Title: Unbound, Unbidden, Undying: Chapter One (1/5)

Author: Isys (ff_isys@yahoo.com)

Rating: PG-13

Genre/s: AU, slash, angst, romance

Pairing: Elrond/Glorfindel

Summary: A tale of power and lordship, love and friendship, and the call of the soul against the call of the Sea.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings is the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, including all characters, names, and concepts herein. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This story is purely for entertainment purposes only. There are several direct quotations taken from The Silmarillion; other citations will be made when necessary.

AN: Keep in mind that this is SLASH - if that offends or disturbs you in any way, then this isn't the story for you. Take note - this will be both FOTR movie and book canon. Dedicated especially to Glorfindel's Angel of Mercy, whose brilliant fic "Of Glorfindel and His Coming to Imladris" inspired this. While you're here, might as well read that one too!

This is a rewrite, by the way. Lots of thanks to GA Mercy, you know why.

This is my first attempt on this pairing, as well as my first multi-chaptered LotR fic. Not much action to begin with here, but I assure you there will be more to come. Do leave a review! It's the best encouragement a writer can get.

Many thanks to Gelise for beta-reading.

* * *

Chapter One

In all the days of the Third Age, after the fall of Gil-galad, Imladris, a valley within the Misty Mountains literally translating to the "Deep Dale of the Cleft", was made a dwelling by Elrond Half-Elven. Rivendell, as it was known to those who lived not within its borders, became to be the abode of many other elves, and other folk of wisdom and power among the kindreds of Middle-Earth; as a memory preserved of all that had been fair, the house of Elrond was a refuge of the weary and the oppressed, and a treasury of good counsel and wise lore, for many days, the dark tidings of the past war little more than a shadow in the memories of many. While the One Ring, the one legacy left of the war, remained lost, perhaps forever, Isil and Anar continued their journey across the sky.

As all things do, however, the time of the Eldar was drawing to a close; many of their kin had already chosen to leave Middle-Earth for the blessed realm in the west, and the elves, their alliances with Men long sundered, dwindled in number. Already vague whispers had awakened from the east, rising like an untamed fire, and the Shadow only grew greater.

And so for this very reason the ninth day of October was a day of the many days of expectations and unease. As news traveled of the pending assembly that Elrond had called to all corners of Middle-Earth, so did rumors of nameless spies along the outskirts of Rivendell.

The One Ring had been found. Wild armies had begun to muster in the east and south, and what were once places of hiding were laid bare, for the Dark Lord of Mordor had many ears. The One Ring had been found, and war was kindled; Elrond saw it imperative to decide upon their strike at once, and the Council of Elrond was born.

Astutely foreseeing the presence of spies and the danger they could possibly impose on the arriving delegates for the council, Elrond, the master of lore and the healing arts and the lord of Rivendell, sent several of his subjects to strengthen the borders and keep the house under careful security. As true as he had predicted, encounters with suspicious creatures - those that remained after the Dark Lord's downfall and continued to linger aimlessly about the Misty Mountains twisted in their own malice, named in the Sindarin tongue orch - arose from the information Elrond received. No attempts to overrun the elves standing guard had been successful so far, but several elves had returned not unscathed.

Glorfindel, not only a faithful subject of Elrond for countless years but a close comrade at that, had been one of those ill-fated to have been waylaid and outnumbered by a small band of the orcs. Although he was fully and duly trained, armed with skill to be reckoned with at the use of a sword and a bow, the elf had not escaped before being the unfortunate target of one of the poison-tipped arrows of an orc. Elrond had immediately attended to him - the wound had not been grave and the poison quickly subdued. Glorfindel had yet to completely recuperate, but he refused to receive neither special treatment nor rest.

For Glorfindel was never one to be restrained. There existed in the other elves of Rivendell no memory of a time that the elf had not served in Elrond's house, save Elrond himself, and was strong in battle as was in his unwavering loyalty. And when word of the Ringbearer's peril reached his master's ears, no sooner did Glorfindel attest such reliability.

"Allow me, my lord," he urged Elrond, who had strongly opposed Glorfindel's proposal to meet Aragorn, Frodo, and his company and safely escort them the rest of the way to Rivendell. "I am the only one who remains idle in your household; I do not wish to sit unused."

"Call yourself not idle but a brave soldier having yet to recover," Elrond told him, for to the elf-lord, despite his firm demeanor, the wellbeing of his subjects proved too important to impulsively risk. "Do not push on this issue further; I shall send Erestor to the Ringbearer's aid instead."

