Think of this as a PWP with plot-like elements stubbornly intruding. A warning: bugger-all research went into this, so it's probably quite AU, but I have to confess that I really don't care. I liked the idea.
Basically, I remember reading somewhere that Tolkien originally intended for the Glorfindel that aids Aragorn and the hobbits in LOTR to be a different elf than the Glorfindel that fell battling the Balrog in the demise of Gondolin. He later changed his mind and made them one and the same… or was it the other way 'round? Anyway, it gave me this nice little idea. So, enjoy.
WARNING! This story contains mild slash- that is, a male/male relationship. If you do not like this sort of thing, then I doubt you'll like this story. While there's nothing overtly sexual, there is some implied sexual-type-stuff, maybe even some kissing in later chapters… so, if you like this sort of thing, please continue reading, if not… well; the exit is located in your 'back' button.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character's contained therein, nor do I profit in any way from the writing of the story. All I want is to put the pretty pictures in my head into words…
Many heartfelt thanks to Saltwater for beta reading this story. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
It was quiet in the library at Imladris; the last rays of the setting sun reached curious fingers through the windows, gently caressing the aged books on their antique shelves. At a magnificent desk of dark, glossy wood sat an elf. He was beautiful, as all elves were; an ethereal creature of chiaroscuro, what with his raven-dark hair and glittering dark eyes, so exquisitely contrasted to that pale, pale skin, which shone with inner radiance, like a luminescent pearl. This particular elf's name was Erestor, one of the more notable residents of the house.
Long, artist's fingers lovingly caressed the smooth textured vellum of an ancient scroll, as those sharp elven eyes devoured the words written there. A small frown creased his brow as he read, pausing to silently mouth a word that did not fit.
The elven lord sighed and placed the scroll carefully on the desktop, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. Whoever had originally translated this work from Quenya into Sindarin clearly had only basic understanding of the former language, and appeared to be making up words whenever this had caused them difficulty. Which was a pity; because the Quenyan original was no more and this was all Erestor had to work with in order to retrieve its rather important content.
He could do with a drink.
Erestor rose, moving with typical elvish grace, stretched the kinks from his back, and sighed again. He could do with a nice back-rub as well, but that was not so easily attained. He then left his desk, tucked intimately away in a peaceful corner of the Imladrian library, in search of Glorfindel, the young Captain of the House Guards, whom Erestor knew to be in the library somewhere.
The two shared many things in common: a passion for horses; for chess; for fine food and wine. Ever since the promising youth (who showed potential to become a magnificent warrior in the fullness of time) had been appointed Captain of Imladris' small but effective force of House Guards, the two had been required to spend a fair amount of time together in a professional capacity, and had discovered a friendship blossoming. It was a friendship that Erestor intended to coax into a most magnificent bloom- maybe something more. On more than one occasion Erestor had awoken from exquisite dreams of golden hair fanned across his pillow.
He was beginning to think that he might be mistaken; that Glorfindel must have left without his noticing, when he heard the sounds of ragged breathing nearby. Hastening through the rows of book-laden shelves, the dark-haired elf came upon a much favoured spot in the library. It was here that the cosy, intimate space of the library opened up; simply carved stone archways leading to a small courtyard-garden, where many Imladrian elves would often deign to abandon their luxurious desks and lofty armchairs and go sit and read in the afternoon sun.
The sun, however, had long since retired for the evening, and the courtyard was bathed in the silvery twilight of moon and stars. At its centre was a small fountain, its ever-flowing waters tinkling and gurgling pleasantly; and it was here, draped over the knee-high stone edge of the water-feature, that Erestor found Glorfindel.
The younger elf lay sprawled across the stone, arm extended to submerge his hand in the chill water. His golden mane fell in disarray about his face, and Erestor could see his chest heaving, as if he were hyperventilating. Concerned, Erestor hastened to kneel at the stricken elf's side. "Glorfindel?" he called softly, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder…
Glorfindel's head snapped up; his sapphire eyes wide and frightened, his normally golden-tanned skin deathly pale. His whole body tensed, as if he might spring to his feet and flee. Erestor froze, until, after a long pause, the other seemed to recognise him. Glorfindel looked away once more, his whole form trembling, shaking in time to his desperate panting.
