Title: Waiting on the battlefield (working title), Chapter one
Disclaimer: All Tolkien's
Word count: 2552/2552
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor
Rating: PG-13
Warning: AN says it all, Battle of the last Alliance, so character death, blood and just plain death
Summary: Sometimes you find the best things where you least expect them
AN: 3430 S.A., Battle of the last Alliance

The sword hit the bloody earth with a thud as it fell from his numbed fingers. Robbed of all his strength Glorfindel slowly sank to the ground, next to his weapon. Lying motionlessly on the ground, eyes closed, he drew some deep and calming breaths. It was over. The war had been won. It was a foul and bitter victory, bought with the lives of many elves and even more men. But they had won. The Dark Lord was no more.

When Glorfindel next opened his eyes, the sky was much clearer than before. The dark clouds which had covered Sauron's lands were dispersing and the rays of the sun found their way to the earth once more. His whole body seemed to consist of nothing but pain and he didn't dare to move just yet, but the few hours of unintended sleep had returned a little strength to him, at least.

Had the battle of Gondolin been so different from this one or had he just forgotten the pain and exhaustion, the smell of death and of burned flesh, and of rivers of blood? One way or the other, he didn't really miss those memories. He probably would have enough trouble dealing with the ones from this battle.

Slowly he forced his hurting body into an upright position. He somehow had to get back to the camp, even if he did not quite know how he was supposed to cross the battlefield. He wasn't hurt, or at least he thought so. Frowning Glorfindel quickly checked his body for injuries. No, he wasn't hurt, save for some scratches and bruises that couldn't be avoided in a battle. But he was exhausted, feeling tired to the bone, and the way back to the elven encampment was long. He had fought in the front line, and it had been already a long way from there to the last warrior of their army.

Painfully Glorfindel rose to his feet, picking up his sword, sheathing it with a tired movement. Slowly he started to make his way across the battlefield, wading through mud and gore, climbing over the fallen bodies of his kinsmen and of men. He did not dare to really look at them. He did not want to see their dead, maimed bodies, their faces, twisted in death. He did not want to see elves he knew, perhaps even friends. It would be hard enough to bear when he'd learn of it at a later point.

A loud moan made Glorfindel freeze in his steps. The sound startled him, as he had not been expecting something like that on a field of the dead. His gaze fell to the ground and on the elf in front of him. The elf's face was distorted with pain and he was still gasping quietly, trying to fight the pain Glorfindel had caused him when one of the blonds' feet hit his body.

Glorfindel stared at him, his eyes moving over his body. The elf was bloody and dirty, but Glorfindel could still recognize his fine features. The elf in front of him was of an age that made Glorfindel cringe. He should be out and about with his friends, causing mischief, sneaking out of his bed at night to drink far too much, and not lie badly wounded on a blood-soaked ground. "I am sorry," Glorfindel apologized quietly. "I did not want to cause you pain. I thought everybody here was dead."

The young elf smiled weakly despite his pain. "If you had come a few hours later you would have been right." His voice was weak and painful as he forced the words out through his parched throat. He stared up at Glorfindel with frightened eyes, even though he was trying to be brave and not to show his fear and pain.

Glorfindel's eyes moved over his body and he could hardly restrain a shocked gasp at the gruesome wounds he saw there. The youngster's right leg was especially bad off. Glorfindel did not dare to imagine what exactly had caused an injury like this, but the limb was shattered. His breeches were soaked with blood and the rest of his body was equally bloody and injured; angry welts and cuts everywhere.

Glorfindel did not like to think of this, but the boy was probably right. He would not live long now. He only thought about it for a short moment, then he started to move some bodies aside, making room for himself. Carefully he sat down next to the elf.

The elf moved his head to look at Glorfindel, relief and gratefulness showing in his eyes. He knew he would be dead in a few hours, but the thought of having to die alone, with only the dead and some crows for company, had frightened him more than death itself. "You don't need to stay with me," Glorfindel heard the young elf say, even though his eyes proved his words to be lies.