"There are many things that demand Erestor's attention as we speak," persisted Glorfindel. "He is at the head of keeping our borders and cannot be troubled by other errands as critical as this."

At this unquestionable point Elrond fell silent before he could at once reply. True, it had been Erestor whom he had sent to lead those at guard at the outskirts, and was required present at all times. His sons Elrohir and Elladan were nowhere near for him to call to assist the Ringbearer, and no one could match Glorfindel in his swiftness in riding. But to allow one who had just born an orc-wound to confront with creatures barely human themselves leagues from Rivendell to aid the Ringbearer? More than several thousand years of knowledge of what the Ringwraiths were capable of gave Elrond apt reasons to doubt such an act.

But stubborn and keen on going Glorfindel clearly was, and, although he and Elrond had known each other for many years, Elrond still wasn't quick to accept Glorfindel's bold - sometimes even reckless - impulses, and he was beginning to grow impatient with Glorfindel's insistence.

"It would be a waste of time to prevent me from helping them," Glorfindel continued to press upon him. "My injury has not lessened at all my ability to defend myself nor others in need of it. I can bring them here immediately."

Elrond sighed, the early signs of a migraine present in the strained calmness of his expression. "You know I cannot approve despite your assurance. I have little doubt in your skill to fight but for these circumstances; I do not wish a repeat of what had befallen you, or anything worse."

"And with all due respect, I understand your concerns," Glorfindel said. "Sending Erestor in my place will jeopardize the safety of your home as well as the council to be held, and I do not think you wish for that to happen, either."

"But do you not understand?" asked Elrond, his voice rising. "Erestor is not the only one on the fortification of the borders; there are many others skilled to defend it even without him. You, Glorfindel, on the other hand - "

"Who else will you send, then?" Glorfindel's voice too rose to meet Elrond's, for he was not happy on being held back or singled out. "Will you abandon the Ringbearer and his companions just for a mere ailment on my part?"

"How can you call it such? How if you return bearing worse than what you had the previous time?" The frustration was now clear as the full enormity of Elrond's concerns weighed down on Glorfindel, and for a moment they sat wordlessly, Glorfindel slightly surprised at the fervent apprehension on the elf-lord's face. Elrond breathed deeply, trying to swallow his agitation, and his voice quieted. "Or should you ever come back at all?"

The challenge struck one too nigh, and Glorfindel bowed his head, in acquiescence or guise of something else, Elrond could not tell as the cascade of golden, sunlight-kissed hair covered Glorfindel's face. A moment of disquiet hung over the two elves - one torn between protecting his own kin or the welfare of the Ringbearer, and the other between his pride or his better judgment - before Glorfindel, the tension almost tangible in his eyes, raised his head to ask a simple question. No more than a few words, but then -

"Do you trust me?"

Elrond blinked in surprise; that he had not expected. "Of course I do, however - "

"Then let me go."

* * *

Several days had passed since, his heart heavy with regret but with forced acceptance, Elrond watched as Glorfindel departed on Asfaloth. The faithful horse and its owner crossed the narrow arch bridge stretching over a clear strip of stream and into the woods, the gleaming white coat of the graceful animal and its rider's fair head disappearing under the thick cover of trees.

Had he made the right decision, granting Glorfindel's plea? Elrond shook his head, turning away from the open window of his room - the window he had gazed out of for moments at a time, searching past the impenetrable roof of trees to the winding paths beyond for any sign of movement besides the gentle sway of the leaves against the wind. Many times he firmly told himself that he was merely apprehensive at any possible attacks at the borders, despite Erestor's promise that the lands about Rivendell were under watchful eyes from each sunrise to the next. Gandalf, who had arrived days ago, was standing guard as well.

To worry was needless, to say the least; Glorfindel was highly adept and had proved so at many instances. He had only missed seeing the fleeting panic that flashed in Elrond's eyes when Glorfindel was brought into the houses of healing, his usually fair face deathly pale and the gentle curve of his neck marked with an ugly gash that could have only been caused by a wayward arrow. The wound was swiftly healed, but his mastery at the healing arts could not assuage the fear that had struck Elrond so deeply.

Perhaps Elrond feared not of Glorfindel's safety, but for his own sake - his own concealed dread of what blow might be dealt upon the shield he had so carefully built around himself, restricting any sort of emotion. If Glorfindel knew of his misgivings, would it have altered his decision to go in any way, thus saving Elrond from enduring the unexplainable discomfort of his absence?

