Title: Kinslayer: Numb 
Author: Merrie (merenwen_amras@yahoo.ca) 
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor  
Rating: R 
Summary: The final fight of the Balrog Slayer 
Disclaimer: As per usual: not mine, etc., etc. Except the plot, this I claim 
as my own. 
Warnings: Hmmm, come on, don’t make me tell the ending… 
Authors Note: This is a continuation, in some measure, of the story 
Kinslayer, with the same pairing and the same general story line. 
Obviously, this fic blows canon apart, but then, don’t they all? Enjoy. 
Feedback on this one is most appreciated, as always. 
Postscript: My thanks to Lae and Alfalfa.  






The dark Elf slept alone. Though a chill wind swept through his chamber, 
he lay upon the low pallet without cover, the sharp lines of his features – 
the high slanted cheekbones, the edge of a pointed ear, the dark slash of 
his brows – highlighted by the dim wavering light of a squat candle. He 
could not dream of people he loved or places he had visited, but 
wandered through the dark shadows and corners of his mind, reaching for 
wisps of memories that turned to nothing in his outstretched fingers. 
More solid memories then, the earthy scent of root vegetables, the rustle 
of rough wool, the scrape of heavy wood against stone…

“My Lord Erestor?”

At the soft and gentle voice, the Elf leapt to awareness, startling the 
young maiden sent to awaken him. He glanced quickly out the open 
window; a few stars winked overhead, peeking out from behind heavy 
swollen clouds. Rain, he could smell it, the cold rains marking late 
autumn. Waving aside the hasty apologies of the serving maid – her 
entrance had snuffed out his sole candle, plunging his tiny chamber into 
murky darkness - he reached for his boots, resting neatly at the end of his 
pallet. “Where are the Guards? I do not hear them and their watches 
should be changing...”

The young woman folded an arm around her middle and shivered as wind 
swept through the chamber. In her plump hand, the flame of her own 
candle danced. “There was trouble along the borders, they ride there 
now.”

The dark head lifted, fingers pausing on the worn leather laces of his 
boots. “They are gone? Why was I not informed?” 

His motions became hasty, and the maid stepped forward a few paces. 
She dropped to her knees, set the iron candleholder on the floor and 
reached out her free hand as though to stop him. “The healers feared you 
were most gravely ill,” she explained, gently. Her bright blue eyes 
narrowed as they coursed over his face, searching for signs of illness. 
“You simply lay here for many days – “ 

“How many?” 

The sharp tone startled her and she leaned away from him. “This is the 
sixth night now.” Wisps of bronze hair tumbled from her kerchief as she 
shook her head. “Do you remember nothing?”

Erestor dropped his head into his hands, bracing his elbows on his knees. 
The tousled bumps of his warrior’s braids felt rough against his palms. A 
hand moved slowly, resting on his breastbone. He spoke softy. “My chest 
aches, though I remember taking no blow.” He shook his head and 
returned his attention to the maid, gesturing for her to rise. “What 
happens now? Why am I disturbed?” 

“Riders arrived, asking only for you.” She halted in the doorway to reply, 
tilting her head in thought; the soft edges of her face glowed in the light 
of her candle. “Though they were quiet, I believe they are emissaries – “

“They are no emissaries.” His tunic lay across the back of a chair, the 
only other piece of furniture in the room. “They are Elves.“ The certainty 
in his muffled voice – he yanked the short tunic down over his head and 
stood - startled even himself. “How did they find me?”

“It is no secret that you reside here.” Voices from the end of the hall 
caught her attention and she glanced up the darkened passage before 
turning back to the Elf. “I directed them toward the main hall. They have 
only just arrived…” She nodded slightly with an apologetic smile. “I 
would not have bothered you, but they said it was a matter of great 
import.”

“With Elves, it always is.”

The smile dissolved and the girl took a half step into the hall, drawn by 
the brief sound of a wailing child. “My Lord, if there is nothing further, I 
must return to my own chambers…” 

“I will entertain them alone. My thanks, you may return to your rest.” He 
inclined his head in appreciation and stepped past the young maiden, 
slipping into the passage. 

The wall sconces burned low, quivering in his silent wake, as he followed 
his own shadow, thrown forward by the intermittent light. One hand 
tugged at the hem of his tunic, the other pressed against the sudden 
flaring of pain in his chest. Bracing his shoulder against one side of the 
heavy double doors, Erestor stepped into the main hall, sharp eyes 
sweeping across the dim interior, locking with a familiar gray gaze. 

“Elrohir.” 

The son of Elrond stood near the hearth on the western side of the room, 
draped in a travelling cloak; peeping from beneath the bottom hem was 
the silver end of his bow. A beautiful smile spread across Elrohir’s face 
as he saw his former tutor. He crossed the hall, pushing back his hood, 
throwing himself into shadow as he blocked the fire. The empty hall, 
Erestor noted, was strewn with the remains of a meal – skins and tankards 
upended on the long tables, benches scattered across the soiled and torn 
furs, a set of dicing pieces glinting in a stray shaft of light. 

Erestor turned to his friend. 

Elrohir’s strong arms encircled Erestor’s body in a tight embrace; he 
pulled back to study the face of the dark Elf. “You look…harder.” Gentle 
fingers, rough from sword and bow, floated up to trace the faintest of 
lines down Erestor’s brow, before sweeping across the prominent braids 
Erestor wore.  

“It has been a hard time, Elrohir.” A weary but pleased smile crossed 
Erestor’s face. He rested a hand on the shoulder of the half-Elf; the wool 
was cold, he had only been indoors a short time. “How do you fare, my 
friend? And Inwe,” – he grinned suddenly – “what of your mate?” 

The gray eyes slid from Erestor’s face to something beyond his head, 
deeper into the darkness of the hall. “We are well enough, Erestor. She 
remained at Imladris and - ” 

“Not only a hard time, but a long time as well.” 

Erestor turned on a heel at the interruption; he felt Elrohir stepping aside. 
The Lord of Rivendell waited motionless in the far corner, his travelling 
clothes wrinkled and stained. “It is not such a long time, not for an Elf. 
Have you been sleeping in the mud?” 

“It may be an entire lifetime to a mortal,” responded Elrond, hands 
moving beneath his robes. “Or simply the ending of one.” 

“You speak always in riddles.” Erestor reached a pale hand to push back 
the braids draped across his shoulder. “And I have no use now for your 
riddles. Why have you come, Elrond?”

A small smile flirted with the corner of the Lord of Rivendell’s face. He 
stepped to his side, dropping onto a nearby bench. “Direct as always, 
Counsellor.”

“I always failed to see the value in being anything but.” He cast a furtive 
glance at Elrohir’s stony face and took a step closer to the older Elf. “We 
waste time on pleasantries, my Lord. What do you seek here?” 

“You must have expected me. I came in an effort to convince you of what 
my missives would not. We sent them, every fortnight, and never 
received acknowledgement.” Elrond dismissed this with a brief shake of 
his head. “Please, Erestor, sit with us, there is much to be said this night 
and time wears thin.” The dark Elf hesitated as Elrohir slid onto the 
bench beside his father. Erestor remained standing and Elrond’s face 
hardened, the pale skin tightening across his cheekbones. “Erestor, be 
seated!”

“You forget, Elrond” – the heavy emphasis on the Lord’s name was lost 
on neither of the Imladris Elves – “that you have no authority to order me 
anything. I think your time here was a waste. If you will excuse me…” 
He ducked his head with the barest formality and began to turn away.

Elrond’s warm hand shot out to grip his wrist, preventing his departure. 
He half-rose, speaking with his face close to that of the dark Elf. "Erestor, 
we have come a far distance and ask only that you listen to our words. 
We do not seek to deceive you in any way; your mistrust at this time is 
both misplaced” – his eyes flashed – “and quite unbecoming. Please, 
now, spare us some of your time, for the sake of any regard you once 
held for me and my family."

An awkward moment ensued, before Erestor murmured, “You know I 
held you all in highest regard,” and Elrohir released a heavy breath as his 
former tutor slid slowly onto the empty bench across from the table.  

Elrond braced his elbows on the scarred table, pushing aside a wooden 
plate smeared with thick grease without concealing a brief moue of 
distaste. His eyes bored into those of Erestor. “You are well?” he 
demanded without preamble. “You have … made peace with your past? 
No longer are you burdened by your memories?”

Erestor’s gaze slid to Elrohir, but the gray eyes rested on his father’s face, 
as intent on the proceedings as the dark Elf himself. “I found what I 
sought, as my own correspondence to Glorfindel indicated. Did he not 
share that information?” Elrohir shook his head, a look of bewilderment 
crossing his features. “Ai, he did not. Yet, is that truly the matter you 
wish to discuss? It seems a rather long journey to retrieve such trivial 
information.”

“In truth, the matter we seek you for concerns Glorfindel.” The low and 
quite serious voice explained, “He is dying.”

“Of what?” Erestor laughed with evident bitterness, eyes hooded. “The 
tediousness of his position? Or has a new lover simply misused him 
exceedingly?”

“Erestor!” The great dismay in Elrohir’s voice caused Erestor to duck his 
head in a sudden tide of shame. “You cannot view this with indifference 
or ill humour.” He leaned forward, laying a gentle hand over that of the 
dark Elf. “Father does not speak in jest. Glorfindel dies, my friend, his 
true death.” 

He pressed his palms into the table in an effort to steady himself.  “Why, 
then, does he not simply journey to the Gray Havens, rather than 
suffering at Imladris? Why does he remain if his life is … draining 
away?” Erestor glanced from father to son, even as they exchanged a 
similar look, and frowned. “As his lord, he owes you some measure of 
loyalty.” The wide shoulders rose and fell beneath the dull brown cloth. 
“Why do you not simply order him to depart?”

Elrohir’s dark brows drew together, a line appearing down the smooth 
forehead. “It is no longer so simple as taking the boat, Erestor. Glorfindel 
dies.”

“A mortal death.” Elrond’s words dropped as though formed of stone.

Silence descended. Erestor stilled, head tilted down; a grimace crossed 
his face and he pressed his hand against his chest briefly. His voice was 
distant when he spoke. “I … I had heard something of that, further to the 
west, there were rumours of such…though none were spoken loudly.”

“Believe the rumours,” Elrond responded gently. “Though none save 
ourselves have firm knowledge, they are but the truth, in this matter at the 
least.”

Erestor pushed himself out from behind the table and began stalking 
toward the doors. Spinning on a boot heel, he crossed the length of the 
hall, head down, one hand beating a silent tattoo against his leg. “What 
do you seek me for, then? I have no skill at healing, as well you know.”

Elrohir stood as well, and moved to keep pace with the dark Elf. “We 
wish you to return to Imladris with us, to see Glorfindel. I thought that 
much apparent…”

“Did he ask for me?”

“No…” Elrohir glanced quickly at his father as Erestor turned past him. 
“Not as such.”

“Then he does not want me there, for whatever reasons.” He had paced 
these dark stones before, his feet now knowing – and avoiding - the worn 
hollows. “Little matter, though, as I am needed here.” He paused before 
the fire pit, kicking aside a stray shard of wood.

“Glorfindel has greater need of you than do these Men.”  

“I have made myself a new life here, away from Imladris and her people, 
and it is one in which he no longer plays a part.” He turned to face the 
pair of Elves, watching him from the shadows with the stillness of 
statues. “I swore to them an oath, Elrohir, I have a duty to keep these 
Men safe.” 

Elrond leaned forward, braided hair swinging to shield his face until only 
his eyes were visible, burning darkly as he watched Erestor begin to 
move again. “And what of your duty to the Balrog Slayer?” 

Erestor shook his head slightly. “What do I owe him now? He has long 
since made his choice.” A grimace split his lips; he pressed his fingers 
firmly against the startling ache in his chest. 

“Are you unwell, Erestor?” Elrond stood of a sudden, his lean form 
moving with ease to Erestor’s side. 

“It is nothing…a small pain.” Shaking his head in dismissal, he attempted 
to step past the Elf lord, but Elrohir blocked his path. 

“How were you wounded? When? Your treatment, who administered it?” 
Elrond grabbed Erestor’s arm, fingers tight even through the thick wool 
of his tunic. “Erestor?”

The dark Elf shook his head again, eyes searching Elrond’s. “I took no 
wound, this pain is new.” He grimaced again. “Elrond, what is it?”

“Your bond, you and Glorfindel,” – the old face was solemn – “you share 
his pain now.”

“And there is much of it,” Elrohir murmured. His hands wrapped gently 
around Erestor’s arms, steadying his friend. “Please, Erestor, return with 
us.” With halting steps, Elrohir led the dark Elf back to the bench, then 
knelt down before him; his gray eyes pleaded. “This is a burden he can 
no longer bear on his own.” 

“And you cannot take it for him?” Accusing eyes glared at the Elf lord 
over Elrohir’s shoulder. “Elrond, greatest of healers amongst Men and 
Elves alike, with knowledge gained through all the Ages, and now you 
cannot even give relief to one of your oldest friends? How is this beyond 
your powers yet within my own?” Pain narrowed the dark brows and the 
faint line grew deeper. “All this time and now you come…By the Valar, 
Elrond, what is it you want from me?”

Elrond shook his head. “Not I,” he replied softly, “Glorfindel. He needs 
your strength.”

Erestor turned his face aside, dropping his chin to his left shoulder. 
Splinters from the rough bench caught the sword-toughened skin of his 
fingers as he pressed his hands into the wood. “Only once have I ever 
denied him. Even knowing the need, I hated myself for having to leave, I 
even hated Fin for a while, when all he ever wanted was for me to stay 
with him.” He stood, and brushed through the wall the Elves made, 
shrugging aside their hands, speaking with his back to them. “I must tell 
them where I go… There are watches to organize, belongings to 
gather…” His voice trailed off before surging back. “I shall be ready to 
depart before dawn. Wait for me down by the stables.” 

“Hold, Erestor.” Elrond’s outstretched hand grasped at the departing Elf. 
“You must understand what it is you return to. I cannot have you enter 
into this blindly.”

“Glorfindel dies, what more must I be told?” 

“The manner of his death, his refusal to allow me to treat him, he suffers 
greatly, needlessly…”

Erestor halted briefly at the entrance to the hall, turning his head to 
glance at the other Elves. “You may tell me on the journey,” he replied, 
and pushed through the doors. The heavy portals slammed shut behind 
him and the gray eyes turned on each other. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elrond and Elrohir waited silently inside the north door of the stables, 
pale cloaked shadows standing in the fading dark, gripping the manes of 
their mounts in their hands. They stood unmoving, keen eyes skimming 
along the wooden walls, glancing between the thrown open doors, easily 
picking out the movement of Men through the village. Stable boys 
ducking past with open mouths, intent on their chores yet distracted by 
the two Firstborn, a few women marching with baskets under arms and 
on heads, even a dog running madly from person to person, biting at 
exposed ankles. One of the horses snorted and blew, and Elrohir reached 
out an idle hand to stroke its nose. He drew his fingers through the thick 
winter coat covering the muzzle, stroking over and over, gray eyes 
sliding to his father’s face. 

