and the crashing
of breakers on rock told him he neared the village. He drew his brows
together as a warm gust of salt wind brought the choking smell of
charred flesh against his face. Tears burned his eyes and he could
hear flames crackle, near to his left. The gold bosses decorating the
worn leather reins dug deep into his palms. He dropped the reins
against Ebon's neck and reached to grasp his knives. Ebon's ears
flattened against her head in warning and he grabbed the reins again
as she reared, then dropped heavily back to the ground and danced in a
tight ring. His head pivoted as he tried to keep his eyes ahead,
toward the village.

Forms moved through the smoke.

"Sweet Elbereth," he whispered, and put heels to Ebon's belly. She
resisted briefly, whickering, then eased forward.

He did not speak as he moved into the village, hidden by the smoke and
the overhanging roofs that brushed against his shoulder. Voices,
indistinct in the haze, sounded somewhere before him. A horse snorted
sharply, startling him with its sudden nearness. The thick sand
muffled Ebon's hooves. He ducked as they passed beneath the top frame
of a drying rack. The sharp scream of another horse echoed through the
smoke. Seeing the whites of Ebon's eyes, he slid from the saddle and
gentled her with a hand over her mouth; her big lips trembled beneath
his palm.

"Ease yourself, Ebon," he whispered and pressed himself against the
low wall of a nearby house. His free hand reached over his shoulder,
fingers wrapping around the handle of a knife. He breathed low,
glancing from Ebon to the smoke, seeing shapes fade and then
materialize in the edges of his vision.

A swirl of gold danced out of sight to his left. A voice, loud and
sharp, cut through the haze - and through his memories. He turned the
corner of the building, squinting through the smoke in disbelief,
straining for another glimpse, another hint, of the golden vision.

To his left, Glorfindel walked.

He stared. At the golden hair, shorn close, revealing the familiar
curve of his skull. At the eyes, piercing dark blue now narrowed
against the thick smoke swirling around him. At the thick streamers of
blood dripping from his blade.

Ebon tossed her head, butting her nose against his shoulder, irritated
at his lack of attention. Erestor jerked, startled. "No." He barely
recognized the hard and flat voice as his own. "No. I buried you." The
hands at his sides trembled and to stop them shaking, he jammed his
blade back in its sheath and pressed his palms together. He shook his
head; it was the thick smoke now bringing the stinging wetness to his
eyes. "On the mountain, with him, I buried you myself. How can you
come back? How can you be back?"

He mounted swiftly, reining the battle mare in a tight ring to lead
her from the village. The shallow sounds of his rapid breathing filled
his head, louder even than the thumping of his heart. Without thought,
he turned Ebon toward the hills.

Erestor urged her up the sharp slope with quick knees against her dark
flanks. Ebon's hooves tore for purchase, scrambling in the loose rock;
her rear knees collapsed, jerking him forward over the sweating neck,
and they slid back down the hill. Her laboured breathing filled his
ears; blood gave the foam at her mouth a red blush. She struggled to
regain her footing. Murmuring an apology, Erestor kicked Ebon's
flanks. More blood, drawn by the scree, smeared across her dark coat.
He leaned over his left leg, peering at the wounds. The mare screamed
and reared, deadly hooves pawing the air; he fell from her back.

The ground rushed up to meet him. He clambered to his feet, up the
hill, feeling the sharp marl tear at his palms, eyes intent on the
thick greenery, knowing that dread made his smooth motions unnaturally
clumsy. The coolness of the forest engulfed him, the thick damp smell
enveloped him. Overhead, the heavy canopy filtered the sun and Erestor
ran through patches of blinding sun and thick shadows. With a soft
rasp of metal, he freed his long knives. Sweat streamed into his dark
eyes; he blinked against the fierce sting. His chest ached. The heavy
musk of crushed flowers assaulted him. His boots slid in a patch of
damp moss. He tumbled to a knee, bracing his fall with forearm against
a slime-encrusted rock, then stood and kept running. Blood oozed along
the skin of his wrist. 

Centuries it may have been, but his feet remembered the way. He burst
from the trees and the salt breeze slammed against his face. Hair
whipped across his face and he tossed his head, eyes sweeping across
the ridge. Thick and lush, the grass bent under his feet, as it had
bent under the feet of another.

"Sweet Elbereth, do not let it be so!"

The pale riot of tiny starflowers now climbed the crevices of the
black rock face, bobbing in the wind. A mist of red marred the white
heads. He sucked in rapid, shallow breaths. Fresh pearls of blood
dripped onto the crumbled mud, drying in the summer sun. Dark spots
danced at the edges of his vision. His heart pounded against his ribs,
throbbed at his temples, and he dropped his head against his chest
with an anguished cry.

He sank to his knees before the torn-open grave.

Sometime later, when the sun had shifted farther across the sky and
the wind had changed enough to push the lingering smoke toward the
mountain and his face had drained of blood, he heard the voice, very
soft and controlled, tearing through his quiet.