"I'm tired," Glorfindel answered, accepting the boys wish. There was no need to make him feel like a child, which he certainly would if he was forced to admit he was just afraid. "I need to rest for some time."

Relieved the elf closed his eyes. Glorfindel watched him for some moment. He wished he could to something for him, anything, But he was no healer and if he moved him or touched his leg he would probably do him more harm than good. "What is your name?" he asked him after some time, watching the young elf's face.

At first Glorfindel thought he had already died or at least fallen asleep as he received no response. But his piping breath proved that he was still alive and after some minutes the elf slowly opened his eyes once more. "Erestor."

Glorfindel smiled at him, trying to act as normal as possible. The situation was difficult enough for the boy. He would die far more relaxed when he wasn't reminded of his state all the time. "Erestor. That's a beautiful name."

Erestor smiled shakily. "My mother gave it to me." His voice was barely a whisper and betrayed his weakness. "What's yours?"

"Glorfindel," Glorfindel told him. One moment later he regretted giving his name away so freely, as Erestor flinched with the realization of who sat next to him. With wide eyes he stared up at the ancient warrior. "I'm sorry!" he stammered, something akin to fear in his eyes. "I'd bow to you, but…"

Glorfindel shook his head, reaching out to carefully put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "There's no need to. That is the last thing I'd think of in a situation like this. I'm just Glorfindel, no Lord, not of Gondolin, just Glorfindel, the warrior. We're all the same on the battlefield."

Erestor continued to stare up at him doubtingly for some moments, but then he closed his eyes once more, feeling more at peace with his companion. The dirt and blood and Glorfindel's weary expression made it difficult to look upon him as a lord and legend of old. "I wish I could tell my brother I met you. He'd be thrilled. He worships you."

"Your brother." Glorfindel cringed as he thought of the boy's family. They would be devastated. "Has he fought as well?"

"No," Erestor answered, the relief in his voice evident. "He's 20. He's at home." He fell silent, staring ahead with a thoughtful expression. Glorfindel could see realization creeping in and his expression turned to one of deep sadness. Glorfindel's heart nearly broke as silent tears started to draw clean paths on his dirty face. "I wish I could see them again. They'll miss me."

Glorfindel nodded slowly, swallowing hard to repress any memories. He had seen many people die, but it was always worse with the young ones, the ones whose life had barely started. He desperately wanted to help the young elf, but he knew there was nothing he could do, save for staying with him and talking to him, but even that was barely any help.

"Could you…" Erestor's faint voice drew him from his dark musings. The young elf broke off, looking up at Glorfindel uncertainly, clearly not knowing if he should voice his thoughts or not.

"What is it? You can ask me anything." Glorfindel smiled encouragingly at his charge, trying to take away his fears.

"Could you tell my family… I… I love them and… I won't forget them?" He stared up at Glorfindel hopefully, not daring to breathe as he waited for the warrior's answer.

Glorfindel could feel a big fist painfully tightening around his heart once more. It was no unusual request, but every time it nearly broke his heart. He stared down at the elf, trying not to show his own pain. The thought that this beautiful young boy would be dead soon made him sick.

"Of course. If I can find them, I'll tell them what you said."

Relieved Erestor closed his eyes. Glorfindel could see how weak he was and how few strength he had left. "Please… tell them…" Erestor continued, his voice getting audibly weaker. "Tell them I died quickly and… that it wasn't painful."

"I will." Glorfindel had to swallow hard until he could continue speaking. It was a pity that this brave beautiful young elf should be dead soon. "What are their names?"

"My mother's name is Neniell. My father… I don't even know if you need to know his name…" Erestor broke off, broken-hearted.

"Just tell me," Glorfindel encouraged. It was far better for the boy if his mind wasn't forced to linger on the upcoming event.

"Nathron. My father's name is Nathron. I lost him in the battle…" Erestor's voice trailed off and Glorfindel saw his gaze sweeping over the corpses next to him, as if he was expecting he'd see his father there.

"Do you have any siblings?" Glorfindel asked quickly to draw him back.