“We have done the honourable thing, Father,” was his comment, dark 
brows drawing together slightly.

“Aye.” The softly spoken words, rolling Elvish with a hint of doubt, 
barely disturbed the quiet of the dawn. Elrond glanced again at the sky, at 
the line of pink spreading like blood across the horizon. He shook his 
head slightly, dark hair sliding across his cheek within the depths of his 
hood. “We shall see how this plays out.”

Elrohir’s horse shook its head, and he moved his gentle ministrations 
farther down the coarse neck. “It was not an easy decision to make, not 
on either of our ends. He has sacrificed much these last years…the only 
family he has ever remembered.” A small, sad smile crossed his face, 
fleeting in the cold dark. “And now he stands to lose Glorfindel again.”

There was a rustle of cloth as Elrond shifted, pinning Elrohir with his 
intense gaze. “Whatever he sought, do you think Glorfindel’s life a 
worthy sacrifice?”

Elrohir turned away from the force of his father’s stare; he kicked at the 
floor of the stable, scattering loose straw. Dust motes danced before him. 
“How could he know the cost of his choice? “

“Erestor knew. Whatever his past, whatever his actions, he is no fool.”

“Father, he did everything to keep Glorfindel safe, that is why he tried to 
split their bond, when he broke his pledge. Regardless of his faults, he 
adored Glorfindel.” His fingers slowed, trailing down the thick neck of 
his mount. “Yet, adoration does not make a relationship. Like any other, 
he struggled within it, you have little knowledge, he did his best – “

“And his best was insufficient.” 

“The fault is not Erestor’s, not in this!” The sudden violence in Elrohir’s 
voice startled his horse; the half Elf’s hand soothed the beast with 
instinctive actions, sliding fingers along the long nose. “The blame 
cannot be laid at his feet – “

Erestor’s soft words sounded behind the pair. “There is sufficient blame 
to be laid around,” he murmured, passing into the murky depths of the 
stable,” but save the laying for later, there is little time to linger, you 
stated.” At a gentle click of Erestor’s tongue, his horse rose within his 
box, shuffling forward to bump against the wooden slats. The gelding 
butted his shoulder, large yellow teeth nipping at his cloak. 

“We must be swift, yes. We have very little time remaining.” 

Elrohir’s gray eyes rested on the dark Elf as he led the gelding from his 
stall. Erestor’s pale fingers quickly lashed down his saddlepack. “Your 
life, Erestor…” the half Elf whispered, head shaking gently, ”do you not 
feel as though it should be more?”

Erestor could sense the two Elves mounting behind him; father and son 
were beautiful riders to watch, using knees and voice to guide their 
horses, leaving hands free for weapons or lovers. The dark Elf spun on a 
heel and the gelding followed, his shod hooves ringing on the stones, 
throwing sparks. “Only at times.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elrohir stared at the blue flames in the heart of the fire; his eyes burned 
with fatigue. Without awareness, his fingers ran the sharpening stone 
along the length of his blade. A strong gust of cool wind, bringing with it 
the sharp scent of rain, ripped at his cloak, and he pulled his hood farther 
over his head. He glanced up at his father; Elrond kneeled before his 
saddlebags, surveying the contents of his healing pouch. As Elrohir 
watched, Elrond sank back and ran a weary hand over his eyes. “Father, 
you must take some rest.”

“We must journey longer than three days before I take rest.” The Lord of 
Rivendell shook his head. “And sleep continues to elude me. My 
worries” – he turned to glance at the slumbering form of Erestor, who 
moved restlessly in repose – “have become overwhelming in the last 
years.”

The hands in his lap paused and Elrohir’s head tilted. “Your worries?” 
He, too, looked at the dark Elf, lying near the horses in the back of the 
cave. “You got what you wanted, Father, Erestor gone from Rivendell, 
Glorfindel to yourself. What right do you have to be disconcerted now?”

Elrond glanced at his son, eyes coursing over his features – the dark gray 
eyes, the high slanted cheekbones - the achingly familiar features of his 
mother. “Mayhap that is what I wanted…my selfishness knew no limits 
in that.” A small smile flirted with the corner of his face, before 
disappearing. “Glorfindel – he is a great being, a thing to be admired – “

“He is not a statue, to be adored and displayed,” Elrohir sneered. He 
poked at the fire near his feet with the tip of his sword. “And neither is he 
a toy, to be fought over and owned.”

“What of a pet, then, to be held under my rein?” The distant voice did not 
rise above the snapping of the fire, the brief whinny of Elrond’s mount, 
or the suddenly fierce rain on the rocks beyond their cave entrance. He 
shrugged a shoulder, and began to repack his healing pouch, fingers 
caressing the leather-bound vials. “It is of little matter now. The sea calls 
to me, it has for many years now, and I long to rejoin your mother. 
Celebrian is one of the faces haunting my waking dreams.” Elrond 
sniffed a dried brown plant, setting it aside. “Our time here is ended, 
Elrohir, my work almost done. There is only this one matter remaining.”

Elrohir returned to sharpening his sword, testing the blade’s sharpness 
with the blunt edge of his thumb. Dark hair slid over his shoulders 
beneath his hood, as he tilted his head forward, shielding his eyes. “How 
can you say the time of the Elves is over? Why? How can that be when – 
“

“When what?” 

The half-Elf felt his father still. The stone rasped sharply, too loud, and 
he threw a quick glance at Erestor, who remained asleep, face turned 
from both father and son. “When I still feel the desire to remain here...”

“Do you not feel the call of the sea?” Elrond persisted. He jammed a soft 
cloth bag of sweet-smelling herbs into his pack. “You must yearn for the 
West!” 

Shaking his head slightly, Elrohir stared down at the blade now resting 
across his lap.

“Elrohir?” 

The near panic in his father’s voice prompted the half-Elf’s response. 
“Inwe…” He ran his thumb along the blade again, nicking his smooth 
skin on a tiny imperfection. “She has felt the call for many years as well, 
though she has not taken the boat to the West. She stays and fights by my 
side, out of love, out of honour and duty. This decision, whether to leave 
the Firstborn, I have struggled with it very long, Father. Would I remain 
here in Middle Earth, at her expense, for surely she would remain with 
me? Or, at the expense of Elladan?” Elrohir tossed the stone away in 
frustration, and reached for the sheath at his side, sliding the blade into 
the tooled leather. “For we long ago determined that the final decision of 
one would be that of the other. He feels the call, he had prepared to take 
the ship before we even journeyed for Erestor, not knowing my choice. 
How do I ask them to remain here, for my sake, on my whim alone?”

Elrond’s breath caught in his throat. “Has this choice been made?”

Wetness shone in Elrohir’s eyes when he glanced at Elrond across the 
leaping flames. “Can you not see, Father? I would seek your guidance, 
did I not know you would but encourage me to sail with the remains of 
my family. How can I linger here, when you have already lost your 
daughter?”

“No.” His motions held barely restrained violence as he finished packing. 
“No, I see nothing.” He stood abruptly, tugging the ends of his cloak 
around his body. “The decision will be yours alone, as all ever have 
been.” Stepping past the fire, causing a shower of sparks in his wake, 
Elrond departed the cave. 

Dropping his head to his drawn-up knees, Elrohir huddled in his cloak, 
the fire warming his legs. He shook, feeling tears threaten to leak from 
the corner of his eyes. He dashed them away with his fist, and reached 
again for his sharpening stone; the grating of the stone on metal as he 
worked his knives echoed through the cave. At length, he heard Erestor 
stirring; he bent his head to his work. The dark Elf’s motions were silent 
and he did not realize the others’ nearness until he felt the weight of an 
arm across his shoulders, and lifted his head to meet Erestor’s warm eyes. 

“You do not fare well, my friend.” Erestor slid down beside the half-Elf. 
“He will return soon, if there is a matter you wish to discuss…” He 
rummaged through the leather food sack he had retrieved.

Elrohir drew in a deep breath, and swiped at the tears lingering on his 
face. “He has little patience these days, does my father. I strive for 
compassion, none know better than myself what tragedies he endures. His 
people depart these shores, his power wanes, and now, his family cracks 
apart beneath his very gaze.“ The fire threw wavering shadows into the 
corners of the cave, reflecting off the unsheathed metal of Elrond’s 
weapons. “Where do my loyalties lie, Erestor?”

A wry smile slid briefly across the dark Elf’s face; his fingers tore at the 
piece of dried fruit in his hand. “I am not the best Elf to be answering that 
question.” 

“Your advice guides elements of my life as much as it does that of my 
father. It may not have seemed long since your departure, but I felt your 
loss acutely.” Elrohir tilted his head back against the wall of the cave, 
digging his chin into the fur lining his cloak. “Elladan, he grew more 
distant from me, or I from him, that is closer to the truth, I believe. Even 
Inwe…and her I love almost more than my brother.” Sighing heavily, 
Elrohir glanced at his friend. “What do I do?”

“I could ask the same questions of you, Elrohir,” Erestor responded. His 
teeth gleamed in the half-light as he tore at the chunk in his hand. “This 
matter with Glorfindel…who knows how this shall end? Do I truly owe 
him this?”

Elrohir nodded, eyes fixed on something beyond the wall at which he 
stared. “When you see him, you will know. It goes poorly with him. I 
have seen death before, Erestor, among mortals and Firstborn, on the 
battlefield, both swift and slow, and yet never have I seen the agony the 
Balrog Slayer now suffers. Returning with us,” – he turned his gaze to 
Erestor’s face – “it was your only choice. You will not regret seeing him 
this last time.”

“I gave so much, Elrohir, so much of myself to him,” the dark Elf 
whispered, tossing the remains of the piece of fruit into the fire, watching 
it flare briefly, “and yet, I still feel guilt, as though even that were not 
enough. I wondered if only I did not know how … “ His voice trailed off; 
he pushed a stray braid from his face. “I wondered if I did not know how 
to love, if I had never known.”

Silence then, broken by the occasional snort from one of the horses and 
the breaking of a charred log in the firepit. Elrohir shivered once, as rain 
swept into the cave on a blast of air. 

“Elrohir!” Elrond rounded the corner into the cave, moving silent as a 
shadow. “Come, wake Erestor and pack the horses.” He caught sight of 
the dark Elf sitting near his son, and started. “The storm worsens, we 
must hurry.”

Erestor stuffed the dried fruit rings back into the food sack as he stood. 
“Is something amiss?” He stomped on the fire, scattering ashes under his 
heel, and kicked aside the blackened pot of water heating there. He 
whistled sharply and Altaire shook himself awake with a harsh snort. 

“I have no desire to linger here any longer.” Elrond swung his packs atop 
the back of his mount, securing it with a jerk. “Hurry! Why are your 
actions so slow?”

“Father!” Elrohir wrapped the leather reins around his hand, tugging 
futilely; his horse refused to move. “This is most unlike you. Has 
something happened with Glorfindel? Have you seen something?” He 
turned to speak softly to the beast, whispering urgently in the flattened 
ear. 

Erestor glanced at the Lord of Imladris at Elrohir’s questions. Fingers 
paused on the glossy coat of his mount. Altaire tossed his head and 
Erestor loosened his hold on the straps.

Elrond’s gray eyes darted across to meet Erestor’s, then focused on the 
shoulder of his horse. His cloak swirled as he mounted. “Things go ill 
with him. It is hazy, indistinct, but I think he seeks to take his own life.”

Erestor released a breath he had not realized he had been holding and 
spun on a heel, leading Altaire to the mouth of the cave. “Then you are 
right, we must not remain.” 
 
Water stung Erestor’s exposed flesh as Altaire edged down the cliff trail, 
following Elrond. The trail was little more than a narrow path cut from 
the rock and to their right was only a yawning canyon, swallowed by the 
dark and the rain. The dark Elf huddled into his cloak, hearing Elrohir’s 
mount skid on a loose rush of crumbled rock behind him. Cold leather 
creaked as he shifted in the saddle, over the flapping of his hood in the 
wind gusting across the rock face, over the indignant snorting of the 
horses. Gold bosses dug into the flesh of his hand as he gripped the reins; 
his breath frosted. He lost himself, staring at the back of Elrond swaying 
in outline before him, though he saw both another time and another body, 
both of them golden. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The travelling companions moved with haste for days, crossing the lands 
of Middle Earth, wrapped in silence and secrets as the hooves of their 
mounts ate at the lengths. Heavy clouds of rain crossed the sky, leading 
Erestor back to Imladris, back to the Balrog Slayer. He pulled Altaire 
through swollen rivers tumbling over jagged rock, then tenderly 
bandaged the ragged slashes along belly and flanks; he huddled within 
his hood, water spangling his lashes, as rain stung his face. He responded 
quietly and yet asked no questions, and Elrond and Elrohir, though often 
in deep conversation, respected his moods and pushed the horses to 
greater speed. The Elf lord tried several times to initiate conversations 
with the dark Elf but Erestor pulled away, not yet prepared for the 
information, though it lay only a few days’ ride away. 

With the crossing of the border to Imladris came the easing of tension in 
Erestor’s chest. He first noticed the deceptive lightness as the horses 
cantered down the wide paths through the thick forest. Elrohir steered the 
riders toward the lesser-known paths travelled primarily by the Guards; 
strewn with dark rock and broken branches, the paths forced the horses to 
slow and pick their way over the debris. 

A deep sigh sounded from the Lord of Imladris shortly after midday.  “It 
seems ages since I last felt the warmth of the sun.” Elrond threw back his 
hood and closed his eyes as he passed through the stray patches of 
sunlight. 

Erestor nodded toward the east, where clouds the gray of his sword grew 
fat with rain. “Enjoy it while you can. Winter is nearly upon us.”

“Ai, Erestor, you have changed little these last years. Always the staid 
and somber counsellor.” Elrond kneed his horse, drawing to Erestor’s 
side. The path widened enough here for the two to ride abreast, though 
branches caught Erestor’s cloak and snagged his gelding’s mane. Beneath 
his robes, Elrond’s hand settled on the burnished gold hilt of his sword; 
he leaned slightly forward. “Someone follows,” he murmured. 

A small smile crept onto Erestor’s face. He tilted his head, listening to the 
forest – the rattle of branches in a sudden gust of wind, the steady clop of 
horse’s hooves, water dripping holes in age-worn rock, the screech of a 
disturbed eagle. “Somehow has followed for greater than four leagues,” 
he replied, glancing aside at Elrohir, who pulled his mount up and spun 
him in a sharp ring. “You grow soft, my friend. Elrohir, is all well?” 