"You did not see false before."

Erestor spun on a knee; a shaft of sun glinted along the blades of the
twin knives in his hands. He squinted at the stranger silhouetted
behind him.

"I offer you no violence, Erestor of Imladris."

The dark Elf started; the skin across his cheekbones thinned as he
frowned. "How - ?"

"You are known to me, Erestor." He laughed, seeing Erestor's brows
draw together at the mocking tone. "In truth, you are very highly
favoured." With empty palms facing the sky, he advanced a half-step,
halting in a swirl of long loose robes as the blades slanted toward
him. "I wish you no harm."

"Who are you?" Erestor demanded, steady voice low; he stood slowly,
easing without thought into a familiar combat stance, disregarding the
tight muscles and stiff joints. He could not say how long he had been
kneeling near that gaping wound in the earth. 

"My name is - "

"No." Erestor shook his head sharply; he felt the slickness of blood
in his palm, against the worn grip of his knife. "I did not ask for
your name, I asked who you are."

"It is a wise Elf who knows the difference."

Erestor released a breath. He jerked his chin behind him, toward the
smouldering village. "What happened there?"

"Very sad, it is." The stranger turned to face the edge of the ridge.
"May I move?"

"Take great care doing so." Dark eyes followed the smooth movements of
the stranger. Erestor noted that though his garments were fine, he
bore no seal or crest, not even a weapon with decorations to indicate
origins, homeland or intentions. "Did you bear witness to this?" he
asked, less harsh. The dark Elf knew his frown slipped; he glanced
back over his shoulder at the torn grave, felt his resolve return, and
turned back to the stranger.

He no longer stood at the ridge's edge.

"I told you, I wish you no harm."

Erestor twisted on a bootheel. The stranger stood now by the grave;
his fingers reached out to touch the spray of red across the flowers.
"Sweet Elbereth," he swore again, and a smile spread across the
stranger's smooth face.

"Only when she gets her way. In truth, you should say 'Fierce
Elbereth'." He waved a hand in dismissal as confusion swept across
Erestor's features, and tilted his head, consideringly. "Do you truly
not know me, Erestor? Granted we have never made personal acquaintance
but very dear friends of yours have passed through my Halls." He said,
very gently, "And one has passed through more than once."

Erestor swore.

"Inventive," Mandos finally murmured. His eyes coursed across
Erestor's pallid face - bloodless lips clamped tight below the brown
eyes darkened to black.

"What have you done?"

"He returns," the Vala said simply. "Without knowledge, without
memory, without understanding of whom or what he has been, what he has
accomplished, whom he has hated" - an eyebrow lifted - "and whom he
has loved. He knows nothing but his own limitations, and these only as
he learns them."

"Learns them?" Erestor repeated, then, "No!" He turned to glance down
the valley, at the smoking ruins of the village, then back at the
other Elf. "Tell me he did not do this. Tell me he is not responsible
for such a slaughter?"

Mandos shrugged eloquently and folded his hands together before him.
"Always has he been a warrior. Even as diplomat for Elrond, his first
love was the sword. So why are you caught unawares to think he would
find that part of himself again, with none around to teach him
otherwise?" He turned to face where the second grave lay; tangled
flowers sprawled over the undisturbed ground. "This one, he is another
you loved well."

"My brother," Erestor choked.

Throwing a look over his shoulder at the dark Elf, Mandos suggested,
"Mayhap you should sit," with a half-raised brow.

Erestor shook his head fiercely. One of his warrior's braids flew
around to snap against his eyelid. When he spoke, his soft question
barely floated across the clearing, caught in the wind. "And of my
lover?"

Mandos did not respond for a long time. Their shadows slanted tall
against the rock face before he answered. "You never wanted him to
die. You may have honoured his decision, you knew it was not yours to
make, but you wanted to live out your years together." The piercing
eyes held Erestor's, brutal in their demand for honesty. "Your
writings, those sheets of parchment and vellum, tight bound scrolls,
history locked away, shaped and written by your own hand. Thoughts and
wishes, desires bound to action."

Erestor realized he still held his knives. With a groan of effort, he
dropped them to the grass. He bent his head over the wound on his arm.
"Was it so selfish of me to want him hale and whole once again?"

"And by your side?"

"Aye." He spit the word, head snapping up as he detected further
mockery. "To wake and feel his body lying close to me. Was that asking
too much?" he demanded. "My body aches to feel him again." He shook
his head sharply. "I never forgave him for that, for my need of him.
Even in death, it never ended. Such weakness…"

"Not weakness, Erestor, vulnerability. Necessary for two souls to
join."

"Was he worth it, though?" Erestor demanded. "Was he worth my soul?"
Sucking in a deep breath, he struggled for calm, feeling it slipping
through his tenuous grasp. "How many graves must I dig?" There had
been several over the centuries, as he cared for Elrond's child and
grandchildren, generations until they no longer knew him except as
whispered tales. "How many pyres must my hands light?" A vivid memory,
the smell of scorching flesh, assaulted him again, and the words of
the child-Seeress rang in his ears. "And in the end, who will mourn me
as I mourned them?"