"Glorfindel?" Erestor repeated, hesitantly letting his hand settle on the youth's shoulder. When he received no answer from his young friend, the dark-haired elf cautiously raised the limb Glorfindel was keeping so diligently beneath the water. At first the other resisted, strong muscles shifting beneath Erestor's fingertips, but then he gave in, allowing the other to lift his hand from the water just long enough to see the dreadful burn that marred his once-smooth palm.
Erestor recoiled as Glorfindel pulled away, submersing his injured hand once more. Unshed tears glittered in the younger elf's eyes as let out a long, shaky breath. "Er-erestor?"
"Aye," Erestor whispered back, moving close once more and putting a supporting hand beneath his friend's elbow. "Can you stand? We should take you to the healing wing."
"No!" the other gasped out. "When I take my hand from the water… the pain… please, do not make me move."
"Alright then," he assented, raising his hand to stroke the blond's hair soothingly. "You stay here while I fetch help."
"Hurry," Glorfindel called softly after the dark-haired lord's retreating footsteps. "Please, please, hurry."
oOo
"Glorfindel, tell me how this happened."
The young captain was arranged comfortably in a large bed, propped upright on a myriad of plump, plush pillows, his hand held gingerly in a bowl of cold water which rested in his lap. Shivers still chased through his slender form, and his breathing was still uneven, the sound rasping uncomfortably across Erestor's ears, where he sat anxiously on a chair in the far corner of the room.
It was Lord Elrond, Master of Imladris and healer of unparalleled skill, seated on the bed at Glorfindel's side, who had spoken. He took the youth's uninjured hand into both of his own, soothingly rubbing his thumb over trembling knuckles.
"I was sitting, reading by that little fireplace in one corner of the library. I guess I left the poker in the wrong place…I-I was absorbed in my book. I reached out for the poker…and it had heated…the pain…"
The blond pulled his hand free of Elrond's grasp to scrub at his tearing eyes, not quite managing to hold back a sniffle. His eyes were wide and frightened, catching and holding those of each elf in turn, begging them to understand.
"The pain was not just in my hand. It spread through my whole body. I blinked, and all I could see was flame- all I could feel was flame. It encased me and consumed me, and there was nothing I could do. I opened my mouth to scream, and swallowed fire. W-when I close my eyes I….it all comes back."
Tears finally spilled, and Glorfindel dropped his head, wiping miserably at his damp cheeks. "Oh, young one!" Elrond sighed, gently putting an arm about the youth's shoulders. Though a formidable warrior in his own right, the ruler of Imladris was a gentle soul, and always ached for other's pain. The younger elf leant gratefully into his comforting embrace as Elrond brought up a hand to gently stroke his golden hair.
"I've never been so scared," the young captain confessed miserably. "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before…"
Elrond and Erestor exchanged anxious looks over the top of the younger elf's head. Neither had ever seen him like this before- Imladris' young captain was always so cheerful and effervescent, his angelic features ever aglow with his zest for life. Now he seemed almost physically smaller, his inner light dimmed, as a lantern whose candle has burned low.
The trio sat in silence for a long while, Glorfindel staring unseeing at the far wall. Finally Elrond stirred, sighing heavily. "Erestor?" he beckoned to his chief counsellor. "Will you sit with Glorfindel for a while? I'd like to mix up a sleeping draught."
Erestor nodded, and silently moved to take his lord's place on the bedside, cuddling Glorfindel close. It was nice to feel that beautiful body snuggled warm and pliant against his chest, but as he rested his chin atop that gleaming head Erestor internally lamented that this was their first embrace. He had dreamt of Glorfindel in his arms, but in his dreams they were always bathed in sunlight, happy and laughing, aglow with radiance, as they tumbled entwined upon his bed. Not this…not this grey, miserable room with Glorfindel pale and wan and in pain in his arms. Not like this.
oOo
The piercing scream cut through the still night air like shards of broken glass through unwitting flesh. Erestor, who had been dozing spooned close behind the younger elf, shot awake; his sharp eyes making a thorough, frantic search of the moonlit room for any danger. He found none, just Glorfindel thrashing in his loose embrace. Even the draught prepared by Lord Elrond, supposedly to grant deep and dreamless sleep, had evidently proved insufficient guard for whatever horror stalked the youthful beauty through the realm of dreams. Try as he might, Erestor could not persuade the other to wake.
