Special thanks to Nevermind for motivating me to get a beta-reader. It's amazing what she's done for my writing. Let me know what you think of the changes if you get a chance.
Also thanks to Sar for sending me my first lovely flame. I feel like a real slash writer now. My day is complete.
Author's note: Thanks to Nienna for all the work she has done to keep me as canon as possible. I couldn't have done it without her. All remaining errors are completely my own.
"To your begetting day," Elrond lifted the tin mug filled with dry white wine towards the roof of the tent in a toast. The words, said for the first time five years ago when young Erestor arrived at Gil-Galad's camp, had become a yearly tradition. Elrond had disbelieved him at first; this too-young elfling with his serious dark eyes. That he had arrived on the very day of his majority to fight against the darkness seemed ridiculous. The youth had brought nothing but a battered old sword, the clothes on his back and a stubbornness that even Elrond found maddening.
"I am needed." The young eyes had been so calm, and determined. "My brother is dead, and my father with him. Their swords have fallen, mine must be taken up."
None of Elrond's arguments had served to sway him, and the young one had insisted that he was no longer a child to be protected, but an adult with a right to defend what he loved.
"If I am turned away from Gil-galad's host, I will find my place among Oropher's, or among the men if I must." And there was no doubt in those words, no sign of an empty boast. He was not threatening, he was only stating the truth of his intentions. In the end Elrond had sent him off to get proper weaponry and armor, a feeling of dread that he was sending an elfling to die or worse against an army without pity or mercy. He had no one to spare for guarding the youth night and day, nor way to send him safely home. At least this way, he knew Erestor was as safe as any other of his warriors, and not less.
Erestor smiled with the lord and returned the gesture. "And to a hasty end to this war, Eru willing." He raised the cup and took a deep sip, coughing at the bite.
Elrond suppressed a chuckle. For all his pride, his maturity and his growing skill on the battlefield, the young one still had difficulty with strong drink and dry wines. He felt an ache of fatherly affection, paired with the regret of not having enough time to watch this one, to help him, to keep him safe and see that he was well. The moments to share a cup of wine each year was all that he could spare.
"You make us all proud, Erestor," Elrond told him. "Go, rejoin your troop. I am sure your fellows will wish to celebrate with you also. I have taken up enough of your special day
Erestor finished his wine and bowed again, then left the half-elf to his piles of papers and maps and plans.
The elf was sitting on a log in the shadows near Elrond's tent as Erestor was leaving, his face hidden in the hood of his cloak. It struck the young elf as odd, that this one had not chosen the company of his fellows, or the comfort of one of the campfires. He looked closer, puzzled, and disliked what he saw.
Blood spattered the other elf's clothing, and did not look like any effort had been made to clean it. Strands of blonde hair showed at the edges of the hood, marking him as separate from the dark-haired Noldor host.
The warrior sat still, unmoving, his head bowed, fingers laced where they rested at his knees. Erestor's dark eyes followed their course downwards, and blinked when he got to the elf's feet.
Slender feet rested naked against the earth. They were dirty and scratched, and Erestor forgot his plans to celebrate his begetting day with his company-mates in light of this stranger's evident need.
Light footsteps brought him over to the seated elf. "Cousin?" His voice was gentle. The face beneath the hood shifted, but still no light spilled beneath it to show the stranger's face.
"Cousin, where are your boots?" He placed his hand upon the blonde's shoulder.
"Lost." A soft voice replied. "I know not where."
The words had a strange roll to them, an accent that took a moment to place. He frowned, and then realized that it was because the stranger was speaking Sindarin, but as if it was not his first language, as if he had spoken Quenya more often in his life.
How old might one be to speak so? Erestor wondered. His bright mind gripped onto the puzzle, turning it over, trying to see all sides. How far apart must an elf have lived to still keep the older fashions of speech? Has he come from some distant haven, some place far from war and blood to join this fight? He remembered his own first days, the near-overwhelming chaos of it, the noise and confusion. What would have happened to him, if not for Elrond?
Erestor shook his head. This would not do. With a quick glance down to the stranger's feet to estimate the size, he clasped him on the shoulder again. "Wait here, cousin. I will return with boots for you."