Mandos grunted. "The trouble with Elves," he murmured on a sigh,
"foolish desires to the end. Men, at least, know that there are worse
fates in life than simply being dead." He held up a hand to prevent
Erestor's response. "You are not the only favoured Elf of mine."

"The Valar bear no love for Kinslayers." But there was hesitation in
his voice.

"Neither do we tolerate intentional foolishness," he sighed heavily.
"Glorfindel has ever been worthy of my…interventions, as few have
been. And" - he fixed Erestor with a hard stare - "regardless of how
you feel, what you allow yourself to think, you have ever been worthy
of him."

Erestor tasted salt on his lip. A second tear slid slowly down his
cheek as he nodded.

"If you can make him, he is yours, to do with as you wish. Be wise in
your handling, there can be no further struggles for the two of you
and the way will be neither gentle nor painless." A slow smile slid
across Mandos' face; his body began to shimmer, then the only thing
left of him was his voice filling the clearing, still gently mocking.
"The luck of the Valar is with you, Erestor."



So he hunted, weighed down by finely honed blades and the equally
sharp expectations of the gods, keeping pace with the hard riding
army. He had done so before, hunted the golden Elf through Imladris
for pleasurable sport, though where memories of such a time had once
brought a smile to his lips, it now brought only a faint shadow of
peace to his heart. Instinct drove him, instinct long buried and now
blunted by sorrow and doubt, slowing his hand at the crucial moment,
when he turned to hear the voices…

~~~~~~~~~~

…that echoed down the length of the corridor, the low, soothing tones
of Elrond interrupted by Glorfindel's sharp responses. Erestor rounded
the corner, robes trailing along the smooth stones, and stopped
abruptly, catching sight of the small huddle of Elves at the other end
of the corridor.

" - one final time, Glorfindel," Elrond was saying. "I would not ask
if it were not most important."

"Your missions are always of most import," Glorfindel sneered. His
boots rang against the floor; Erestor imagined the golden Elf pacing
before the fire in Elrond's study. "I have spent my entire life in
war, Elrond. Two lives. You know this. I am so weary of battle." He
paused, then continued, soft enough that even Erestor's keen ears
strained to detect,"And I made promises to Erestor…"

"It is only a patrol, my friend, no different from any of the
thousands you have been on before."

"No, Elrond. Your eyes hold a different knowledge." The swift reply
startled even Erestor. "No, it is not the same. And please, as my
friend," - the heavily mocking tone was not lost on any Elf within
hearing - "I would appreciate your not trying to manipulate me with
sweet words and falsehoods. If you are truly my friend, you would not
lie to me."

"I do not lie -"

"Is this simply another omission?" he demanded, and anger warmed his
voice. "All I have done for you, all he have done for you, and knowing
how I feel for him…"

A head snapped up in the crowd at the end of the corridor and Erestor
met the inquiring gaze of a lesser counselor. He drew his brows
together and jerked his head at the others; with a few murmurs and
nods, they shuffled away, leaving Erestor alone in the hall, turning
his attention back.

"Then I will speak with Erestor," Elrond offered, over the chinking of
a glass goblet.

"It will make little difference."

Erestor shook his head slightly. The rumours then were true and Elrond
was organizing the warriors - under their Captain's command - to march
a patrol in support of the Men. A loose page fluttered out of the open
end of a tome in his arms; he bent to snatch it from the floor,
crumpling it within his fingers. The action reminded him of his
duties; there was little to be accomplished, he realized, by listening
to them speak. He resumed his course with sure steps, passing before
the open study door, ignoring the pained blue gaze that met his own.




Erestor studied the map. He brushed back an errant braid. The smooth
blue stone pinning the farthest corner of the worn parchment rolled
through his fingers before he set it back. The faintest scents of old
ink rose from the folds. He did not lift his head when soft steps
behind him announced Glorfindel's presence in their chamber.

"Tor - "

"Save yourself, Glorfindel," he snapped, voice flat. "I know the words
you have shared with Elrond and those which you both wish to share
with me." He jerked his chin toward the bulging saddlepacks leaning
against the far wall. "I have taken the liberty of assembling your
belongings. I assume you will depart before dawn."

"I saw you in the hall." Glorfindel glanced sideways at his packs and
turned back to Erestor with narrowed brows. "You heard our
conversation."

"Indeed, there are few Elves in Rivendell today who did not."

"Tor, please. Will you look at me?" When Erestor did not respond,
Glorfindel stepped around the small table to face his lover. He braced
his hands flat against the smooth surface and stared at the dark head
bent before him. "We need to speak."

Erestor reached to smooth an invisible wrinkle from the parchment.
"No," he stated evenly, "we do not."

Glorfindel leaned forward enough to snag Erestor's wrist in his hand;
Erestor's head snapped up sharp enough for a black braid to sting his
cheek. "Do not make me beg this of you," he implored.

"What is there you may say to me?" Erestor met Glorfindel's gaze. His
voice dropped. "Sweet Elbereth, Glorfindel, why do you not understand
that you are free to choose your path? You are beholden to none, not