The twin grinned suddenly, and kicked his horse in the flanks. Hooves 
clawed at hardening earth as they climbed the ridge above the path. “It is 
Inwe,” he shouted over his shoulder, and disappeared into the thick pine 
in a swirl of dark wool.

Turning his own mount’s head back up the path, Elrond nodded. “She 
leads the Guard along the borders. I named her Captain when Glorfindel 
first travelled to the White City, and then again, when it became clear to 
all at Imladris that Glorfindel grew unable to fulfill his duties.” Absently, 
he fingered the studs decorating the worn leather of his reins; their 
burnished surface revealed the action as a nervous habit. “She has 
performed admirably, but then, Glorfindel trained her himself. His skills 
at war…” Elrond released a heavy breath and gazed up to the ridge. 
“None compare to his skills, the grand reputation he has earned as the 
Balrog Slayer pales when compared to the weight of his actions and 
abilities. And yet, it only serves to make his fate all the more tragic.”

Erestor allowed the gelding his head; he stared into the trees, using his 
knees to keep his seat. The fingers of his left hand curled around the hilt 
of the knife tucked into his belt and those of his right tapped frantically 
against his leg. Eerily quiet, he no longer heard the muffled sounds of 
their escort. He started when Elrond leaned across to press his hand over 
the tapping fingers. Angry dark eyes met bland gray ones, and Erestor 
pulled his hand away, keeping it still. 

“None blame you, my friend,” Elrond said, the soft words barely caught 
by the wind. “None save yourself, mayhap?” With a raised eyebrow, the 
Lord of Imladris drew back in his own saddle. He took a deep breath and 
his gaze wandered further down the path, where the overhanging 
branches created a tunnel with the ground. “There are words on 
Glorfindel we must still…share. They will not be easy words, Erestor –“

“But they may wait a short while longer.” 

Elrond did not react to the harsh words, other than to snap, “Not much 
longer.”

The snort of a horse drew their attention, and they turned to the ridge 
where Inwe – seated atop a golden horse he recognized as offspring to 
Asfaloth, a gelding named simply Dima – and Elrohir were sliding down 
the steep embankment; the shadow and the sun they were, black and gold, 
as he and Glorfindel had once been. Green eyes sparkled in greeting as 
Inwe nodded at Erestor, but she did not speak as her mount moved before 
the other horses. Elrohir paused, waiting for his father and Erestor to 
pass, and kneed his own horse into line. Inwe set a hard pace, the hooves 
of her steady horse knowing the way to his well-earned bed. 

Near the edge of the forest, Inwe drew aside and allowed the Elf lord to 
ease into her position. Elrond led the small party across the bridge, where 
Erestor peered at the water tumbling over rocks below, and beneath the 
graceful entry arch into Imladris’ courtyard. Damp leaves clung to the 
stones and the plants creeping along the walls turned their brown heads 
back toward the earth. Erestor eased his gelding to a halt; his dark eyes 
glanced across the yard as he dismounted, seeking – and not finding - the 
familiar figure of Lindir atop the stairs. Altaire snorted and tossed his 
head, stamping his front hooves impatiently. Erestor’s gaze slid across to 
meet Elrond’s, and then they both tossed their reins to Inwe and ran 
across the courtyard.

In the empty halls, their boot heels rang out, unmuffled by the hanging 
tapestries. Though near dusk, close enough for shadows to creep along 
the base and corners of the walls, the torches remained unlit. Erestor 
hurried up the wide stairs, jerking off his damp cloak and dropping it 
carelessly to the floor. As they moved toward Glorfindel’s chamber, they 
began to hear the sounds of a gathering – the clink of unsheathed 
weapons, the rasp of clothing on the stones, the quiet conversations. They 
rounded the final corner, passing beneath the dull stare of a pale stone 
warrior, and caught sight of the assembly of Elves before the entry doors 
to Glorfindel’s chambers. 

“Where is he? Where is Glorfindel?” 

A sad voice responded, “Beyond the reaches of any but the Valar now.”

“Make way!” Elrond’s voice sharpened as he moved through the 
gathering, elbowing aside the Elf who had spoken. “Return to your posts” 
– he glared briefly at the few Guards standing near the edge – “ and leave 
us.” Elves began turning away, tossing last glances over their shoulders. 

Erestor moved to the door, resting his palm against the fine grain of the 
aged oak, as Elrond greeted Lindir. The white-haired Elf stood nearby, 
arms wrapped about his body. Near his feet burned a thick candle in a 
squat holder; scented wax had formed a puddle on the stones.

“Father, what happens?” Elrohir’s voice floated down the corridor.

Erestor glanced up, watching Elrohir and Inwe stalk toward them, 
Elladan marching behind. Inwe had shed her own cloak and the burnished 
metal of her armour reflected Lindir’s weak light. The frown on her face 
made her slanted eyes more pronounced. She and Elrohir brushed arms, 
once, then again as they walked; though neither acknowledged it 
verbally, it was evident to the remaining Elves that both drew strength 
from the brief contact. Tossed over Elrohir’s shoulders were Erestor’s 
saddlepacks; the worn leather creaked as Elrohir dropped them to the 
stones. Inwe carried those of her lover and his father. Elladan, dressed in 
more formal long robes, stayed close to his twin, his own eyes shielded 
by the dark curtain of his hair. 

Lindir’s low voice responded. “He locked himself into his chambers the 
day following your departure. Elrond, I tried to enter, to bring food, 
water, his medicines, but I could not. I tried…” His agitation was clear, 
and Elrond soothed it with a gentle wave of his hand. 

“I know your efforts were great, my friend, but Glorfindel needs more 
than you or I can give him.”

Lindir’s eyes slid past the Elf lord to rest on the back of the dark Elf. “I 
fear for him, Elrond, it has been many -”

“Are there weapons in his chambers?”

Elladan – moving closer to his father - turned with a frown, his dark 
brows drawn together above gray eyes. “Glorfindel would not –“

“Is there a weapon in his chamber?” Erestor snapped, glancing over his 
shoulder back toward Lindir. 

Long hair slid across his neck as Lindir shook his head. He spoke quietly, 
eyes averted. “He took his sword and his long knives to the forge, back in 
the spring, shortly after his return, and had them melted. They, too, carry 
painful memories for him.”

The dark wood of the door cut splinters in Erestor’s palm; he rested his 
forehead against the panel. “And what of his knife? With the script along 
the blade? He keeps it beneath his pillow…” 

“I…” His head shook again. “I do not know of this weapon.” Lindir’s 
eyes rested on Elrond’s face. “Elrond?”

Erestor glanced at Elrohir and moved across the corridor to where his 
saddlepacks rested. He rifled deep in an inner pocket, emerging with a 
tarnished silver chain, and returned to the chamber door. The key turned 
easily in the lock. 

“What do you think to do?”

“Give me time to speak with him, alone.” He fixed Elrond with a hard 
stare. “If I need you, I will call.” The Lord of Imladris nodded once and 
Erestor opened the door enough to slip inside. 

The silence and dankness of the antechamber reminded him of a cell; he 
ran hands that shook only slightly along his arms to wipe away the 
feeling of tiny feet running along his bare skin. His eyes swept across the 
room and he struggled to breathe shallow. “Even for you, Fin, this 
chamber is most foul.” His head jerked up at the faint sound of footsteps 
in the adjoining room. 

“Leave me!” Ill or not, the voice of the Captain had lost none of its sharp 
authority, echoing through the large chambers. “Who has granted you 
allowance to enter any of my chambers?”

“Calm yourself, Fin.” The dark Elf struggled to keep his voice steady as 
he passed through the antechamber; the mingling offensive smells clawed 
at his throat. He coughed once; the sickly sweet scent of illness became 
acute as he entered the bedchamber, overlaid with the metallic tang of 
fresh blood and unwashed bedclothes. Heavy drapes, a thick layer of dust 
edging the bottoms, blocked the warmth of the late morning sun, casting 
a dim haze throughout the rooms. “It is I, Erestor, and I come alone. Rest 
easy.”

Motion near the balcony doors drew Erestor’s attention; Glorfindel, 
perched on the edge of a chair in the sunken alcove, turned to face him. “I 
never rest easy when you are near.” 

“It has always been the same for me,” he assured softly and a sad smile 
flitted across his face. His wary steps took him across the room to stand 
near the window. 

Glorfindel’s voice held an immense sorrow. “Then why would you leave 
me, when I needed you most?” 

“I wish to open the drapes, Fin,” Erestor murmured. “Is this agreeable to 
you?”

A wistful sigh, then, “I miss the sun.”

Erestor pulled back the heavy length of cloth. The sudden flood of yellow 
light, thrown across the chamber, illuminated the room’s state of filth and 
disarray, and that of its owner. Erestor caught only impressions – golden 
hair matted with sweat, stuck to a pallid brow, dull eyes sunk deep into 
bruised flesh, tattered and grimy robes covering the form, trembling as it 
struggled to rise. “Fin, please, the knife…there is no need for such 
actions.” The golden Elf responded immediately. Light flashed along the 
scored edge of the blade as Glorfindel tossed it feebly across the 
chamber; it slid to a halt with the spattered tip resting against Erestor’s 
boot.  He kicked the weapon aside, the blade spinning into the shadowed 
corner with its script mocking him – strong spirit, it said. Glancing up, 
Erestor could see blood splashed on the stones, staining the hem of his 
tattered robes, dripping from the gaping wound along his arm. 
“Glorfindel…we feared…”

“Calm yourself, now.” Glorfindel’s voice, though distant, was clear. The 
golden head bent over his arm, tilted in consideration, and he poked at the 
exposed flesh with grim interest. “I will not take my own life.” His 
fingers came away smeared thickly with blood; he wiped it thoughtlessly 
on his robe. “Mayhap, though, I spoke amiss. Regardless of my desires, 
now, I find I simply cannot…

Erestor took a hesitant step toward the other but halted when the other Elf 
waved him back in warning. 

“No more moving. Now you will listen.” He braced himself against the 
high back of the chair. “In this…” He shook his head. “If only I 
possessed the courage…Imagine the new tales,” he suggested, with vague 
self-disgust, and a faint smile quickly crossed his face, “that could be told 
of Glorfindel, the great Balrog Slayer, the honourable Elven warrior who 
slew the creatures of fire. A champion among Elves, and yet, now, where 
mortals can take their own lives with ease, I find I lack such small 
courage.” Blue eyes, growing blank with shock, drifted to Erestor’s face 
and he shook his head, matted hair clinging to his neck. “Men always 
seek to destroy beauty,” he murmured in dismissal. “If one considers 
them to possess beauty at all. Foolish Men…” Glorfindel turned away 
then, walking slowly toward the bed, leaving partial footprints outlined in 
blood on the stones and furs. “I have died before, Erestor, but never have 
I known such fear…”

Erestor caught his breath when Glorfindel stumbled, and he darted 
forward to steady the golden Elf. 

“Ai!” Glorfindel jerked back, taken unawares, ripping himself free of 
Erestor’s arms. “You are real, Tor.” Trembling fingers floated up, tracing 
the air over the curves of Erestor’s face. ”I thought you another spirit 
from my past…they haunt me now, as your nightmares, your past, 
haunted you for years. Your presence, it lingered in these chambers for 
many years….” He gestured toward the bed. “There, I thought it would 
linger there most, like the others, but” – he shook his head sharply – “we 
were more than what happened there, and that was not like the others.” 
Erestor’s arms tightened around Glorfindel’s body, and he began guiding 
him toward the bed. “I did not know what it was keeping me here, what 
tied me to Middle Earth. Mandos said – “

“You spoke to Mandos? You were that close…?” 

“- it was not yet time to enter his Halls,” he continued wistfully, as 
though Erestor had not interrupted. “I spoke with him, he remembered 
me, knew I again sought entrance into his Halls, but he told me that I had 
chosen this path, and I had to see it through to the end, an end of his 
choosing, not of mine.” 

“I choose,” Erestor whispered under his breath, and he remembered 
another bed he had said that before. 

Glorfindel sank down on the edge of the mattress, his body trembling 
with fatigue. Heedless of the stones beneath his unprotected knees – 
where was the rich, soft rug he remembered being here? – Erestor 
reached for Glorfindel’s hands. He held them with the fierce gentleness 
reserved for newborn babes; the hands felt like overripe melons about to 
burst their skins. 

“I need you, Tor, I need you here with me.”

Erestor leaned forward to hear the soft words; he pressed his lips softly 
against the hands gripped in his and tasted blood. He had tasted it before, 
thick like wine on his tongue. He turned a bright smile to the golden Elf. 
“What you need, my love,” he replied, “is a bath.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where is he? Where is Elrond? I seek your Lord.”

Three black heads snapped up as the fierce demand echoed through the 
halls. Standing with his sons near the hearth in his study, Elrond could 
hear both the dark Elf’s harsh questions, and the low-voiced answers, 
through the open door. He slammed his goblet down on the table near his 
riding cloak and hastened across the room, meeting Erestor as he stalked 
into the chamber.

Erestor’s eyes flashed with mingled anger and relief; he brushed past 
Elrond, ignoring the twins as he turned to face the Lord of Imladris. 
“What, in the sweet name of Elbereth, is wrong with him?” He began to 
pace, flicking glances at the other Elves. “Elrond, what is this?”

“I told you he was dying, I did not speak false.”

“I did not accuse you of such.” Clods of mud smeared across the stones 
as Erestor turned; Elrond flinched when he saw them. “This illness, what 
is it?” 

Elrond glanced quickly at his sons – they gave him encouraging smiles, 
sipping on their wine – and shrugged. “We do not know, not for certain. I 
can tell you very little at this time.” He crossed to the low table before the 
hearth and poured the still-pacing counsellor his own goblet; Erestor 
waved the wine aside. “You cannot begin to understand my frustration, 
my sadness, at my inability to treat Glorfindel. You know how I love 
him.”

From the corner of his eye, Erestor caught the sharp glance Elrohir 
directed toward his father. “Aye, I know,” he murmured and stopped 
pacing. His fingers snagged the loose ties of his cloak; he peeled the 
garment away, tossing it across his shoulder. “How long has it 
been…since you last treated him?”

“Months,” he replied bluntly. “He has refused me at every turn, trying to 
hide his illness even as he fought it.” 

Erestor nodded. “Bring your things to us. I have made arrangements with 
Lindir regarding the state of his chambers. Glorfindel will need your help 
shortly.” Spinning on his heel, he stalked from the study as swiftly as he 
had entered. 

Elladan’s gray eyes followed his movements; he drank from his goblet, 
inhaling deeply the rich, wildberry scent of his wine. “Home only hours 
and already delivering orders. It seems the counsellor never loses his 
authority.”