What selfishness, he mocked himself, but it could do no better. Whatever answer there may be to that question was futile - whether he chose wrongly or not, Glorfindel had already gone. But Elrond's worries had not, and instead of being calmed by Glorfindel's confident reassurance, had continued to grow with increasing dread.

[Do you trust me?]

[Then let me go.]

So Elrond did, and regret had been his constant companion ever since.

He had hoped not to enter the houses of healing again any time sooner than he wished, but Frodo Baggins' peril had been too urgent to be ignored. He had been instantly alerted by Erestor and the other elves that Asfaloth was already sighted nearing the ford of Bruinen, closely pursued by several foreign creatures heavily robed in cloaks as black as the steeds they rode.

"Has Glorfindel arrived safely?" Elrond had found himself asking at once; the urgency in his tone was strange even to his ears.

Should Erestor have been surprised, he showed none of it, and continued, for he knew of Frodo Baggins' much-awaited arrival. "I am afraid that is not so. The horse has indeed returned, but with a new rider."

"A new rider?" repeated Elrond, unable to discern if this was good or bad news.

"'Tis not as grave; the rider is a Halfling," Erestor had gone on, as though in reply to Elrond's perplexity. "But all is not well, my lord. The Halfling has yet to cross the waters of Bruinen, and nine riders in black are on his trail. I fear that they may overtake him and hinder his passage to our lands." At that moment several other elves came to speak with Erestor, leaving Elrond alone.

Nine riders in black... The image was all too familiar, and the three thousand years suddenly returned to him - the last Alliance against Sauron, during which all he left of his fell legacy were his nine servants, riddled with the same darkness, lust for power, soulless with greed as they hovered on the fine thread of life and death. The seven years spent on the siege of Barad-dûr, fresh in his memory as though it were yesterday, had finally come again to make its presence felt.

For Elrond was not only the lord of Imladris - he too was a Ringbearer. Instinctively his eyes had flickered to the innocuous jeweled wooden box resting on a shelf in one corner of the room. He needn't unlock the box to know of its contents; the image of the Vilya, the Ring of Sapphire, its intricate band of silver and the solitary blue stone resting silently on a blanket of velvet so long untouched that it had grown cold was forever burned into his memory. For reasons other than the protection of Rivendell, not once did he dare wear it on his finger since the moment the high Elven-king Gil-galad had passed it on to his hands, but the long years it had spent quietly inside the box had not completely smothered it; continue it did to mock him when the silence of the night fell over Imladris, murmuring his name just as he was on the brink of sleep, a haunting but at the same time blissful promise of power beyond the reach of reason.

And he had resisted, every single time. For when the pull proved too strong and he found himself holding the ring in his hands, the voice would suddenly grow ominous, dark as a storm wind, chilling like the dead of the winter and burning like white fire just the same, heavenly yet untimely wrong, a danger and promise molded into one... until it became unbearable to hold any second longer, and he let it slip from his fingers. But the feeling of being left unfinished that it left at its wake was no better. It took all of his willpower to tear his eyes away.

Elrond knew fully what could happen should he succumb to the temptation of the ring, and it piqued his curiosity while scaring him. But he had resisted, and the voice had quieted to vague sighs, like a distant memory.

Although recently it had been more difficult to. The formless malice creeping over the lands from the east had served only to plague him more, and the voice rose yet again. It was calling, promising, and threatening all at once, like a thousand heartbeats made to fall into one. As though it were to reach out with icy hands to break what was left of his resolve, what was left of his judgment, to choose between right and wrong, or to simply beg for death...

[Elrond...] There it was; it had come again. Elrond's hands curled into tight fists as Frodo's arrival became almost completely forgotten.

"Master Elrond, come, we must hurry!"

[... what is left of your resolve...] It was unstoppable, like a dozen horse hooves stamping on the unyielding ground, approaching steadily closer, that he could hear little else but the menace in its words.

"My lord, Gandalf awaits you! The Halfling is less than a league from the ford!"

[... choose between right and wrong...]

"Elrond!"

[... simply beg for death.]

A crack of thunder, and then darkness so black that it could have consumed him whole. His room had disappeared; he could feel himself struggling to think yet only barely, until the voice faded away to a blinding flash of blazing fire, filling his vision before he was aware of Erestor coming back into the room and urgently shaking his arm. Elrond's skin had been pale with cold sweat, the silver circlet on his head slightly askew.