even to Elrond."

"And not to you?" The fingers of the golden Elf tightened around
Erestor's wrist. "This time," he said, "it will be the last time."

"Release me." Erestor jerked his arm back but Glorfindel held fast. "I
said, release me." His free hand rose, reaching for the back of his
head. The slim silver blade tucked into one of his braids glinted in a
shaft of sunlight as he swept it down. Glorfindel snagged that wrist
as the tip of the knife flirted with the underside of his jaw.

"There is little time for such foolish displays." Glorfindel's grip
tightened.

"Then do not seek to threaten me in order to assure yourself of my
acquiescence."

Golden lashes swept across Glorfindel's cheeks. "Very well. Will you
release your blade?"

Erestor exhaled sharply and dropped the knife in disgust. "The last
time," he sneered. "Is that not what you claimed the time before? You
gave me your word."

Glorfindel took a deep breath and flicked his gaze down at the map
between them. "Yet" - he sighed heavily - "no oath did I speak."

Erestor froze, eyes dropping to the golden Elf's face. "Most
convenient then, my Lord. It appears as though you truly are beholden
to one."

"Yes," Glorfindel admitted, voice tinged with resignation, "yes, I am.
I am a soldier, a warrior born - "

"And dead."

" - and if I do not fight, indeed will not fight, then what good am I?
What then becomes of me?" Glorfindel shook Erestor's trapped arms.
"Will I take on the mantle of scholar, sit in the library and write
scrolls on the brave deeds and the sacrifices of others?"

Erestor shook his head. "I know about the deeds and sacrifices, I too
have fought on those grounds. And I chose to leave them behind, I
chose the duties I fulfill."

"You were not always a warrior," Glorfindel argued. He leaned forward,
dropping his head to press it against Erestor's. "Perhaps your soul
never was. I am different. I have no choice, Tor."

Feeling the tension melt from Glorfindel's arms, Erestor tugged his
free, catching his balance against the table edge, scattering one of
the green veined stones. He retrieved his blade from the table and
reached back to tuck it once again within his braid, then met blue
eyes with cold brown ones. "There is always choice."  He spun on his
heel and stalked from the chamber, leaving the golden Elf with his
maps for war.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dwarves chose to make their chains out of deceptively delicate looking
links. Erestor had examined them intently until his vision dimmed. If
not for the manacles circling his wrists at one end, and the rings
attached to the two posts at the others, they could be mistaken for
jewelry, suitable for nobility, worthy of even an Elven lord. Not that
he had been one of those for millennia…He thought about how they had
come to be here, in this hunting camp, his mind turning over
possibilities as it assessed his injuries. Chained as he was, he felt
exposed and fragile, weaker than he could remember ever being. But
sometimes his memory was an old sheet, worn thin in places and …

"Get up."

… torn to pieces in others, fluttering at times as though left to
tumble in the wind.

"Get up, I said!"

Erestor heard this harsh command - most likely the heavily bearded man
who organized the hunters - and chose to ignore it, distracted by the
numbness in his legs and the blunt pain radiating from the side of his
face, and the floating presence of his awareness.

A disgusted sigh preceded an amended order. "Get him up."

The dark Elf slumped against the restraints, eyes pasted shut with a
gory mix of dried blood, thick black mud and other liquids. Hands
reached for him, sliding under his arms, forcing him to stand. The
chains rattled as one of his guards released the locks; the hands
supporting him slid away and he fell forward. Something jagged - a
rock? - sliced along his temple and the breath rushed from his body.

"There is no time for this," a voice grumbled. "Elf bastard. Bring
him."

He laid the side of his face in the oozing mud and allowed himself to
be dragged, struggling to release his body's tension. He had been
beaten before; this experience, at the hands of the hunters, had a
familiar feel. And a familiar result. He turned into himself, wrapping
his sanity around himself like a cloak. Two long nights chained to
posts, lying in thick mud grown colder and deeper with the early
winter storms, kicked with heavy boots, prodded and sliced with bladed
weapons, spat on, cursed, an object of derision and scorn - though
curiously, he sensed some small measures of interest; he was, after
all, one of the few remaining Elves still walking Middle Earth. These
things he knew, he understood, and he wondered if it part of some
elaborate game. Was the hope truly foolish, that he could force some
reminder in this golden being?

The men dragging him halted. Water splashed over his head; he
sputtered and rubbed his face against his shoulder. His eyes slit open
and he saw the entrance to the largest tent. Voices swirled over him
and then rough hands dumped him on a thin hide floor covering. He
watched the bearded man slip his chains to a single ring staked to the
ground, and pressed his brow against his knees.

"Is this our assassin?" inquired a lazy voice. "Quite a mess." A hand
pushed back a hank of dark hair and fingers traced along the pointed
tip of Erestor's ear; he laughed sharply as Erestor ducked his head
away from the hand. "How did your men perform?"

"Most admirably."

"Then admirably shall you be rewarded. Wait beyond for further
instructions."

"Aye, Commander. As you bid."