“It is best that he is here now. He is the only thing standing between 
Glorfindel and death,” Elrond snapped. He bent down to sweep the clods 
of mud into his palm. 

“Glorfindel has died before.” Elladan set his goblet on the table and 
turned his gaze to his father. “Erestor will not stand between them for 
long.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sweet steam floated across the low ceiling of the bathing chamber, an 
intoxicating mix of herbs and late autumn flowers. Erestor knelt at the 
edge of the sunken tub, on a pile of bright and soft towels; he had 
removed his tunic and swept back his loose hair, and now his dark eyes 
kept careful watch on Glorfindel. In the chamber beyond, he could hear 
the faint sounds of Elves moving about, in muffled conversation as they 
cleaned the room. Glorfindel rested with eyes closed and arms stretched 
along the rim of the tub; the bright white bandage covering his wound, 
though now wet, held its knot and Erestor leaned back onto his heels, 
urging some of the tension from his frame. The heat of the room, 
mingling with the heady scents and the deep, even breathing of the 
golden Elf, allowed him to drop his head to his chest, eyelashes drifting 
down to sweep across his cheekbones. For long moments, he sat there, 
feeling sweat drip down his body, catching on the runnels of his burn 
marks, soaking into the towels he rested upon. 

“I know you think I should not still love you.”

Erestor’s head jerked up at Glorfindel’s soft words, spoken through the 
fragrant haze. “There is little need to speak of this now, Fin –“

“I must speak of this.” Glorfindel turned in the bath, sloshing warm water 
and herbs over the rim. “Who knows how much longer I will be 
capable…” His voice caught, and he looked away as Erestor leaned 
forward to blot at the water with a thick cloth. “If nothing else, I am owed 
these few moments, to explain. And is that not what you want? Answers, 
to these questions you bring?”

“You have lived too long to do something so foolish now.” Erestor’s 
fingers worried the limp leaves of mint his hand had plucked from the 
floor. 

“Lived too long,” Glorfindel responded, “far beyond the lives of Men and 
Elves even. Will you listen?”

Erestor tossed the bright green ribbons aside and simply nodded.  

“I have loved you for a long time, and for most of that time, I thought I 
loved you well.” He shrugged a bare shoulder, the bones sharply 
protruding. The flesh on his upper body had melted away with his 
sickness, leaving skin hanging from the bones. “When you left, I could 
do no less. Elrond feared I would simply follow you, beg you to 
reconsider, to return to me” – his eyes darted across Erestor’s face before 
he turned his attention to his arms, now wrapped around his drawn-up 
knees – “as though I were some silly young Elfling, and not a warrior 
seasoned by Ages of battle, in the arenas of both war and politics.” The 
corner of his mouth turned up briefly. “Your intentions, you had made 
them quite clear to me, I loved you enough to honour them, regardless of 
my misgivings and desires. Of them all, it was Elrohir who understood 
best my need to be away, gone from the places and things that held such 
memories of you.”

Erestor’s smile was sad. “I imagine Elrond mourned your loss.”

“He mourned for us both, Tor, as did the twins, Lindir, indeed, the whole 
House suffered ill from our loss. Never could I have imagined the import 
of our relationship to so many beyond its limits.” He slid down to rest his 
cheek against the brightly painted tile; he scooped lazily at the wilted 
leaves floating on the surface of the water. “If I had failed at love, still I 
possessed talents in war…I went to Minas Tirith, to that great white city. 
Still broken, like its people, and for a time, I was satisfied, I had a 
purpose, hours spent in training, on horse, dispensing centuries of 
wisdom as though tutor again, with blade and bow in my hand.” His hand 
drifted through the air, pausing before his eyes; he turned it over, staring 
at the appendage. 

The eyes of the dark Elf moved to the hand as well. He remembered the 
skill in those hands, gripping the hilt of knife or sword, motions without 
haste and yet with blinding speed, so capable of taking life, and yet, as 
often, those hands had worshipped Erestor’s own life. “Fin, please, 
later…”

“Thousands of years of life and what do these hands remember? The joys 
of holding lovers, one lover” – Erestor started as Glorfindel’s words 
echoed his thoughts – “the feel of your skin, rough in the palm of your 
own hand, toughened from your own years of training, yet so thin and 
vulnerable in that place cradling your inner heat?” He shook his head 
sharply, golden ropes of hair falling in hanks over his face. “They 
remember the lives taken and destroyed, even those taken for causes 
greater than personal vengeance, their innocence and their bloodlust and 
their future desires. They remember only the warmth of blood and the 
coolness of steel, and the lashing tongues of fire…” He closed his hand 
into a fist and slammed it down atop the tiled floor. 

Seeing red smear thickly across the painted tiles, Erestor leaned forward 
to capture the fist in his hand. Glorfindel sensed his movement and 
responded in kind, sliding across the wide bathing tub, pressing himself 
against the far wall, painted with vivid scenes of underwater life. 

“Do not touch me, not here, not like this.” The golden Elf’s voice 
dropped. A shiver ripped through his body, causing water to lap again at 
the tub lip. 

Erestor drew back. He crawled across the floor and sank down against the 
wall. He took a deep breath; the light odour of lavender mixed with the 
sharper scent of mint. His eyes roamed the far wall, picking out the ocean 
animals hidden in the undersea depths, and the water birds darting 
through the marshlands. 

“Fire, always the fire.” Glorfindel spoke as though in trance, eyes pinned 
to his hands. “I lived in Gondolin for a time, but I was not truly alive until 
its fall. I was born in the flames, the liquid fire my mother’s milk, I fed 
and grew strong on the heat, molding and shaping me into the killer I 
became. So skilled, so talented,” he sneered faintly, “they have written 
tomes on my leading Elves and Men to their final ends. But the burning, 
the burning…I did not know stone could be made to burn.” He raised his 
hands, pressing them against his ears. “The voices, screaming in pain and 
in rage, and even in lust, fighting and begging and I hear them all the 
time. So many voices that I cannot hear my own, drowning in the sound, 
choking on the guilt. Even the knowledge that it was in times of war or 
protection does little to absolve me.” A shudder wracked him, and his 
eyes refocused on Erestor’s face; his voice, though soft, struggled to 
sound normal. “Do you know the smell of burning flesh?” He nodded 
toward the burns he could barely see marking the strong body he 
remembered. “Like those hunks of animal flesh Men enjoy scorching. I 
cannot bear to feel it on my tongue, in this life, I never have.” 

“Why…?” Erestor cleared his throat before continuing. “Why now? Why 
have you done this?”

“For so many years, for Ages, with the support of Elrond, of you, of my 
true family, I could not manage a tear, and I forgot these memories…Or, 
I simply did not remember them.” A grin ghosted across his face, a faint 
shadow of the Glorfindel of old. “There is vast difference in the two, I 
learned. Mandos, he was kind to me the first time, he returned my life 
and decreed that I would not be pained by my first death.” He laughed. 
“My first death. Why can he not be so kind for my second, this one that 
hurts so greatly?” A fierce shake of his head sent drops of water flying 
through the thick air. “After you left, I began to remember, I remembered 
those who came before me. They call to me, across the barriers of earth 
and time and memory.” His eyes held Erestor’s. “And I must answer 
them.”

Erestor crawled slowly across the floor; Glorfindel sloshed across the 
wide tub. The dark Elf bent down to press his forehead against the one 
raised up to meet him. “But not yet,” he whispered. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door to Elrond’s study stood ajar. Erestor rapped lightly and pushed 
the solid oaken panel open at the muffled bid to enter. The stately Lord of 
Rivendell crouched before his shelves, dark head covered in dust and 
buried in the bottom of a large packing crate. He glanced up as Erestor 
walked slowly across the chamber, seeing Erestor’s gaze skim across the 
rows of cloth bound tomes and rolled parchments. 

“Many an hour did I while away in here, immersed in the politics and 
lore of Middle Earth,” Erestor murmured. He trailed a gentle finger over 
the decaying spine of a book of history, closing his eyes at the feel of the 
cracks in the worn leather. 

Elrond uncurled his length, balancing a parchment on an open palm and 
adjusting his robes with his free hand.  He had spent much time amongst 
his books in the last fortnight, leaving only when his duties decreed his 
presence elsewhere, namely Glorfindel’s chambers. “Your counsel was 
full of wisdom,” he replied with a small smile, “and greatly missed in 
your absence. Even if you choose to believe otherwise.”

Erestor snapped to attention, stepping back from the shelves and drawing 
his hands behind his back. “I received word from Elrohir that you wished 
to speak with me…” 

Elrond ran his own fingers along a row of books. “It is difficult to know 
which I will take to Valinor, when I should not take any at all.”

“And what of my favoured tomes? Is there room in your packing crate for 
those?” Erestor tilted his head back, glancing at the rows of books closest 
to the high ceiling. 

“I have not considered your own texts, Erestor. There is little need for 
them in your new life, in the world of Men.” Elrond wrapped his selected 
parchment in a protective layer of cloth, securing it with many turns of 
ribbon. “When you return to it following Glorfindel’s death – “ A sudden 
choked sound from Erestor lifted his steady gaze to settle on the dark 
Elf’s face. “What is amiss?”

“Upon my return?” Erestor dropped his head, glancing at the Lord of 
Rivendell through the black curtain of his hair. “Did you see this?”

Elrond flinched at the deliberate softness of the other Elf’s voice. 
“Erestor…”

“You, with your precious gift of foresight” – Erestor’s mouth twisted in a 
sneer – “your blessed curse, you who walk these halls and gardens while 
holding to your chest secret knowledge, did you see this? Even as I grew 
tormented over this decision and you refused to offer me either comfort 
or respite? Has my choice already been made?” he whispered. 

Elrond dipped his head and folded his hands together. He stared at the 
linked digits, tracing the back of one thumb with the pad of the other. 
“These healers hands have known much of life and death, covered in the 
blood of Men and Elves and“ - a fleeting smile – “even a Hobbit, both the 
living and the dead. They knew for certain that the end of Glorfindel’s 
life was near.” His eyes settled on Erestor’s back; the former Counsellor 
stood in the middle of the study, a dark form in a sudden puddle of 
yellow light. “My foresight…it has weakened of late and when it comes, 
it does so fleetingly, little more than subtle impressions. While I could 
not see for Elrohir, for my own son, I saw much pain for you and 
Glorfindel, such pain it hurt my very soul. Yet it is my own heart, now, 
that tells me you have made this choice, that I shall sail to Valinor alone.”

In the gardens, a bird trilled, answered quickly by its mate. Wind rushed 
through the open balcony door, brushing Erestor’s hair against his cheek, 
bringing with it the heavy musk of late-blooming flowers. Stains on the 
floor caught his vision. The dark brown ink from Rivendell’s official 
correspondence; the blue he had favoured for his own studies, hours spent 
with stained fingers, bent over parchments, learning the languages of 
Middle Earth; near the corner of his vision, the red ink Glorfindel had 
used to correct his work. “Never clean,” he murmured, and dropped to a 
knee, using the hem of his robe to scrub at the old stain. “Never clean.” 
He tasted ash in his mouth; he stopped rubbing and stood quickly. Then 
Elrond’s arm was across his shoulders, steering him away, toward the 
chairs before the hearth. 

“Come, sit a moment.” Elrond pushed the dark Elf down gently, moving 
deliberately, as though with a shying horse. He perched on the edge of 
the empty chair. “There is no need to make hasty decisions, take the time, 
if you must.”

“Time? Have you seen what lies in that chamber?” he demanded and his 
voice was hoarse. “You say, no decisions in haste, but there is no time, 
there is never any time.” He shook his head violently. 

“You need not do this, Erestor.” Elrond leaned forward, speaking gently. 
“I have close friends among Men, skilled – and discrete – healers. 
Glorfindel may go to Minas Tirith, to Arwen.” He laid a hesitant hand on 
Erestor’s arm, his white skin luminescent against the dark wool. “You 
need not do this alone.” 

Erestor glanced toward the balcony, where dry leaves swirled in a sudden 
gust of autumn wind. “My choice is made,” he said and met Elrond’s 
eyes.

The Lord of Rivendell sat back in his chair with a slight nod. “Then you 
must be made to understand how this will end.”

“Tell me.”

Elrond spoke bluntly. “This is not the worst he will become. This will get 
no easier. It will be painful and dirty and exhausting. Do you know what 
this will take from you?”

“Everything.” Erestor stood abruptly and turned from the hearth. His soft 
leather boots made no sound on the worn stones of the floor, as he paced 
before Elrond, though his robes whispered when he spun on a heel. “Is 
that not the point?”

Elrond’s mouth narrowed into a grim line. He grasped the decanter of 
chilled wine at the low table near his elbow, and glanced about for a 
goblet.  Finding none, he shrugged and swallowed a mouthful straight 
from the neck of the container. “Glorfindel’s energy is directed toward 
the very growth that is killing him. As a result, his systems will begin to 
break down. He will be as a small child, unable to care for himself - ” 

Erestor’s fist clenched and released.

“ - in the most basic manner.” Elrond set the decanter down with a soft 
thud. “His lungs will begin to fill with fluid and his organs to fail. He will 
consume neither food nor water, and his body begin to starve. His pain 
will be excruciating and the choice will be yours alone, Erestor. 
Animated, able to speak, yet in constant agony, or senseless, lost in the 
clouds of his own mind, unable to respond, nearly unaware of your very 
presence, and yet pain free.”

“You offer very little choice, indeed.” Erestor halted at the end of his 
pacing, standing before the empty hearth. 

“The drug is potent. When the time comes, when I must depart, I will 
leave sufficient quantity for you…” 

“Is this all?” Erestor glanced up at Elrond’s pause. “Is this all you can tell 
me? Not how long? Not when?”

“I am unused to treating conditions such as his. I sent to Minas Tirith for 
information on his illness. They sent but three texts.” Elrond stood and 
walked to his table, resting his hand on a small stack of books. “You may 
peruse them as you wish, but there is precious little knowledge in them. 
This is not a common illness among Men. All these texts agree on is that 
it is agonizing for the sufferer.”

Erestor sighed. “This much have I seen.” He joined Elrond near the table, 
picking up one of the books, a narrow volume with a  cover of dull brown 
leather. “Men ever fail to see or give beauty,” he murmured softly, and 
opened the book. A dark stain swept across the words of the first few 
pages; he turned them gently, peeling them apart when they stuck. “It has 
been some time since I have read in this language.” 

Elrond’s hand came to rest on the broad shoulder of his friend. “There is 
little to be done for him,” he explained softly, “other than ensure his 
comfort and ease his mind.” His gray eyes held Erestor’s. “This is a great 
sacrifice on your behalf. Few would make this for a friend.”