Glorfindel's eyes were open wide, yet unseeing; his heart beat a frantic tattoo beneath Erestor's hand. He was sobbing now, and heartrending moans of pain tore from his throat, their poignancy shaking the dark-haired elf to his core.
"Glorfindel! Glorfindel!" Erestor implored desperately, flustered and distressed. "Glorfindel! Please, you need to wake up! Glorfindel!"
Frantic, he gathered his golden beloved close, pressing his cheek against the youth's. "Glorfindel," he heard himself groan, as deep and pain-filled a sound as any the youth was making. The younger elf wailed again, still not waking. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, heralding the arrival of a wide-eyed and pale Lord Elrond, with two lesser healers following anxiously behind him.
oOo
He had never known such agony. Flames danced and rippled along his limbs as his skin blistered and burned. His long golden mane was ablaze, adding further hurt to the cracking sting of the whip which lashed his back and flanks. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound was forthcoming- instead he swallowed a mouthful of heat and pain, stealing the breath from his lungs and setting an insufferable ache deep in his chest.
He was vaguely aware, through the consuming haze of pain, of the sensation of falling. Somebody was screaming, where he could not- screaming his name; their desperate call rising momentarily above the din and clatter of battle. Others voices joined them; sweet elvish voices strained and hoarse from fear and pain, contrasting harshly with the brute calls and hollers of marauding orcs.
And then, as clear and beautiful a sound as he had ever heard, came the enraged shriek of a great eagle, and Glorfindel knew that his loved ones were saved. That realisation provided a brief spark of comfort in his world of agony. But his ordeal was not over, for at that moment he and the flaming monster with which he was entwined hit the hard stone, in an overwhelming explosion of bone-shattering impact.
All was darkness, and silence, but for the rasp of his own laboured breathing. Then that, too, faded; disappearing into the charcoal reek and shadow of his ruin, and that of his foe…
oOo
Glorfindel blinked as the grey blur of his sickroom swam into focus. Violent tremors racked his slender frame and cold sweat slicked his skin as he clung, terrified, to a quietly weeping Erestor. Elrond was there too, holding them both close to his chest, his strong hands shaking as he stroked Glorfindel's hair.
The youth slowly took stock of his surroundings. It was not cold and unforgiving stone upon which he lay, but a soft bed. His toes and the tip of his nose were chilled by the cool night breeze. He could feel the heat and the weight of his fellow elves against him; smell them; feel them breath and the deep beating of their hearts. Erestor's tears were trickling warmly down his neck and across his collarbone; the other's sable hair sliding like satin across his skin.
"Glorfindel," Erestor whispered, brokenly, and the echoes from his nightmare, of many beloved voices shouting, screaming: "Glorfindel! Glorfindel!" sent a violent shudder coursing through his body.
Tears spilled, to roll unfettered down his cheeks, as he made to clench his fists in the sheets, for what little comfort it gave, and thus re-awakened the bright agony of the burn in his palm. Teetering back on the edge of the nightmare, he forced himself to think of nothing but the sensation of Erestor's heart beating above his own; concentrating all his considerable will on setting his own heart to beat in time. Together their racing hearts slowed; together their hitched breathing became rhythmical and easy once more. When the dark-haired lord shifted, Glorfindel wound strong arms tight about his ribs, his silent plea for Erestor to remain where he was somehow understood.
And so they remained all three, 'til the coming dawn bathed the room in its gentle glow and the horror of the night had passed.
oOo
It was pointed out to me that my use of the word 'tattoo' to describe the beating of Glorfindel's heart may come across as a little odd… just in case anyone was unaware, the term tattoo is also used to describe a military drum performance, i.e. the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, and it is in this context that I use the word 'tattoo'.
I hope everyone has enjoyed the story so far, so sit back and hold on tight for the next instalment! Feedback, queries and randomness all very much appreciated ;)