The door flap dropped closed and Erestor drew a deep breath. Coughing,
he took a second, shallower breath.

Booted feet filled his vision. "Can I offer you something to wet your
throat?" He set a carved wooden mug of clean water between his feet.

Erestor hesitated. "No," he croaked, and the left boot swept the mug
aside, spilling the water in a shimmering stream across the rough
skin.

"I have no love of water either," he responded, "though I have grown
immeasurably fond of Gondorian wine." The boots turned away and
Erestor heard liquid purling into a goblet. "My favourite is from a
family in the southern part of the country. Most unfortunate that I
had killed them before I discovered their stock."

Erestor raised his head and stared across the tent at the Elf seated
on the camp stool. He began to shake. The face that had haunted his
waking dreams for centuries stared back. The eyes of many layered blue
regarded him with faint distaste. He asked hoarsely, "Do you not know
my face?"

Glorfindel sipped from his goblet, licked a lingering drop from his
lower lip - in a gesture Erestor recognized well; the shock of seeing
it he likened to a blow to his chest - and raised a shoulder in an
insolent shrug.

"Do you not know my voice?" It cracked with Erestor's very question.

Wine sloshed over the goblet's rim as he thumped it down on the low
table. He bent over, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin
against his fists. A blunt thumb rubbed along his jaw. "Why do you
ask?" he asked, almost conversational. "Should I? Is there a reason
for me to think you - " He paused. "In truth, to think of you at all?"

Erestor saw no hint of recognition in the dark blue eyes, no faint
glimmer of knowledge, and he felt his heart plummet. Dark lashes swept
against his high cheekbones as he pressed his eyes closed. He accepted
then that this was no complicated, delicate game, that Mandos' words
had been truth and Glorfindel - if he chose to admit that the shell
before him was truly his oldest friend and cherished lover - no longer
possessed memories of him.

"Look at me."

He sank to his knees. He felt fragile, hollow, as though he would
shatter if bumped.

The sharp blow knocked him sideways; he caught himself on an elbow and
tasted blood on his tongue where a tooth had sliced open the inside of
his cheek.

"Look at me." Glorfindel did not shout; he lowered his voice to a
deceptive softness.

"No."

The second blow sent him sprawling across the floor, or as far as the
chains allowed. They snapped his wrists back, the edge sinking into
his flesh. He felt the golden Elf move to stand over him.

"Interesting," Glorfindel mused finally. "Broken already." An ungentle
boot prodded the dark Elf in the belly. He bent farther to grab a fist
of matted dark hair and wrenched his head back. "I thought you would
hold out longer, strengthened by the blood and resolve of the
Firstborn, but it seems that - "

Erestor rose before Glorfindel finished blinking. The mithril chain
slipped easily around Glorfindel's neck, choking off the cry of
shocked outrage. Millennia of training, repetition and instinct - all
urging him to tighten the links and steal the stranger's life - warred
with the deeper primitive need to respond to his chosen mate. Death
had done little to alter Glorfindel's scent. He drew a slow deep
breath, sucking the scent of greenery and musk deep into his senses,
and then began to pivot as the knowledge struck him that this moment
of fragility would undo him.

"Get him!  Hold him!" The clashing of weapons, loud voices shouting,
the scuffle of men fighting to protect their leader.

The heavy end of a sword slammed against the back of his neck and he
dropped sharp as any felled beast, the chain falling from his limp
fingers.

"Are you well, Commander?" the man with the beard demanded roughly.

"Well enough. Bastard was quick..." Glorfindel coughed and kicked
Erestor, the toe of his boot colliding sharply with the dark Elf's
temple. "Yet so were you, Jolan." Darkness enveloped Erestor's vision,
worsening as the golden Elf ripped his head back with a fist in his
hair. "Before, when you looked on me, it was as though your eyes
rested upon a shade. Your body thought it knew me." Erestor tried to
shake his head, tried to deny this knowledge to the stranger holding
him, but it was too late. "You think you know me, bastard Elf. Well
enough, this is a weakness and weaknesses are to be easily exploited.
So, what was he to you? Brother?" he questioned, voice no less
dangerous for its assumed air of casualness. "No, I think not, much
too light, I am. You're a dark Elf, though" - he rubbed at the marks
on his throat and coughed again - "more dangerous than I assumed.
Fellow warrior, pledged to protect one another till death? If so, I
must say you failed him dreadfully."

Erestor howled and jerked his head, fighting to remain aware.

"What else, then? Lover? Friend?" At the barest flinching of the dark
Elf's features, Glorfindel laughed, a short harsh sound. "Lover then.
Do I remind you of him? Are the memories good or ill? Did he use you
well?" A hand slid down Erestor's chest, sliding lower at Erestor's
agonized moan. Glorfindel's breathing sounded heavy in his ear and he
struggled against memories, of another time, when the sound had
brought him much joy. The struggle for consciousness was ending. "I
would have used you well, Elf, ridden you hard and rough, and taken
pleasure in your pain, your spilled blood and unwilling surrender." He
laughed again. "Mayhap I shall still, for if lover it is that I remind
you of, then lover it shall be who breaks you."