A trembling smile came to the wide, soft mouth. “He is more than a 
friend, Elrond. You know this.” Turning away, he gathered the remaining 
books against his chest, speaking without looking at the Elf lord. “It is 
much like you and your Celebrian, a tearing apart of one soul when you 
are not together.” He shook his head then, and made his face blank. “You 
have much work remaining. I should return to Glorfindel.”

“I have all winter,” Elrond replied, “and the months will be long. If ever 
you need someone…you have only to ask your family.” 

He could no longer tolerate the gentle concern. With a sharp nod, he spun 
on his heel and retreated from the study, leaving Elrond alone to make his 
decisions. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Glorfindel drowsed in a patch of bright sun, head resting against the soft 
back of his chair. From the corner of his eye, Erestor caught glimpses of 
shimmering gold – the slumbering Elf merely moving his head – and, 
reassured, turned back to his work. The parchments stretched across the 
smooth surface of the deck; he reached out a hand to grasp a quill that 
threatened to escape. A series of shallow breaths from Glorfindel drew 
his attention a few moments later, and Erestor spun in his own chair until 
he faced the advisor.

Dark bruises marred the delicate skin of his face, stretching beneath the 
vacant eyes. Glorfindel’s laboured breathing indicated pain and Erestor 
realized again how draining the visits of others were on the golden Elf. 
His effort, and his intentions, remained great; he struggled intensely to 
avoid showing weakness, regardless of his company. It did not matter 
whether it was Inwe or other Guards consulting on matters of defense, or 
the twins sharing mugs of steaming tisanes and stories of their youth; 
even the Lord of Imladris was not treated to the truth of Glorfindel’s 
illness, though his dark eyes were filled with the knowledge. Erestor 
alone knew its depth and strength. 

A soft knocking on the door, and Erestor crossed the chamber; he held 
the door open a sliver with his hip. He passed the rolled sheets in his hand 
to the Guard waiting in the corridor. Giving quick instruction as to their 
deliverance, he dismissed the other Elf with a short nod of his head and 
returned to Glorfindel’s side. Ink stained fingers swept across his hip as 
he knelt by the chair. 

Glorfindel stirred, awareness flooding his eyes; the skin of his face had 
paled enough for his blue eyes to appear black. “What…?” He drew a 
breath and released it with a gasp. 

“I have sent your missives,” Erestor said, voice low and soothing, “and 
met with Elrond regarding this matter. You need not worry, all wish to 
celebrate your life with you.” The parchments had contained messages – 
invitations - to Glorfindel’s close friends, a last celebration before the 
sailing of the boats. At his words, Glorfindel nodded and Erestor 
continued, “Elrond comes now to sit with you.” He reached up a hand, 
thumb smoothing the crease of pain formed between the blue eyes. “Take 
your rest.” Rising, he crossed to the chest he had claimed for himself, 
throwing open its fragrant applewood lid. 

When Elrond arrived at their chambers, Erestor stood in the open door, 
holding the edges of his dark cloak together, eyes glancing back into the 
room where Glorfindel rested. No words were shared as the Lord of 
Imladris ducked inside, gripping a basket of dried autumn herbs to sort 
and package, and Erestor turned away, closing the door with a soft thud. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sweet Elbereth!” 

A low grunt replied to the soft curse and then the grating of iron along 
iron floated across the training grounds. Inwe, leaning against a nearby 
tree, paused and glanced up from the whetstone she was drawing up her 
blades. In the center of the grounds, a young Guard lay pinned to the 
earth, Erestor’s long knife flirting with the underside of his chin. 

“After so many weeks of practice, I would think you begin to learn 
Erestor’s movements.” She grinned and ducked her head back to her 
work as the counsellor assisted the Guard in rising. 

“I thank you for the brief contest,” Erestor stated, bland voice stinging 
with the implied insult, then, “Your steps are true, but you must trust your 
own actions. Do not allow your mind to deceive itself.”

“Bold words from one such as you,” a laughing voice shouted, and the 
eyes of the seven Elves at the grounds turned to the edge of the trees. “If 
there are no other challengers, shall I be allowed an opportunity to test 
you?”

Erestor released the forearm of the Guard he had pulled to his feet. A grin 
of pleasure creased his face as the Elf who had spoken stepped onto the 
edge of the grounds. “As always, my Lady.”

Inwe had resheathed her sword and dropped her stone, and now she 
wrapped arms around her friend. “Arwen, I did not hear the 
announcement of your arrival.” She drew back, allowing her green eyes 
to sweep across the dark features of her friend.

The Elf princess shook her head. “There was none, Aragorn and I 
travelled alone.” When Inwe glanced over Arwen’s shoulder for the 
King, Elrond’s daughter said softly, “He has gone to speak with Father 
and Glorfindel.”

“It is a sad time for all the Elves,” murmured Inwe and she stepped aside, 
smiling slightly. “But I believe this day challenge has been given.”

“And challenge accepted.” Erestor reached over his shoulder to grasp the 
handle of his second long knife. The blades sang through the air before 
ending in a cross beneath his chin. He bowed. 

Arwen stripped off her heavy travelling cloak and the heavy leather tunic 
beneath. She favoured the long straight sword most Imladris Elves 
carried; her fingers curled around the gold-embossed handle, touching the 
tip to her forehead. “Have you learned new tricks in your travels?” she 
asked lightly, then darted across the grounds. 

The Guards and Inwe watched the contest in silence, though the easy 
smiles that crept onto their faces betrayed their amusement. The dark 
shadows twisted and danced around one another, lunging at an imagined 
weakness, darting beneath swirling blades, dodging at openings. When 
the blades first connected with a sharp ring, a bird screeched in 
annoyance from a nearby alder tree. This pair had fought many times 
before, Erestor tutoring the girl child in the elements of sword and bow; 
once Arwen had reached her majority, their practice rounds had been 
spirited, quick and entertaining for those assembled. Where her brothers 
and her father benefited from their superior height and reach, Arwen 
relied on swift movements and a patience unmatched, and though now 
the Queen of Gondor, she did not allow her title to restrain her actions.

Drops of blood slid down Erestor’s exposed forearm; at his misstep, her 
blade had nicked his flesh. He brought his knives to rest, granting victory 
to the princess. 

A weary smile crossed her face as she stilled, sucking in deep breaths. “It 
has been long since we danced with the blades, my friend, too long.” She 
rubbed at her flank, where the flat of Erestor’s blade had dealt a stinging 
blow. “I must take more care, this mortal flesh has closer limitations than 
-” A look of horror crossed her face – she caught Inwe’s flinch at her 
words - and she turned eyes of regret toward Erestor, murmuring an 
apology. 

“No matter,” Erestor replied, but his brows remained narrowed when he 
turned to gather up his cloak. “I believe that is sufficient practice for the 
day.” 

Inwe’s eyes followed Erestor’s straight back as he retreated along the 
path; winding down the steep incline, the path ended at the back gardens. 
She turned to look at her friend when she felt an arm slip through hers. 
“Every midday, without fail, Erestor has joined our squads on the training 
grounds,” she explained. “So many emotions, frustration and anger, even 
despair, they have sharpened his movements. Not all are used to such 
intensity from another Elf.” She glanced at the defeated Guard, now 
rubbing thick mud from his cloak, even as his friends laughed at his 
clumsy match with Erestor. 

“At least, in times of peace.” Arwen sighed deeply. She had retrieved her 
garments and tossed them casually over her shoulder. “Come, my friend.” 
Though her words were now light, her face remained strained, like that of 
many who still walked the halls of the Homely House. “Tell me of your 
adventures as Captain.” She smiled slightly, with a hint of mischief. 
“How does my brother care for your authority?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gentle knock on the open bedchamber door startled Erestor; he 
glanced up from the parchments spread across his table and gestured for 
the Elf to enter. Elrohir glided across the room, long formal robes trailing 
behind him on the smooth stones. 

“May I have a few moments of your time, Erestor?” The young Elf’s 
obvious unease caused Erestor to set aside his quill and turn in the chair 
to face his visitor. Elrond’s son glanced quickly around for the Captain, 
as though he might pop out from behind the door to the bathing chamber; 
his finger beat a soft tattoo against his thigh. “Glorfindel…he is not here 
now?”

“Fin is visiting with Elrond before the dinner, and as always, your 
presence is most welcome. Come, be seated.” He waved as he spoke, the 
long sleeve of his tunic falling back to reveal the neat bandage wrapped 
about his arm. 

“A misstep on the training grounds?” Elrohir questioned, a quick smile 
crossing his face. “I thought you did not take those any longer.”

Erestor’s answering smile was rueful. “I took one three days ago.” He ran 
gentle fingers along the wound. “I had forgotten how swift your sister is.”

At the mention of Arwen, Elrohir crossed his arms over his chest and 
grunted. “Not the least with her tongue.” 

Erestor laughed. The previous evening’s meal had reminded him of when 
the children were but young, inexperienced Elves, still fighting for the 
last sweet cake or teasing over a lover. His heart had felt lighter than it 
had in long weeks, seeing the smile that had lingered on Glorfindel’s 
drawn face. 

Wandering further into the chamber, Elrohir’s gray eyes turned to 
Glorfindel’s wide bed, then to the pallet laid on the floor. Gingerly, he sat 
on the edge of the bed, bending over to pick absently at the crimson 
stitching on the elaborately decorated cover. “A lover’s bed…” he 
murmured with a small shake of his head. 

“And only a lover may know the distance across one.” 

The half-Elf’s head lifted, eyes drifting across Erestor’s face. In an abrupt 
motion, he sat up straight. “I have been considering my decision to 
remain in Middle Earth. There are both beneficial and hurtful points to 
remaining, as there are to departing.” In his lap, the knuckles of his 
clutched hands slowly turned white. “Whereas you and Glorfindel and 
my father have the weight of the ages behind your decisions, it took long 
before my own short years brought me the wisdom that most decisions 
are such, both good and ill.”

“Depending on where one stands in relation to that decision…” Erestor’s 
head tilted as he considered the younger Elf’s rigid limbs. 

“This is far too important a choice to be made without thought or regard 
for those whom my choice will affect. I have always been so unwilling to 
be content with the way things were, always wanting more” – a faint 
grimace crossed his features – “more freedom, and yet more 
responsibility. I always felt constrained by what Imladris had to offer…”

Erestor laughed gently. “I think your own wisdom will soon rival that of 
Elrond’s.” He leaned slightly forward in the chair and asked gently, 
“Have you spoken to your father? Have you made your final choice, free 
of coercion or deception?”

Elrohir paused and his eyes darted to the window, not daring to look at 
the counsellor at this moment. “Did you?” he whispered.

Erestor’s face was blank; he turned back to the table, reaching again for 
the quill. He did not set it to parchment, though; he merely fingered the 
smooth implement. He nodded, feeling his slim warrior’s braids – which 
he had redone – slide over his shoulder. “I will remain, to care for 
Glorfindel, in these, his last days, ignoble as they will be.”

“You will miss the last boat, you will not be able to join us in Valinor.” 

“My decision is made, as is yours.” He tossed aside the quill and began 
gathering the scattered parchments. “Is this the matter you wished to 
consult me regarding? Is there anything more before I dress?”

Elrohir took a steadying breath. “Many years ago, I made a pledge to you, 
Erestor, out of appreciation. I still owe you a life, to either protect or…”

“To take.” He turned, a half-smile on his lips. “Do you suggest 
Glorfindel’s then?”

“I have spoken with Father at length about his illness, every time I visit 
Glorfindel, I see the shadows in his eyes, on his face, and I begin to see 
them reflected on yours.” Elrohir stood, wiping the back of his robes as 
though he could not bear the thought of touching any longer Glorfindel’s 
death bed. “The burden can be shared – “

“You  mean, lightened?” The smile slid from Erestor’s face; it had not 
reached his eyes before. “Removed? Please, my friend, do not spare the 
truth when you speak of taking Glorfindel’s life in favour to me.” 

Elrohir’s features hardened, the skin over his cheekbones thinning as he 
frowned. “Erestor, I –“

“Go, Elfling,”  dismissed the counsellor. He turned toward the balcony 
door, waving his hand. “I free you of any remaining obligation to me. 
Consider the debt even.” 

Erestor stared out the glass until he heard the door close, the heavy wood 
groaning in protest at the rough treatment to which Elrohir subjected it. 
Dark hair slid forward to hide his face as he looked down at his hands – 
they shook, they had been shaking since Elrohir’s offer - and he pressed 
them against his chest to try and still them. Truth, he had asked of the 
dark twin, then truth he owed himself. His hands shook now because 
Elrohir’s words echoed those in Erestor’s own mind. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erestor flicked a glance along the table, frowning at the abundance of 
food the few remaining cooks had prepared. He passed the roasted meats 
and poked at a platter of sliced fruits before putting his plate back on the 
stack. A young Elf standing behind the table refilled his goblet with wine 
and he began his walk across the hall. Glorfindel sat at the long main 
table with Legolas; the woodland prince had arrived earlier that day and 
now the pair engaged in deep conversation. They were speaking of 
Gondolin when Erestor sank into his seat.

He sipped at his wine, allowing the various conversations mingle and 
pass over his head, attention turned inward. A hand on his shoulder drew 
him from his thoughts. Elrond stood behind him, bending close to his ear. 

“The time has come,” the Elf lord murmured and turned away. 

Silence descended upon the hall as Erestor stood. He surveyed the small 
gathering of Elves, close friends and family, before turning to where 
Glorfindel sat. Their eyes met and held, and the words he had prepared, 
the ones he had turned over and over in his mind for days, weighed like 
stone on his tongue. Behind him, someone shifted their weight; he heard 
the soft whispering of silk and a soft exhalation. The sharp scent of 
blackberries from the wine in his hand became harsh; he passed his 
goblet wordlessly to the Elf standing at his side. His eyes did not leave 
those of the golden Elf. He shook his head, spun on his heel, and passed 
through the assembly. As the heavy double doors swung closed behind 
him, he sucked in a deep breath of the cooler air in the corridor. 

Elrond smiled sadly as eyes turned to him. “I know that all assembled 
here forgive Erestor’s departure, even as they understand his sorrow. 
Please, continue as you were.” Drawing his robes about him, the Lord of 
Imladris moved after the counsellor. 

Erestor paced the darkened hall, the brushing of his robes on the stones 
the only sound. He passed by Elrond, giving him a sharp look, walked 
further down the hall, then turned and walked back. “I want to speak in 
there,” he told the other, “but I cannot. Too hard.” He shook his head 
shortly, the warrior’s braids bouncing against his neck. “And it will 
become harder.”

“It is no matter, another can do so if they wish.” Elrond folded his arms 
together before his chest, tilting his head as he watched Erestor pace. 
“You are not the only one who feels deeply for the Balrog Slayer.” Dark 
eyes slid over his face. “He wanted this, do not forget that.”