"My lord, is something wrong?" Erestor's voice invaded his thoughts.

No disguise could have possibly masked the stricken expression on Elrond's face, yet he mustered himself to quickly reassure the elf. "Nay, none at all," he had hastily said, and inside he silently prayed that Erestor would not ask more than he was willing to reveal.

The box bearing the ring had not changed, its shiny sides still gleaming as it had before, but Elrond beheld it as though it bore a heavy weight - weighing down on his hand, as well as his mind. The voice was gone, but still its wake lingered, like a flame extinguished, leaving only the shadow of smoke behind.

And, like fires long kindled, he knew it would not be long until it burned again. Elrond's gaze fell, only to see four crescent-shaped marks on his palm - marks of his fingernails when it had dug deep into his skin.

"We must not allow the pursuers to cross," Erestor was saying. "Master Gandalf awaits you, my lord. He needs your help."

Elrond sighed, his eyes falling closed as the memory faded. Several days had already passed since he and Gandalf helped Frodo escape the pursuit of the Ringwraiths. The Halfling had taken a serious wound to the left of his heart, caused presumably by a Morgul blade, but fortunately enough had not arrived too late. Elrond's skills had played their part - and now it was only a matter of time, and what strength the Halfling had within himself.

For the hobbit had indeed been fortunate to have crossed the ford with no worse, let alone stand a fighting chance against the insidious threat of the blade wound. He had reached Rivendell; there was one more who had not. Elrond could not be certain if Glorfindel had returned, for he had neither received nor heard from him. Erestor had brought news of Aragorn's arrival - Elrond was pleased to see his foster son once again - but -

"My lord."

As though it had answered a silent prayer not even Elrond knew he had, there came at his doorway a familiar voice.

A wave of relief so strong washed over him, and at its trail a twinge of anger as the memory of the days past came as well. Days he had spent with thoughts he never usually thought of, worries he never usually considered... days during which he could not have possibly recognized himself anymore. He had hated those times the most, and the feeling was as cruel as it was dangerous. It took his utmost effort to wipe his expression clean of anything that would betray him. Turning slightly to face the elf standing at the door, Elrond greeted him with a slight tilt of his head.

"Glorfindel. I see you have succeeded, then." There was no trace of disapproval as he spoke, yet his tone was somewhat less than pleased.

Glorfindel seemed to think it wise not to ask further, for he replied with his eyes carefully averted. "Indeed I have. Pardon my absence, for I was kept busy arranging suitable lodging for Estel and his company. But I come to you with good tidings - the Ringbearer has awoken, and I thought you might want to speak with him."

"Verily so." With a curt nod in Glorfindel's direction, Elrond rose from his chair and followed him.

The two elves walked in silence, past the marble-lined corridors of his chambers to the balcony just outside Frodo's room, too absorbed within their own thoughts to speak with each other. Footstep after noiseless footstep they walked without a word, that the slightest rustle of the wind stirring through the trees could be clearly heard; they seemed to notice the bitter irony between the two elves - who had been close comrades even before their seeds had taken root and now had barely a word to say among themselves - did not, could not, or would not see.

Glorfindel's sigh was a quiet whisper that Elrond failed to notice. He felt like an intruder, walking under the roof of a stranger, and he liked it not. Beside him Elrond continued, his pace brisk yet remaining completely soundless. The seemingly only thought in the elf-lord's mind was to reach the Ringbearer's room at once, but there was an inscrutable expression in his dark eyes that Glorfindel found disturbing. He did not dare to ask, however, nor did he try to look him directly in the eye, for reasons that confused even himself.

After walking a distance that had seemed like light years, they finally stopped before Frodo's doorway - Gandalf was sitting on a chair beside his bed, and they were apparently engaged in a conversation. And at the very same instant the two elves stepped forward to enter the room, before the narrow doorway abruptly halted them both; their arms brushed against each other, and for a fleeting heartbeat Elrond's fingers glanced softly over Glorfindel's. Quickly Glorfindel stopped and backed a few steps so that the elf-lord's way was clear.

"After you," Glorfindel said quietly. Elrond, choosing not to argue, nodded and stepped ahead of him.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, before Elrond turned away, and smiled a greeting at the hobbit.

"Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins."

Although he would not find it in himself to admit, those words he meant for Glorfindel as well.

* * *

In the next chapter: The Council has been held and the Fellowship made, but it is Elrond who has much to lose.

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