~~~~~~~~~~

And break him, Glorfindel did, alternating periods of intense
gentleness with sickening brutality. During the tender moments, the
soft touch of Glorfindel's fingers and mouth on his flesh brought a
rush of memories unbidden to his mind and his body nearly betrayed him
in its desire to respond. The sharpness of fresh pain would obliterate
the illusion of Glorfindel's loving embrace, and then Glorfindel would
turn again to soothing caresses, hands brushing back his dark hair as
he retched, wiping the blood from his chin, kissing drops of water
from his cracked lips. He fought not to scream, to separate himself
from what his body experienced, but his voice quickly turned hoarse
and grating, and then he whimpered, warrior and war counsellor turned
weak and victim. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the stifled
air of the tent; he heard some of the hunters gagging as they chained
him down, after a fierce attempt to snap Glorfindel's neck. And
through it all, Glorfindel talked, voice low and intimate, breath
tickling the pointed tip of his ear, keeping alive the memory of an
Elf he considered still dead.

"I trust I do not disappoint?"

Dark shadows flirted with the trees; he noticed through a haze of pain
that night crept by. Jolan dumped his body back into the mud, oozing
against his bare skin, ripped in places both tender and worn.
Muttering curses under his breath, the man reattached the chains and
moved off. He lay curled around his wounds, struggling for each breath
and idly wondering why he ought to bother.

"Break camp. We move with the dawn."

He dimly heard the sounds of the camp being dismantled. A horse
screamed, followed swiftly by startled shouts, and the horse whinnied
sharply. After a moment, he realized Ebon screamed. Near the edge of
camp, the dark battle mare fought her handlers.

"Please…" He forced the word through cracked lips. He coughed,
spilling blood over his chin, and tried again, louder, this time
catching the attention of a Man passing nearby. Light exploded behind
his eyes as the hunter kicked him, but when he regained focus, a
familiar pair of blue eyes danced in his vision. Too close, they were
too close, and he jerked away.

"What did he want?" Glorfindel demanded, irritation clear. He finished
buckling on his sword belt, and tested the weapon, pulling it easily
from its sheath. Ebon screamed again then, turning heads toward the
edge of camp, and the Elf smiled.

"Mercy," Erestor murmured. "What will it take?" He swallowed heavily.
"Show mercy."

Rough laughter sounded, and over it all, Glorfindel's incredulous
voice. "Mercy? You beg mercy for the life of a beast where you asked
none for yourself? Fool." He shrugged slightly. "Crawl to me."

Erestor crawled.

He barely heard the hoarse shouts and pounding of feet toward the edge
of camp. Men moved toward the picket lines, where the sounds of
fighting had intensified. Glorfindel turned away, glancing in the
direction of the scuffle, and issued short, sharp orders.

He braced his head on his arm, turning his dark eyes up to hold the
blue ones. "Know this, Glorfindel, for the promise it is," he
whispered, voice shaking, "that I will kill you."

"Not from there, you shall not." Turning on his heel, the Elf walked
away.

Later, when a pair of men stomped past, cursing loudly, he knew Ebon
now ran through the trees. He smiled, a mere baring of bloodstained
teeth.

Awareness came and went. He stirred briefly when a pair of boots
stopped by his face; he cringed, heard the other swear softly, and
then the weight of a soft wool blanket covered him. He opened his
mouth but no sound emerged. Later, dawn streaked the sky the colour of
blood over the tree tops. Light stabbed at his eyes; he closed them
and tucked his head to his chest.

He dreamed of blackness, deep and thick. Faces floated out to him, the
sternly mocking frown of Elrond with its accompanying wink, Elladan's
head thrown back in a full-throated laugh, the deceptively serious
gray gaze directed toward the green eyed centre of Elrohir's life, the
gray-eyed golden beauty he knew their child to be, Arwen's delicate
strength and Aragorn, other faces, a crush of faces…

Gentle fingers touched his brow. He flinched, drawing away, yet the
fingers returned.

"Calm yourself," a lilting young voice said and he relaxed, drowning
in the white of snow rimmed in ice.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rough wool tickled the bare skin of his chest. A shaft of sunlight
slanted across his face. A snort sounded near his ear and something
tugged lightly at his hair. The fresh scent of roses - this late in
the autumn? - hung in the air. He came easily to awareness…

"Ai!"