Erestor shook his head again and halted, his back to Elrond. “I cannot 
return…Will you tell him I go to walk the gardens? I seek only a few 
moment’s peace…” He did not wait for Elrond’s response; he resumed 
walking, turning the corner to the courtyard entrance. 

A sharp wind snapped at his robes as he crossed the stones of the 
courtyard, passing under the arch into the gardens. The late blooming 
plants had been harvested that very day, and the dead stalks caught at his 
hem as he rushed past them. He glanced at the sky, at the dark heavy 
clouds hanging low; it would snow this night. He sighed and the wind 
tore the sound from his mouth. 

“Erestor?”

“Leave me, Elrohir, I wish to be alone.” 

A chuckle floated across the gardens. “After a millennia or two, one 
would expect from you an ability to tell my brother and I apart.”

Erestor flashed a weak smile over his shoulder. “Elladan, my apologies.” 
He nodded gracefully and turned, sweeping his robe through the remains 
of a hedge. “You did not need to seek me out.”

The twin shrugged, and perched himself on the edge of the low stone wall 
bordering the gardens. “I grew tired of Glorfindel’s celebration. Elrohir 
was ever the emotional one. I was discomforted and in an ill temper so 
Father suggested I leave for a time.” With a short laugh, he brushed at a 
stain on his own robe, glancing up at the dark Elf with hooded eyes. “We 
have shared little time since your return, Erestor, and I found myself 
curious about your travels. You departed Imladris with such haste before, 
and there was never any word.” A crooked smile slid across his face. 
“And now I find myself with my own, greater, troubles…”

“Elrohir.”

He nodded, dropping his eyes to his legs. “I had thought Inwe a calming 
presence for many years, though they come together as a tempest when 
their ire is raised,” Elladan noted, grudgingly respectful. “But in the halls 
of Imladris I hear whispers of his intentions and it pains me that he would 
not seek my counsel in his time of turmoil. I tried to speak with him, and 
now” – his head jerked up – “I find that there is no longer any time. The 
choice is his to make, that I understand, but we are the ones who must 
live with the consequences. I do not think I can endure the Gray Havens 
without my brother…We are twins, Erestor, two halves of a soul.”

“I understand,” Erestor replied softly, and his thoughts wandered to the 
golden Elf. 

Elladan coughed then, breaking the tension of the moment. “Arwen 
caught me before I departed the hall, she wishes to speak with you this 
night. If you can spare her a few moments of your time…” His dark 
eyebrow raised as he watched his former tutor standing in the gardens.

A deep sigh escaped Erestor’s lips. “I shall attend her soon.”

The twin nodded sharply and slid from the wall, wiping dirt from his seat. 
He nodded in farewell, murmured, “A sweet rest to you,” and moved 
silent as a shadow back to the House. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Through the closed door leading to Arwen and Aragorn’s antechamber, 
Erestor could hear the low murmur of voices – the Elf princess and her 
husband in muffled conversation. He rapped his knuckles against the 
heavy oak, staring at the swirl of engraved leaves around its frame. Then 
Aragorn’s dark head poked around the edge of the door and the King of 
Gondor, still wearing his thick formal robes, ushered him in. 

Erestor nodded a greeting to Aragorn and turned to face Arwen. She 
stood facing the open balcony doors, wrapped in a wool blanket, loose 
dark hair lifting from her shoulders in a sudden gust of snow-filled wind. 
Erestor glanced back at Aragorn, who shrugged, and squeezed his arm 
gently. His footsteps were the only sound in the antechamber as he 
crossed to his wife, pressed a soft kiss to the side of her exposed neck, 
and withdrew into the main chamber. “Arwen, your brother indicated you 
wished to speak with me…”

Her eyes followed the swift actions of a bird in the trees, flitting from the 
naked branches to the safety of the balcony railing. “This morning I went 
to speak with Glorfindel,” she replied, voice distant, “and he refused to 
see me. He is much changed, since he was at Minas Tirith, and things do 
not go well with him. Though” – she grinned wryly at him over her 
shoulder – “I trust that was not lost on you.”

“No, Arwen, it was not. I have been at Imladris since the autumn, I know 
how things with Fin fare.” He gestured to a chair near the hearth and, at 
her nod, sank into the padded seat. Another gust of wind tugged at the 
hem of her robe, and he caught her slight shiver. “Perhaps you would 
care to join me by the fire,” he suggested. 

“I like the cold.” A pale hand reached from beneath her blanket to toss a 
fistful of seed to the bird perched on the railing. "When I was blessed 
with the grace of the Elves, I did not know cold, I knew neither the sharp 
bite of the mid-winter wind nor the shock of ice on bare flesh. Now I 
revel in such sensations, it causes Aragorn much grief in the winter, for I 
find I can no longer sleep with a closed window and am forever waking 
him with my cold toes.” She laughed quietly. “Yet he rarely complains.”

“Astonishing, the things that are done out of love.”

Her lean figure twisted so her sharp eyes could fix on his face. “And out 
of duty,” she snapped. 

Erestor’s gaze slid to the leaping flames in the hearth. “Arwen, the hour 
grows late and the night long, and there is much yet I must see to. Can 
your words wait until the morning?”

Arwen blew out a heavy breath, watching it frost before her in the cold 
air. “When Glorfindel came to Minas Tirith, after you left for…for 
wherever you went - you have yet to share that tale with me, Erestor, and 
I always considered myself your favourite student” – a fleeting smile 
crossed her face – “I never saw him alone, I never saw him without 
companion, as though he sought to bury memories of you in the arms of 
another.” She shook her head, long dark hair sliding across her back. “He 
came to train the warriors, so many had died, so many lives sacrificed to 
save Gondor, to save Middle Earth, so few understanding the weight of 
that sacrifice. You know how it goes with him, he is a beautiful creature,” 
she said simply, “and he caught the eyes of many, young men, wanting to 
learn, young women, seeking to impress. All they ever knew were the 
heroic tales of the great Balrog Slayer, all possessed only the vaguest 
notion of what Glorfindel truly was. Yet as none understood him, none 
ever refused his bed.” She spun on her heel then, seeds sprinkling onto 
the stones around her, and her piercing eyes again settled on Erestor’s 
still face. “Seldom did he spend longer than a single eve with any one, no 
favourites, no jealousies, I saw the care he took, and still they never 
learned it had only been a game, that the shade haunting his bed at nights 
had always been you. And then he ended his game, and his nights were 
spent alone with his torment, his loneliness and his anger, and his own 
memories.” Her head tilted in consideration. “All those lovers,” she 
mused softly, “and it was mostly hate and self-disgust.”

Erestor could no longer hold Arwen’s eyes; he ducked his head, peering 
at the hands folded on his lap. “Do you think it was different for me? 
That I rode away from this place and simply forgot?”

She shook her head again, movements slow. “No, no, I think you 
remembered,” she said, “and I think you did not come through this 
unscathed.” 

“Then why do you share this story with me?”

“Because I think you do not understand,” she snapped, then turned her 
head aside and continued more gently, ”how it was for him, the reasons 
he would give up the grace of the Elves. How he came to choose this path 
for his life.”

“He has spoken to me, of his memories, of their torment.” He pushed 
himself out of the cushions and spun on a heel, stalking to the door and 
back. “How could I have foreseen this when I left? How was I to know 
how it would end?”

Arwen took a pair of steps toward Erestor, bare toes peeping out from 
beneath the hem of her robe. She curled them under themselves. “You 
were not, there is no blame in this for you. But you must understand how 
it is, to choose a mortal life over that of the Elves, and this, I can share 
with you.” Branches rattled outside the balcony, and she turned back to 
the open doors, now coated in a thin layer of wet snow. “He chose this 
life so it would end, indeed because it ends, he did not choose for love or 
for honour, he chose because he would die and with him would his 
memories.” She sucked in a breath with a short shake of her head. “The 
things he spoke of, the things he lived through, and lived through again, 
in the dark – “

“He spoke of them to me, when I first arrived, he wished there to be no 
misunderstandings between us. Please, Arwen,” he begged, pausing near 
the chairs, “there is no need to bring those ghosts to life here.”

“He could not take the boat, his memories would simply travel with him 
to the Gray Havens, across the seas with his body and his mind, he would 
not share this with my father, he could not seek you for comfort, your 
past preventing any future for the two of you as you sought solace in the 
world of Men.”

“I sought answers,” he said sharply, and turned his head to stare at the 
flames of the fire, “and distance.”

“And did you find them?”

He shook his head, hair sliding to shield his face. “They found me.”

Arwen hesitated, listening to the snapping of the fire before continuing. 
“So. What choice was left to him?” Her hands braced her body in the 
doorframe, pale fingers on the dark wood. “We spoke several times, he 
wanted to know what it had been like, the physical agony that follows the 
anguish of the decision. I told him how it was, though words failed to 
capture the memories I had of that time. He knew, foolish he may have 
been, but simple he was not.” She shuddered, and the blanket over her 
shoulders fell to the stones; her robes fluttered madly. “And when his 
decision had been made, when he became mortal, he became as a mortal, 
as vulnerable to the passage of time and prone to the illnesses of Men as 
Men themselves are. He was weaker than most, suffering most terribly 
from his loss of you, I was not taken unawares to learn of his disease, 
though the swiftness and severity was unlike any I had witnessed, and I 
have seen much, among Aragorn’s people, my people.” Twisting enough 
to see him, enough so he could see the wetness gleaming in her eyes, she 
spoke with earnest. “I sent him back here, to my father, to be treated, 
surrounded by the people and things that love him. The irony was not lost 
on him, that while your nightmares had caused you to leave, his had 
caused him to return. He only did this so those voices, those faces, that 
haunt him can finally be made silent.”

Erestor crossed the chamber, his formal robes whispering across the 
stones, and bent to grab the blanket from the floor. He draped the fine 
wool around her thin shoulders, holding her against him for a moment. 
“Aragorn waits for you, go to him,” he murmured in her ear. “He grows 
impatient waiting for his love.”

Arwen’s hands rested atop his and then she turned within the ring of his 
arms. Drawing away, she reached to partially close the door; a sad smile 
settled on her face. “So does yours.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The impression of his face wavered in the glass as wet snow struck the 
pane; he stared beyond the window, into the darkness of the forest 
beyond, where branches danced in the wind and his mind turned over 
Arwen’s words. Curled on the floor, with his back against the chair, 
Erestor could hear the familiar shuffle of Glorfindel’s feet on the stones 
of the corridor. He distinguished the low voice of Elrohir, engaged in 
quiet conversation with the golden Elf, even through the solid oaken 
panel. 

“Do you need any further assistance, Glorfindel? It is no trouble…” 

“I am nearly to my bed, Elrohir, it has called to me this entire eve. There 
is no need.”

Elrohir opened the door and Erestor watched the reflection in the 
window. The dark twin’s arm supported the body of his former tutor, 
leading him slowly across the chamber. Shadows shifted as they passed 
before the dying hearth and Glorfindel’s laboured breathing filled the 
room. The golden head was bent, resting on a broad shoulder; Erestor 
saw him glance toward the window and halt, grasping Elrohir by the 
arms. 

“This is far enough, Elrohir,” he said, a small smile crossing his face. “I 
believe your Inwe seeks you.”

Elrohir’s answering smile wiped the lines of concentration from his brow. 
“She waits in the corridor. She was unsure of my ability to assist you, 
mayhap?” 

Glorfindel laughed. “Go to her then.” The blue eyes swept across 
Erestor’s form. “She needs you more than I this night.”

The dark head nodded, then Elrohir was pulling the door closed behind 
him. Erestor saw Glorfindel turn to the window, saw him begin to cross 
the chamber, saw him stumble as he struggled down the two steps to the 
sunken alcove. He turned his head away, feeling the weight of his 
emotions settle heavy as a mantle upon him. Glorfindel sank into the 
chair with a heavy sigh, prodding at the cushions with their bright knobs 
of embroidery, and Erestor turned to face him, resting his chin on the 
golden Elf’s leg. Silence wrapped around them as they sat together, the 
fire dying in a shower of sparks as a log snapped. Finally, a long, pale 
hand emerged from within the formal robes, and a gentle hand began 
tracing the evidence – and depth - of Erestor’s emotions. 

“You never used to weep.” The blunt pad of Glorfindel’s thumb shook as 
it skimmed across Erestor’s high cheekbone. He stared at the smear of 
wetness glistening on his skin.

Erestor snagged the swollen hand in his, covering the fragile appendage 
and pressing it against his lips. The dry skin grew wet with his tears. 
After a lingering silence, he explained, voice muffled and very soft, “You 
never gave me reason.”

The chamber’s sole candle – a squat stub located behind the golden Elf – 
threw his pallid features and sunken cheekbones into shadow. “It takes 
much effort now.” A small smile growing at the corner of his mouth gave 
hint to Glorfindel’s former nature. “I have not wept in a very long time.”

The dark Elf dropped their joined hands onto Glorfindel’s lap; he tilted 
his head, once again looking beyond his own reflection in the glass. 
“Grief numbed my senses on the long ride back to Imladris,” he said. “I 
pushed the horses, pushed Elrond, he understood both my hurry and my 
reluctance, these feelings warring within me even as they drove my every 
step. It rained, for days, pounding like a fist against my face, my lips” – 
his free hand rose to his mouth, scrubbing without thought at tender flesh 
– “turned blue and stiff, I could not speak, though none had much to say. 
Elrond and Elrohir marvelled about my calm, they thought they were 
discrete, they were but I never slept, I heard them, huddling in their 
cloaks. My calm?” He laughed in derision, the sound short and harsh, and 
then he continued gently. “I was never such. Tears, they mingled with 
rain and froze to ice on my cheeks.” Slanting a glance up to meet 
Glorfindel’s blue eyes, Erestor murmured, “I had not wept in a very long 
time either.” 

Glorfindel’s free hand rose to wipe the tears from Erestor’s cheeks, 
fingers sliding across smooth skin. “When?” he breathed. “I think your 
wounds are old and yet they may still cause you fresh pain.”

A weak smile flirted with Erestor’s wide mouth. “This is the wisdom I 
told Elrohir about.” He tilted his head to press his cheek against 
Glorfindel’s leg, not wanting to meet the golden Elf’s eyes. “I last wept 
when he died.”

“Who?”