Erestor nodded slowly. "I have two sisters. The older one is called Muinthelîl and the younger one is Tinu. My brother…" He smiled slightly as he thought of the merry little boy. "His name is Ôladon." He paused shortly, thinking. "Father and I promised to him we'd come back soon. He'll be angry with us. He won't understand…"

"I will find them," Glorfindel vowed to the dying youth. "As soon as Sauron's forces have been taken care of and it is safe to travel once more." A thought struck him as he said this which had not occurred to him before. "You're not from Lindon, are you?" Usually he would have been able to tell looking at the boy's garb, but he was completely covered in blood and mud and there was no way to recognize the colours of the garments.

"Mirkwood," Erestor whispered, his breath slowly becoming more strained. Still a weak smile appeared on his lips as he thought of home and of their departure. "The king," he whispered, his mind turning to the glorious figure of Oropher on his white battle horse. "What has ha-" His words were cut short as a heavy coughing fit took hold of him. His whole frame shook with it and Glorfindel's heart nearly broke as he heard the boy's pained moans as his body was moved like this. His pity turned to horror as he saw the small stream of red blood that ran out of Erestor's mouth.

Seeing this some things fell into place and he now also understood the elf's piping breath. His lungs were hurt, probably by a broken rip, a spear or some other piece of metal that had entered his ribcage. It wouldn't be long now.

Erestor's form finally stilled and he lay there, breathing heavily, his eyes closed in immense pain. Glorfindel reached out to carefully take one of his hands, trying to give him at least a little comfort. He was surprised about the strength with which the boy took it and squeezed it. He'd never expected this from someone in his condition. But he had seen people do enormous things, dying. Most of the time it was just the last gathering of strength, only to fail completely some moments later.

Erestor's words came back to him and he grimaced slightly as he thought about the answer. He had been at the very front and had seen what Oropher's folly and disobedience had led him to. "Thranduil is king now," he simply said, not wanting to openly voice what this meant.

"So he's… dead?" Erestor asked weakly, eyes still closed.

"Yes," Glorfindel answered hesitantly. For some reason he was deeply reluctant to discuss death with a dying person.

"At least we have a king in the halls," Erestor whispered. Glorfindel seemed to have been right. His strength seemed to be withering quickly now. His grip on Glorfindel's hand had become far weaker, as had his voice.

Glorfindel reached out with his other hand to gently stroke the boy's blood-soaked hair. "Don't worry. It's really not bad there." He didn't need to say where "there" was, they both knew what he meant by this. Mandos' halls. "The decoration is a bit… grey perhaps, but it's a good place to live."

"You've been there," Erestor breathed, motionlessly.

"Yes. It's been some time ago, but I doubt it has changed so much in that time. It didn't in all the time I was there and that's been far longer than the time I wasn't there." Glorfindel knew he was babbling, but he didn't know what else to say, and he couldn't just sit there and let the boy die in silence. "Mandos is far nicer than you might think, considering he's the Vala of the dead. But he's really easy to talk to, you'll like him. I haven't seen Vaire very often; she's far too busy weaving Arda's stories into tapestries. I'm sure there's also one about you, if you ask nicely she'll perhaps let you keep it. You better ask Mandos about it, though, as I said, you don't get to see Vaire very often and…" His gaze fell upon the young elf next to him and he closed his mouth. Erestor wasn't listening anymore, he was lying with his eyes closed, motionlessly, his breath coming slow and irregular. Glorfindel turned his eyes away from him, looking into the distance over the battlefield. He had to fight hard to keep back his tears. It would be over in a few minutes.

He narrowed his eyes, as he thought to see movement in the distance. It was probably just crows and other carrion birds he saw there, nothing more. But as he looked closer he realized that there were indeed persons in front of them, elves considering their hair. A man would not have been able to see anything more than a faint movement, if at all, but Glorfindel's elven sight allowed him to see more details. His heart missed a beat as he saw one of the elves stop and turn around, pointing in his direction. Moments later he moved again, walking towards them, accompanied by other elves.

Glorfindel's gaze travelled to the youth at his side once more. His breath was still heavy, but he was yet alive. Perhaps it wasn't too late after all.