…with Ebon's nose nudging him in the neck and Ebon's black eyes close
enough for her lashes to brush his cheek. A faint smile creased his
face; he lifted a weary hand, wrapped thickly with clean white
bandages, and patted the horse. Reassured, Ebon whinnied softly and
backed away from the open balcony door she had gotten herself stuck
in. His hand fell limply back to the blanket. He rolled onto his side,
hearing footsteps outside the partially open door that led to the rest
of the cabin.

A child's voice, laced with annoyance, shouted, "No, leave him, boyo!"
and though Erestor painfully braced himself for an attack, only a ball
of gray popped through the door.

He frowned down at the hound, then glanced up as the girl child with
the white eyes stepped into his room. Dressed plainly in clean wool,
she carried a covered tray. She stopped, seeing Erestor's eyes rest on
her, and turned a frown of her own down onto the hound.

"Bad dog," she scolded him, "you will never be First Hound if you
refuse to learn basic commands."

The gray merely barked once. Lacking a tail, his entire rump shook
from side to side. He snapped affably at her ankles, then leapt with
care onto the bed, sinking on his hind legs near Erestor's head.

The girl smiled approvingly. She crossed the room and set the tray on
the table near the bed. Hooking a foot around the stool, she pulled it
toward her and sat down. Her strange eyes coursed over his face. "How
do you feel?"

"Well enough," he rasped. He tried to rise up on an elbow, but his arm
shook and he sank back into the softness of the mattress.

"Liar," she responded with a smile, and the hound yipped in agreement.
"You were much hurt when I found you."

He nodded once, feeling the rough nubs of embroidery under his cheek.
"I know."

"Your flesh was frail, your spirit broken."

"I know."

"I healed you, I fit you together like pieces from a puzzle game." A
strand of brown hair dangled before her eyes; she peeked out from
behind it, suddenly shy.

His body, clean and tightly wrapped with bandages, felt light, the
effects of a healing drug. "Why?" he asked, voice soft.

She turned away then, busying herself with the tray. Pulling off the
cloth cover, she began to fold it. "I am young, I am not unwise to the
ways of the world." She smoothed a stubborn crease against her thigh.
"I may not know what happens in a … in a lover's bed" - a rich crimson
tone washed up the pale skin of her face - "but I know what … what he
did to you. And I know what that will do to you, as one of the
Firstborn…" She set the neatly folded cloth back atop the tray.
Picking up a spoon, she poked at the contents of a bowl. "I told you,
when first we met, that I know the past and I see the future, I know
what he once was" - her voice dropped, barely above a whisper - "and I
see shadows of what is to come for you."

Erestor took a deep breath, feeling the small blossoms of pain in his
chest. The hound shuffled forward, easing his wet snout beneath
Erestor's hand, licking down his palm.

"So when a friend asked me to find you…" Her voice trailed off and
Erestor wondered who that friend had been. "He gave me the power to
bring you back, long enough to finish this - "

"Ailla?" A curly brown head appeared in the door. "Are you - ?" A
second pair of white eyes rimmed in blue fixed on his face. "You
wake." She frowned, glaring at the hound. "And have been found."

"Mumma, I - "

The woman stepped into the room, wiping blue stained hands on a
similarly stained cloth. "I need you to help with the dyeing, Ailla."
Seeing the girl's mouth open to protest, the woman shook her head,
curls dancing across her brow. "Now. Go. You as well," she told the
hound, but when he barked furiously and snapped his teeth at her, she
relented, waving him back.

The girl paused in the door, glancing back over her shoulder. "Later,"
she said, "can I see your ears, Elf?" A glare from her mother made her
scamper down the hall.

Turning back to Erestor, still shaking her head slightly at her
daughter, though a faint smile lingered at the corner of her mouth,
she surveyed the dark Elf. "You died, almost, for a time. You are not
immortal, stranger, you are merely long-lived," she informed him
tartly, "and your body looks as though it forgot that for a time."

He whispered, "It feels … much the same." He nodded at the tray,
licking his dry lips.

Perching on the edge of the bed, with one wary eye on the hound, she
brought a cup of water to his lips. She watched him drink, and wiped
the spilled liquid from his neck, taking care when touching the
injured flesh. "As for time, you have little enough left. My daughter,
her abilities, I can barely understand them, but I am a simple
peasant." Her eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence that denied
her words. "He told us that if you went to the Halls alone this time,
then alone you would remain. She has seen what you are, what you have
been and done, how you felt for the golden one, and she knew you had
earned one final chance." She tipped the cup to his chin again; he
swallowed with greater care. "She fought for you, do not dishonour her
sacrifice." Returning the cup to the tray, she rose from the bed.
"Your injuries were most severe. For many, we can dose you for the
pain, to dull the agony you will suffer as you go to the golden one."

Her voice caught, as though she asked a question with her statements.
He shook his head and turned his face away. The hound, sensing his
unease, nudged his hand with a wet nose. The woman sighed. The whisper
of her skirts on the rough wood floor announced her withdrawal from
the room.