“My brother.” Erestor heard Glorfindel’s faint gasp and the leg beneath 
his cheek tightened in reaction; the soothing hand on his face did not 
twitch, however. “The Elders forbade me speak his name and I still 
respect their decree, even after all these millennia. I ended his life, it was 
the only way to save him, and they held me captive for centuries to 
punish me.” He closed his eyes, seeing the long dead face staring back at 
him. “To attempt a rescue” – he shook his head – “was unthinkable, I can 
see that now, I was young then, it was only my second season with the 
other warriors and I had not yet truly learned of the evil that ran across 
our lands. Our captain laughed when I suggested it, more taken unawares 
than amused I thought. And to leave him there…” He pulled away from 
the chair, spinning on his knees until he could watch Glorfindel; the 
golden Elf sat rigid. “It was not difficult. I went alone, hiding in the rocks 
above their camp, sitting silent for days until I saw him. I would not have 
recognized him, he looked at me, and my world narrowed to his eyes, 
eyes filled with anguish and relief, and he nodded and I took an arrow – I 
remember that he had helped me fashion those very ones, I had to use a 
second one, my fingers trembled, I snapped the shaft. I took an arrow, 
and lifted it to my bow, and in a moment, I became a hated Kinslayer.” 
Glorfindel’s hand moved, as though to reach out in consolation, but 
Erestor ducked aside, determined to finish. “A patrol found me later, 
days, weeks, time had become blurred to me. I had found my brother’s 
body in a ravine, ravaged by animals, I had buried him long and refused 
to say where. They were able to determine what had happened, that I had 
killed him, I told them so. The Elders could not send me to Mandos’ 
Halls, but they tried to kill me. Anyone can break a spirit, if they want it 
enough…and they broke mine.” The broad shoulders rose and dropped. 
“They left me on the Fields at Fornost, thinking some Man would do to 
me what they themselves would not, indeed could not. How could they 
have imagined my being mended by the great Balrog Slayer himself?”

A pleased smile spread across Glorfindel’s lips. “I knew that a strong 
soul still lived in you.” The smile became a grin. “And that I wanted it for 
myself.”

Erestor hesitated, then crawled forward to press his chest against 
Glorfindel’s legs. “Now that you know…know what I am, what I have 
done?” 

Glorfindel’s smile faltered at the pained question. “It does not matter to 
me. And you? What of my own past, my own sins still not absolved? We 
understand one another, Erestor, as though your soul were but half of 
mine.”

Erestor dropped his head and began to shake, not stopping until 
Glorfindel’s hand rested on his shoulder. Tears of mirth glittered now on 
his cheeks. “Your tongue has not suffered ill in the least,” he commented, 
and stood, reaching for the Elf in the chair.

Wrapping his arm around Erestor’s body, Glorfindel replied, “I have 
much time left to read some of those books Elrond has collected for 
centuries. Some are” – he frowned – “quite poorly written, especially 
most about myself, but there were some decent romance stories.”

“Decent?” Erestor repeated. He led the golden Elf to the bed, sat him 
down and grasped a sleeve. He tugged futilely. “It is never usually this 
difficult to get you out of your garments, Fin. And there are no decent 
books among those I saw sitting on your table.”

“Has living amongst Men made you modest?” Glorfindel struggled to 
assist Erestor with his sleeve, his eyes skimming across the dark Elf’s 
features. “You did not used to mind some … indecency.” 

“Not modest.” Erestor paused as he helped Glorfindel into his sleeping 
robes; the wasted body rocked against his as the chill of the chamber 
struck Glorfindel’s bared flesh. He met the steady blue gaze. “Merely 
untempted.” 

The golden head dipped in a nod and a slow smile crept across his face. 
“I see,” he murmured. 

The thick darkness of true night lay heavy upon the room. Erestor 
reached for the blanket folded across the foot of the bed. “The evening 
has been long, you must rest.” He spread the colourful wool throw across 
Glorfindel’s shivering body, carefully attuned to the shallow breaths the 
golden Elf took. Blue eyes swept across his face as he leaned across to 
blow out the candle; melted wax trembled before the flame disappeared. 
He began to turn away but Glorfindel’s soft voice whispering his name 
drew him back. 

“I need you,” he murmured, “this night, I need you here.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his pallet across the chamber – he had 
slept nearby every night since his return to Imladris, not trusting to share 
a bed with Glorfindel – and back to the Elf. With a slow nod, he began to 
remove his outer garments, laying them across the seat of the chair next 
to the bed, Elrond’s chair. He slid between the cool sheets, jerking 
slightly as his leg touched Glorfindel’s. The golden Elf wheezed a brief 
laugh, then sighed deeply, and Erestor turned to face the wall, drawing 
the blanket to his chest, sinking into the thick mattress. 

He marvelled at the softness of the pillow beneath his head; he pushed it 
beneath his ear and took a deep breath. Shadows danced in the corner of 
the room and on the balcony, he could hear the tapping of a naked branch 
against the window. He wondered if this long night would be his first full 
of dreams…

“Touch me.”

The faint plea reached Erestor as he lingered on the edge of sleep. He 
rolled over slowly, the crisp sheets rustling, and pressed himself against 
Glorfindel’s back. His hand slid inside the open neck of Glorfindel’s 
sleeping robe and across the cool flesh of his chest. He nudged the 
pointed tip of Glorfindel’s ear with his nose. “Is this…?” he whispered. 

“Lower.”

The heat in Glorfindel’s body gathered here. Erestor’s fingers glided 
slowly along Glorfindel’s length. Blood pulsed lazily in time with the 
blood of Fin’s heart; Erestor could feel it beating against his own. 
Glorfindel’s hand rested upon his arm, stilling his movements, and he 
pressed closer to the other body. A soft sigh of content ruffled the golden 
hairs lying against Glorfindel’s neck and Erestor felt himself sink into the 
mattress, surrounded by the warring coolness and warmth of his lover’s 
body. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He dreamed. He wandered through the mists of his mind, walking with 
confidence across a battlefield he knew intimately. Bodies, still adorned 
with silver weapons dulled by blood, lay piled in the tall grasses, it was 
wheat, the fat heads ripe and gold in the sun and waving in the gentle 
wind. Other warriors walked through the heaps of bodies, shadows 
wavering in and out of the corners of his vision as he moved forward, 
stepping suddenly into a yawning pit, fall cushioned by a body. The face 
had begun to slough away in hunks of rotting flesh but as he stared at 
what remained, he recognized the tilt of the head, the angle of the jaw, 
the long pale hair hanging in clumps from the skull. He scrambled from 
the hole, fingers clawing uselessly at the dark mud of the pit walls, the 
damp earth clinging to his fingers, the keening cry from behind him and 
then a hand grasping his arm - 

“Erestor!”

He snapped to awareness, reeling. The soft whimpering sounded from 
behind him. “Fin.” He rolled over, pushing aside the damp sheets, and sat 
up. The golden Elf perched on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around 
his waist, head tucked against his chest. The pale body shook, violent 
shivers that rocked the sturdy bed, and his gasping breath overlaid the 
quiet of the night. Erestor slid from the bed, kneeling before Glorfindel; 
his hands moved across the bared flesh, wiping at the sweat lying in pools 
on his body. 

Glorfindel raised his head slightly; the soft lips were blue and trembled as 
he struggled to speak. “Tor, it hurts!” he cried softly. 

The top sheet pulled away from the bed as he stood; Erestor wrapped it 
carelessly around his waist. Glorfindel’s swollen body he picked up 
gently, cradling him against his bare chest; gasping breaths fanned 
against his neck. Erestor departed the bedchamber, crossed the 
antechamber, and was in the corridor before Glorfindel could raise 
protest.

His senses seemed more acute; he could hear the faint crackling of 
smoored torches and see the play of starlight in the silvered thread of the 
tapestries adorning the walls. His feet scuffled against the stones in his 
hurry and when he glanced down at the precious burden in his arms and 
saw Glorfindel struggling unsuccessfully for breath, he found his voice. 
“Elrond!” Hoarse and heavy with sleep, still his words echoed through 
the silent corridors. His pace quickened, and he cursed the distance – 
many halls and an entire floor – that separated the Lord of Imladris from 
Glorfindel’s chosen chambers. 

“Erestor, what has happened?” The calm voice of Inwe sounded from 
further up the corridor; he could see light reflecting the deep green of her 
eyes as she stepped from her shared chambers. In her hand, he glimpsed 
the flash of a knife; she still wore her heavy formal robes, thick silk in a 
lush green. Catching sight of the advisor in his arms, she nodded her 
understanding and ducked back into her room as he passed.  

“Inwe?” Elrohir appeared then, quickly pulling a robe about his body, 
and hurried to Erestor’s side. A quick glance was enough for 
understanding. “I shall wake my father,” he promised, and broke into a 
sprint as he reached the stairs. 

Erestor followed, pressing his chin against the top of Glorfindel’s golden 
head. “Breathe for me, my love,” he murmured, over and over, vaguely 
aware of Inwe’s lean form racing along beside him. 

They rushed down the stairs and turned the corner; the door to Elrond’s 
chambers was thrown open, held by Elrohir. The Lord of Imladris 
glanced at Glorfindel’s desperate struggles for breath and turned 
immediately back into his own chambers. Erestor passed through the 
door, followed closely by the Captain of the Guards and the dark twin, 
and crossed the chamber in long strides at Elrond’s calm instruction to 
follow him.

“Inwe, the candles, please.” Elrond’s soothing voice was muffled, his 
head tucked into a deep chest near his window. “Elrohir, clear the bed so 
Erestor may lay Glorfindel down.” 

Erestor ducked into Elrond’s bedchamber; Glorfindel gasped, chest rising 
and falling in vain effort to gain breath. The dark Elf settled him gently 
atop the simple bedcover, not stepping back as Elrond sat on the edge of 
the bed. “Help him,” he pleaded. “He cannot breath. You must help him, 
Elrond.”

“I try.” Elrond bent over Glorfindel’s body, pushing Erestor’s hands 
aside. “Elrohir.”

The twin’s hand rested on Erestor’s arm, pulling him away. “You must 
give him room if he is to help Glorfindel.” He led Erestor back across the 
room, to the door where Inwe leaned, green eyes following Elrond’s 
actions. “You know Father is a skilled healer, trust Glorfindel to his 
hands.”

“I do, I am.” Glorfindel gasped again, a harsh sound that caused Erestor 
to flinch. “I cannot, I cannot be here now and not help him myself.” 

Elrohir nodded; his voice was gentle, but then he was Elrond’s son. “We 
shall wait for them in the outer chamber.” Gray eyes met green over 
Erestor’s shoulder. “Come, Erestor.” 

Inwe closed the bedchamber door on Elrond’s low voice and Glorfindel’s 
desperate breaths. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the east, the sun had begun to rise. Streaks of rose stained the dark sky 
by the time Erestor slipped from Elrond’s private chambers and into the 
study adjoining the libraries. He released a heavy breath and rubbed his 
brow with a blunt thumb.

“How does Glorfindel fare?”

His dark eyes snapped across the room, resting on the still form of Inwe. 
She stood near the window, the drape drawn back in one hand as she 
stared across the courtyard. One of the Guards had brought her long 
knives; the sheathed blades hung from her shoulder. “I did not mean to 
disturb your quiet,” he murmured.

She shook her head to dismiss his apology. “I only sought a 
moment…away.” 

“I understand.” He crossed the chamber to stand by her side and peered 
over her arm. “Elrond managed to calm his breathing, Glorfindel rests 
easier now.” He tilted his head and disheveled braids slid over his 
shoulder. “And the night has nearly ended.”

A faint smile flirted with Inwe’s expressive mouth. “For some,” she said. 

“He has gone?” He asked the question gently.

She nodded and her eyes swept across the empty courtyard, where fresh 
tracks from a heavy horse could be seen in the new snow. “During the 
night.” Now it was she who sighed, and released the drape. “I have duties 
to attend, my Lord,” she stated, and turned away with the faintest of nods.

“Certainly. As do I.” Watching her step past him, in the soft gray light, 
Erestor’s sharp gaze settled on the beginning curve of Inwe’s belly. His 
fingers floated up, brushing against the sleeve of her robe in inquiry. 

“I just wanted a piece of him” – she stared at his face until he met her 
defiant eyes – “for myself, to take with me when he did not return.” 
Shifting to grasp her blades in hand, she nodded slightly and left the 
study. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erestor glanced up when the door to the small dining hall opened and 
Elrond slipped in. Dropping his eyes to the bowl set before him, he 
pushed the contents around with his spoon, picking up the chopped nuts, 
as he waited for the Elf lord to approach him. Elrond stopped a small 
distance away, arms wrapped around his middle; the evidence of the 
night’s struggle lay heavy upon his face as weary eyes bracketed by deep 
lines turned to the dark Elf.

“I have had him returned to your chambers,” he announced without 
preamble, “and he asked for you.” Erestor nodded and pushed aside his 
bowl, and Elrond craned his neck to frown at the contents. He tore his 
eyes away to rest them on Erestor’s face. “How do you sleep?” he asked 
bluntly.

“Not long,” Erestor replied, as blunt, “and not easy. Is there something 
you…”

With a knowing smile, Elrond reached into the depths of his robes, 
withdrawing a small parchment packet of sweet smelling herbs. “I will 
fetch hot water and brew you a cup.” He crossed to the door that joined 
dining hall to kitchen; he stuck his head through, spoke in low tones to an 
unseen Elf and returned to the table with a small pot of steaming water. 

Erestor watched as Elrond crumbled the herbs into his cup; water purled 
over the lip of the pot and a burst of sweet steam rose. They sat in silence 
as the leaves steeped, silence unbroken until after the Elf lord had 
gestured for Erestor to drink the liquid. 

“Go to him now. Both of you must take some rest.” 

The dark Elf nodded and rose from the table; Elrond stood as well. “You 
know,” Erestor murmured, “how your actions are appreciated, not merely 
your actions” – his eyes met Elrond’s – “but your intentions as well.” He 
took a hesitant step toward Elrond, then bent forward to brush his mouth 
across that of the healer, leaving behind the faint taste of herbs. 

“Rest easy, my friend.” 

With a slow nod, Erestor departed the dining hall.  He passed with great 
haste along the empty halls – the few remaining inhabitants of Imladris 
still lay abed – oblivious to the exhausting events of the night of 
Glorfindel’s celebration – or stood at their posts, waiting to attend to the 
other Elves. His robes whispered on the stone of the floors as he turned 
the corners and hurried up the stairs. He needed to be close to Glorfindel, 
needed the reassurance of Glorfindel’s flesh beneath his fingers. Gently 
closing the door behind him, he crossed into the bedchamber. 

Erestor sank onto the edge of the bed where Glorfindel slept. Gentle 
fingers traced the path of a stray early morning sunbeam across the bare 
flesh of his back; the skin was sticky with evaporated sweat. He bent to 
press his lips against Glorfindel’s shoulder – he smelled of lingering 
lavender - and the golden Elf moved unexpectedly. Rolling over with a 
heavy sigh, Glorfindel faced the dark Elf, eyes sunk deep into bruised 
flesh. 

“Tor, I love you.”