He sat then, tottering slightly on the edge of the bed as he examined
the length of his beaten body. He reached for his clothing, folded
atop a nearby chair, and pulled it on. It smelled faintly of mint and
lavender from laundering. He pulled on his boots, lacing them slowly,
no movement without pain. The blades were last, securing the straps
over his shoulder. When he stood, the hound whined softly and he bent
to quiet it with a hand over its mouth.

When the woman returned to the room, he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

"I was not difficult to find, was I?" Glorfindel knelt before the low
stone altar, fingers curling and uncurling around the shaft of the
spear. Broad shoulder tensed beneath the thin tunic as Erestor stepped
from beyond the line of the trees. "My men rest just over that ridge."

He had followed the army's trail for less than a day before reaching
the river and the banks littered with broken, overgrown statues. His
words floated across the empty clearing, skimming across the top of
the thick morning mist. "You owe me an accounting."

The golden head rose at the empty voice, turning enough to give
Erestor a sneering half smile. "Ah, friend, how do you fare?" He
tilted his head. "Did you…rest well?"

"No." Wind caught at his tunic; the wide sleeve flapped in the strong
breeze, but he did not move, a cold calm sweeping over him. "I
wept…inside my soul."

Glorfindel stood slowly, turning to face the dark elf, opening his
mouth to speak further, but Erestor had moved with great speed, and
even as one hand slid to grasp the thin blade tucked into his braid,
the other reached for Glorfindel's shoulder. The force threw them to
the ground. Cool mist washed over bare skin. A thick root pressed
against his hip. He raised his head, meeting Glorfindel's eyes.

Astonishment flooded the blue orbs, and slowly, a genuine smile
creased the harsh mouth. "I always knew that…" He coughed and blood
trickled over his bottom lip. "And I always forgot."

Erestor stared at the dark eyes he knew so well, the colour of sea and
sky swirling together. How many times had he held this gaze in his
own? How often had he pressed his brow to this one and sought to drown
in the clear depths? The blade nicked his own flesh; blood trickled
along his bare arm, snapping him back. When he spoke, his breath
ruffled golden hair. "In another time," he murmured, voice so soft it
was mere suggestion, brushing against Glorfindel's lips, "in another
place" - he tasted the salt of a tear in the corner of his mouth and
blinked fiercely - "you were not my enemy." The body beneath him
bucked and he tasted blood, fresh and thick.

He eased back, far enough to duck his head and rest it over the golden
elf's heart. The hoarse shouts and trampling of feet sounded as though
from a distance, and when he glanced up, his vision exploded in a
shower of bright stars and he knew only peace.

~~~~~~~~~~

Silence echoed. He sought to wander but simply sat and sifted through
his memories, shattered and disjointed, fluttering through his mind.
Fragments, as though he watched his life through a broken window…

- rich laughter overlaid by delicate music, ravensara sitting heavy on
the gentle breeze, the soft touch of a calloused thumb trailing over
the sensitive skin covering the notch at the base of his neck -

The bright colours of the tapestry blended into chaos. He stood and
took a careful step back, peering at the cloth, and then another step,
until the colours took form and became an intricate, though bloody,
scene of a warrior Elf in the arms of another. The sweep of gold
became the mass of hair tangled in the lap of the second being, a dark
Elf with haunting eyes. He squinted at the tapestry, the wisp of a
long-forgotten memory floating at the very edges of his mind, and then
glanced down. A carefully braided section of golden hair slid forward
over his shoulder.

"The history of the world," a voice murmured from behind him. "Woven
as history itself unfolds. Look."

A pale hand pointed over his shoulder to where a new tapestry hung,
next to the one that had caught his attention. He blinked, and a third
appeared, and then another. Spinning on a heel, he regarded the Elf
standing close behind him. Dark brown eyes held his own - the Elf from
the tapestry. The second Elf, he amended, for was he himself not the
first?

"Tor?" The name slipped from his lips.

Tears glittered in the brown eyes. "You know me?"

A hesitant hand lifted. "My memories, they are yet clouded, but my
body" - he moved forward - "knows you, my fingers ache to touch you,
to taste you" - he tipped his head, so he could brush his lips against
those of the dark Elf - "I feel that we are known to one another." He
wiped away the tear that glimmered on the high cheekbone.

"We are. We have been known to one another for a very long time."

"Will you tell me about it?"

The dark Elf stepped away, gently disentangling himself from the
other. "One day," he promised softly, "when next we meet." A few steps
back and he was swallowed by the dark.

"Erestor…"

~~~~~~~~~~

"Erestor, wake."

Warmth and coolness passed over his face. He slit open an eye - large
white clouds chasing each other across the sun, casting shadows on his
face. Someone poked him in the belly, hard. He opened the other eye,
sitting up - and came face to face with a pair of green eyes under a
sweep of thick midnight hair.

"Who…?" He lifted a hand to touch the Elf child but a second grasped
his fingers and held them tight. Turning his head with a toss of fine
sand, it took him only a moment to realize who sat beside him, golden
hair dazzling in the sun, and a shining pair of bright blue eyes, the
colour of sea and sky together.

The End