Erestor nodded, and lay down close to Glorfindel’s body. He leaned 
forward until his forehead pressed against that of his lover. “I know,” he 
said softly. 

“Tor, I am dying.”

“I know,” and his voice was a mere breath across Glorfindel’s damp 
cheek. 

The faintest of smiles flickered across Glorfindel’s soft mouth. “The 
dying in love with the everlasting,” he whispered, and his bright blue 
eyes were unfocused. “At last, I begin to truly understand Arwen and 
Estel’s torment.” A single tear slid unnoticed along the smooth skin of his 
face. 

Erestor sucked in a shallow breath. “May the Valar curse you, Glorfindel! 
Why could you not wait, why could you not wait for me?” he demanded, 
quiet but fierce, as emotions felt over decisions buried for years sprung to 
the fore. “How could you forget? Did you not remember? At the harvest 
fires, in your family’s garden, when we bound together? I pledged myself 
to you and you made your promise to me.” A flash of that rushed, crisp 
autumn evening came unbidden to his mind – the heated flush of anger, 
cooled in the shade of the oak trees, promises bound on a carpet of tiny 
white starflowers and velvety yarrow, the sharp thistle scraping along the 
tender flesh of his neck, fierceness and tenderness and haste. He felt a 
tear slide like rain down his own cheek. “Know this for the truth, Fin. I 
would have gone with you, in the end, to the Undying Lands. I would 
have lain with you under your ash trees and shared love, and we would 
have stood in the halls of your ancestors and danced until the end of the 
sun.” Glorfindel’s face shimmered before his eyes and as he reached to 
swipe at his cheeks, Glorfindel’s lips slid across his flesh, wiping the 
tears away. “Glorfindel, you are my strength, you have been for all time. 
I loved you, I love you, even if I did not say such things, and I hate you 
so for leaving me here alone.” He sucked in a shaky deep breath, 
struggling for calm. “And now I hate how I have unburdened myself to 
you, as though there were not enough weighing heavy on your mind.”

“Ai, Erestor, hush.” Glorfindel’s hand slid to Erestor’s neck, his blunt 
thumb resting gentle on the pulse beneath the delicately pointed ear. 
“You are my friend and my lover. It is no great burden. And I understand 
your feelings, because I share many of them.” Erestor nodded a little and 
took another deep breath, and Glorfindel’s hand reached down to grasp 
the blanket. “Come, rest with me, and I will wear your burdens for a time. 
There is some yet, my love.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erestor heard the soft knock on the chamber door and glanced from 
Glorfindel’s back – covered in a sheen of sweat – to the oak panel. “Hold 
a moment,” he called out, and turned his attention back to where 
Glorfindel sat dry heaving. The muscles beneath his thin skin trembled 
and Erestor steadied the wasted body against his own. The gentle knock 
sounded again, and Erestor repeated his command – “Hold!” – with 
greater force. 

Glorfindel moaned softly, and a shiver ripped through his body. A stream 
of words – too low voiced for Erestor even to make them out – spilled 
from Glorfindel’s mouth, and the dark Elf wondered if they were prayers 
or curse.  “What…” His voice shook. “What do they want?”

“I do not know.” Gentle fingers smoothed the stray strands of gold hair 
back from Glorfindel’s pale brow. “How do you feel?”

Glorfindel allowed himself to slump back against Erestor’s broad chest. 
“As though I died.” His eyes swept across the stricken face above him 
and he winced slightly. “I did not mean…that is…my apologies, Tor.” 

“Have no worry.” Erestor eased Glorfindel back into the cushions, pulled 
the stained garments from him, and tossed them aside. He was drawing 
the heavy bedcover over Glorfindel when the Elf at the door knocked for 
a third time. “Sweet Elbereth!” 

“See what they want, go.” Glorfindel rolled onto his side, folding 
forward. 

Erestor rushed to the antechamber, and threw open the door; the Guard 
standing in the corridor had his fist raised to knock again. “Yes?” 

The sharp demand, coupled with the sounds and scents the Guard sensed, 
ensured the quick delivery of his message. He took a respectful step back. 
“The Elves depart.”

Erestor waited. “And?” The Guard’s face blanked and he took a second 
step; dressed for travel, weapons peeked between the edges of his cloak. 
“Is there more?”

“No.” 

“My thanks,” he stated, and spinning on a heel, slammed the door closed. 
Hearing Glorfindel again, he ran back to the bedchamber, in time to catch 
the golden head as it dangled over the edge of the bed. 

“Who…what?” He gasped his question, struggling to draw in breath, and 
his blue eyes, though dulled, settled on Erestor’s face as the dark Elf 
helped him lie back. 

“The Elves depart, this morning.” 

“Go to them.”

“No, I shall not leave you.”

“There will be no other chance…to see our kin depart.”

Erestor smiled slightly. “I have you to see to.” He reached for the 
decanter of water on the low table beside the bed and poured a cup of 
water. 

Glorfindel turned his head aside, and limp golden hair spread across the 
stark whiteness of the cushion cover. “Send Elrond to me,” he ordered 
and a fragment of his old power showed. “This is your last chance. Do 
it.” The dark eyes closed, and the harsh lines of his face eased. “I shall be 
fine.”

Erestor paused. “You lie.”

Glorfindel pressed his face into the cushion, and his muffled voice 
muttered, “Only to protect those that I love.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Altaire snorted, breath misting in the cold air, and stamped his front foot 
impatiently. “Calm yourself,” Erestor murmured  and ran a soothing hand 
along the warm neck, smoothing over the coarse winter hair. The horse 
bristled at the touch and turned his head toward the edge of the ridge; 
Erestor reined in hard to prevent Altaire joining his friends on the path 
below. Tossing his head, Altaire snorted again and Erestor relaxed, dark 
eyes never leaving the movements he glimpsed through the trees.

“They are gone.”

The low voice, floating across the crust of snow, startled Erestor. He 
jerked, pulling on the reins, and Altaire huffed in anger. 

“They have been gone for a while now.” Inwe reined up beside him, a 
dark shape bold against the ice and snow and gold of her own horse. 
“They are safe.”

Erestor’s eyes dropped back to the bottom of the ridge where the Elves 
had passed, travelling down the road to the coast. He nodded slightly. 
“They will be.”

Inwe tipped back her head, green eyes glancing through the patchwork of 
naked branches above her at the sky. “We have long passed the solstice 
but this day is nearly over,” she commented easily, “and we are expected 
back at Imladris.” With a sudden grin, she rubbed her swelling belly. 
“And we are hungry.”

The pair of Elves reined their horses around and urged them to follow the 
ridgeline. A crisp wind swept across the top of the ridge, tugging at 
unbraided tails and loose cloak edges. The bosses of Altaire’s tack 
pressed into the flesh of Erestor’s hands. He drew in a breath, faintly 
scented by old pine overlaid by the musky sweat of the animals. From 
within the depths of his hood, he cast a brief glance at Inwe; the Guard 
Captain was one of few Elves remaining at Imladris. She and Elladan and 
Lindir would depart in the morning, leaving him to greet the newness of 
spring with Elrond. And Glorfindel, if the golden Elf still lived…

“You frown. Your thoughts are heavy.”

Erestor forced a smile to his mouth. “I worry over you and your child,” 
he replied, and leaned back, reaching into the depths of his saddlepack. 
The hard cheese and thick slices of bread were wrapped in a soft cloth; he 
handed the small package out to Inwe. “Something to tame your hunger, 
until we return and see what Lindir has managed to ruin for our meal.”

Inwe accepted the food; she turned back the cloth and broke off a hunk of 
bread. “You lie,” she mumbled through a mouthful. She shook her head – 
glancing at him sharply as he gave a sound that was half laugh and half 
choke - and swallowed. “Not about Lindir’s skills” – she frowned in 
distaste; this morning’s meal to break their fast had stuck to tongues 
instead of bellies – “but about the direction of your thoughts.”

“Please, Inwe.” He raised a hand. “Let us not speak of this. Let us not 
ruin your last hours at home with talk of illness.”

She nodded in understanding, and wisps of golden hair, caught by the 
wind, tossed about her face. She ducked her head, worrying a piece of 
cheese over in her fingers. “Imladris is not my home,” she said softly. 
Her eyes flicked first to the south, then to her belly, and then they rested 
on the trail stretching before them. 

Erestor reached across to grasp Inwe’s fingers, forcing her eyes to meet 
his. He whispered, “I know,” and she smiled in response. 

“I thought you might.” She squeezed his fingers and drew her hand away. 

They rode without speaking, the silence broken by the crunching of 
hooves through the thin crust of snow, the snapping of ice-laden branches 
caught on wool, the snorts and grunts of the horses. Shadows slanted far 
across the land and mist swirled about the bases of the trees when Altaire 
and Dima passed beneath the arch of the courtyard. By the time Erestor 
and Inwe had stripped, watered, fed and brushed the horses – they had 
sent the last of the stablehands with the rest of the Elven party – stars 
glittered overhead and snow swept across the stone steps leading into the 
Homely House.  

Elladan, bearing a covered tray, passed them in the entrance hall; he had 
his face turned away from the steam wafting from beneath the ill-fitting 
lid. He nodded at the pair. “Father awaits you in the small dining hall,” he 
muttered, “but do not feel the need to hurry for the food. It is a good thing 
Lindir has skills lying other than in the kitchens.” 

They laughed gently and moved toward the stairs, and their chambers. 
They parted at the landing – Inwe stalking down the corridor to her 
rooms and Erestor continuing up the stairs. The stark silence of the empty 
halls unnerved him; he began to sing softly under his breath, rounding the 
corner while running fingertips across the statue nestled in the alcove. 
How would it be, when even Elrond had left, and his were the only feet to 
walk these stones? And when the end came, what then? Always, what 
then. 

A departing hand had not properly secured the shutter to a large window 
further up the hall. Erestor reached for the panel – the wood had been 
worn by millennia of fingers, but he could still detect the roughness of an 
elaborate carving – and glanced idly out into the dark of the courtyard. 
His singing halted abruptly. 

Elrohir had returned. 

He took a deep breath, and released it with a small prayer of thanks to the 
Valar. 

The twin had just ridden into the courtyard, wrapped in a long cloak and 
burdened with multiple bulging saddlepacks. He glanced up at something 
and a large grin creased his weary face; he slid easily from the back of his 
horse and rushed across the stones to sweep Inwe into a fierce embrace. 
Erestor pulled closed the shutter and tightly secured the latch, as the dark 
head bent to the golden one. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erestor stood at the open window, dark eyes following the movements in 
the courtyard below, amber honey dripping onto his hand from the small, 
forgotten loaf of oatbread. The packing of the horses had been completed 
swiftly, the last meal eaten, the last walk taken through the sleeping 
gardens, the final partings suffered through, and now all that remained 
was the actual leaving. Lindir had mounted and sat his horse a small 
distance away from the knot of father and sons; left unbound and 
uncovered, the white hair was tossed by the wind. The older Elf glanced 
up at Erestor’s face, squinting in the sharp sunlight glinting off the snow, 
and with a smile, nodded a farewell. Erestor returned it graciously, then 
glanced back to where Elrond and his sons now embraced. Inwe, a tired 
smile residing on her face, stood with a hand on Elrohir’s back; they had 
not broken contact with one another since their meeting in that very 
courtyard the night before, moving through the evening meal with 
constant and lingering touches. Joy had mingled with pain deep within 
his chest as Erestor had watched them, a pain that had only sharpened at 
their private farewell this morning, the quiet affair kept brief in respect to 
Glorfindel’s weakness.

And now he watched them again, saw Elrond’s departing kisses pressed 
upon his sons, and one for Inwe, along with an order to protect those 
within her care. He saw them mount, draw their horses into formation, 
saw Elrond wave as they passed beneath the archway for a final time. 
They moved not toward the coastal road, but toward Minas Tirith, to visit 
Arwen one final time before their journey. Gripping the edges of his fur 
lined robe, Elrond crossed the barren courtyard alone and mounted the 
steps. 

Erestor closed the window again – the one from the night before, where 
he had borne silent witness to the reunion of the shadow and the sun – 
and turned up the hall. He ate his bread without tasting, licking at the 
sticky honey before rubbing his hand along the hem of his short tunic. 
With windows tightly shuttered and candles snuffed, the dark halls 
muffled the sound of his boots scuffling the stones. He returned to his 
chambers. 

“Glorfindel?” He kept his voice low as he ducked his head into the 
bedchamber, where the golden Elf lay in a fitful sleep. Sweat glistened on 
his face, a dull sheen on his pale skin. Erestor sat on the edge of the bed, 
wiped at Glorfindel’s face with the corner of the sheet, and, pausing for a 
moment, ran a gentle finger over Glorfindel’s bottom lip. The dry skin 
had cracked, and he reached for the small pot of ointment; he smeared 
some of the thick salve, lightly scented with giant calendula, across 
Glorfindel’s lips. Then, satisfied, he pulled the sheet further over the 
sunken torso and crept quietly back into the antechamber. 

He sighed and glanced around the room. Kneeling before the large 
applewood chest, he threw back its lid and began to pull out the contents. 
His weapons lay sheathed on the top, carefully wrapped in soft protective 
cloths, and underneath, his few garments, the elaborate formal robe of 
darkest brown to match his colouring, embroidered in gold thread, and 
the short tunics he favoured with leggings. Refolding the articles, he set 
them aside in a neat pile, running fingers across the soft wool and silk of 
the robe. There had been little use for such finery in the world of Men, no 
use for such things of delicate beauty. He resisted an urge to glance at the 
door Glorfindel lay behind and turned his attention back to the chest. 

The grain of the applewood had darkened over the centuries, and reckless 
use – dropping weapons on the lid, primarily, though Erestor smiled as a 
memory of roughness of another kind floated through his mind – had 
scarred the surface. The inside, however, lay smooth, except in the back 
corner where the wood at the base had begun to crack. He reached for it 
with a finger and the panel lifted with little effort, revealing a false 
bottom. 

“Sweet Elbereth,” he whispered and his breath caught. His hand trembled 
as it pulled from the depths a packet of letters, the top one neatly written 
in his own hand and the whole bundle tied with a fraying golden ribbon. 
He pulled the knot loose.

Glorfindel, bracing himself against the doorframe, found Erestor hours 
later, propped up against the open chest. “Tor?” 

The dark head raised slowly, as did a hand grasping a folded sheet. “Why 
did you never send these?” he demanded softly. He gestured to the 
parchments strew about him. “For every letter I sent, you wrote one in 
return and yet none did I receive. Why?”

The golden Elf trembled. “You were never to see those.”

“Again, I ask why?” Erestor tossed the parchment aside and scrambled to 
his feet, crossing to the door to support Glorfindel. He pressed his head 
against Glo