Title: Wild Justice 18/?
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
"You two are so much alike!" Twin pairs of eyes, so different in appearance but so similar in expression, regarded him with outrage. Gildor settled back against the plump pillows at the head of the bed and smiled happily. He had been so relieved to wake up, relatively well and certainly well cared for, in a guest room in Lorien, that at first he had thought that he was dreaming. Then he'd seen Haldir, with an absurdly sized bandage around his foot, slouched in a chair by the bed, and had known it was real. Haldir had been arguing with Elwyyda at the time and Gildor did not think that he would be likely to dream up those scowls, not to mention some of the phrases they used.
Gildor never found out what the reply to his quite truthful observation would have been, because Lord Elrond, who had been standing unobtrusively to the side, observing the argument with evident amusement, interrupted to insist that he drink something. It must have induced sleep, for Gildor soon drifted off again, his lover's annoyed tones still ringing in his ears. When he woke the second time, Elwyyda was by his bed but Haldir was gone. "Lord Elrond says you must stay in bed. You have been very badly hurt." She shot him a look that clearly said he should not have been so careless, "but we will see that you soon get well."
Gildor found it amusing that she had apparently elevated herself to Lord Elrond's assistant, but he tried to keep from letting his emotions show on his face. "Elwyyda, can you tell me about the rest of the party--how they are? And why were there so many orcs in the group that attacked us? There were far too many for a simple raiding party. What were they all doing there?"
Elwyyda looked at him sternly. "You don't need to worry about them. I am sure they will be more careful from now on." She tucked a blanket up under his chin. "You need to rest and sleep and recover your strength." She fussed about a bit more, giving Gildor the distinct impression that she was enjoying telling him what to do, but he accepted the pampering with good grace. In truth, it was rather nice to have someone see to his every need, and soon his bedside table was piled high with books, scrolls, a large pitcher of water, a plate filled to overflowing with cookies and pastries, and a large medicine bottle.
Gildor regarded the latter with distaste; he didn't know what Lord Elrond had put in it, but it tasted absolutely vile. On the assumption that it was the same draught he had previously taken, it would almost certainly cause him to sleep again, and he could not afford that. Elwyyda was adamant, however, and he swallowed the dosage obediently, but as soon as she looked away to pour him some water, he spit most of it into his handkerchief. Elwyyda bustled off a few minutes later at his request that she fetch his favourite tunic from the washing rooms, which would take her a good while as it had never been sent there. Then Gildor set about finding Haldir and, hopefully, some answers.
* * *
The orc fires were lit in the mountains--distant pinpoints of light that cast a reddish glow against the swiftly falling night. From the doorway of the tent, Glorfindel could hear the low beat of their drums, echoing oddly through the steep passes. They should have disturbed him, but in fact he found it all strangely soothing, like the cool night air that brushed across his face.
His thoughts were a tumultuous mix of relief, confusion and guilt. Relief that Elrohir had been so exhausted from the amount of energy he had expended to heal Camthalion that it had been easy to get Erestor to bustle him away while Glorfindel intercepted the two Eldar on his trail. Confusion because where did one even start to explain something this long in the making, and this complex? Guilt over the methods he had been forced to use to persuading the two Elda to speak with him rather than with Elrohir, but the cajolery and threats, the latter involving mention of what careless words might do to Elrohir's well being, had succeeded.
Thranduil had been highly displeased, but was still stunned enough by what he had witnessed to agree, especially after Glorfindel pointed out that he could probably explain things more coherently than could Elrohir, assuming he had even remembered. The sudden arrival of Thranduil's force of archers had also helped to serve as a distraction, as had the journey on towards the mountains, which had preoccupied them most of the day. Glorfindel had received the Eldar's promise to say nothing until he could speak with them in private, but it was likely to be a difficult conversation, and one that would dredge up memories he would have preferred not to relive.
** The great white city had been in flames, and frantic elves were everywhere, stumbling as they ran with a few possessions bundled onto their backs. He almost collided with a mother, who was clutching a baby to her breast and leading another elfling by the hand, desperately trying, as was everyone, to escape before it was too late. Glorfindel had steadied her, and steered her away from the besieged Northern Gate, where the allies of Morgoth were pressing their attack in unnumbered thousands.
His first thought had been to get his king beyond the walls and out of danger, but when he reached the throne room, Turgon flatly refused to leave. "I should have listened to Lord Ulmo's warning, Glorfindel," the king said sadly as the last of his armor was buckled onto him. "My pride led us to this, but I will see my family safe, at least." He then bound Glorfindel with a solemn vow to see to the safety of his daughter and grandson. "The loyalty you have always given to me, I ask you to bestow on them--get them safely away from here, at whatever cost." His dark eyes glowed with knowledge of his doom, and he gripped Glorfindel's arm so strongly as to leave bruises. "Do you swear?"
Glorfindel had not taken the oath lightly, but there had been no way he could possibly have dreamed of all that would come of it. He had assumed that he would see the princess to a place of safety and then return to stand by his king. It had not even crossed his mind that he would never see Turgon again. At his agreement, the king nodded once, then was gone, golden armor gleaming, blood red cape swirling about him, the white tunic he wore emblazoned with the symbol of a scarlet heart. It was the way Glorfindel would ever after remember him.
Glorfindel ran immediately from the throne room to the princess' quarters, which, although she now lived most of the time in her husband's house, she still kept to please her father. She used them on occasions when state business caused her to be needed at the palace as hostess, and Glorfindel had half expected to find her there in the midst of the current crisis, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her maids were haphazardly throwing silken dresses and jewels into cases, as if there would be anyone interested in carrying them away in the midst of such chaos. He gripped Erúvë, the princess' chief maid, by the arm, demanding to know where her mistress had gone.
"I do not know, I do not know!" She screamed and dropped to the floor, as a dragon's fireball, all unholy green and gold fire, burst through the stained glass panels lining the pretty room, instantly reducing them to a thousand twinkling shards. That prismatic orgy of light, a shower of gold, silver and blue, had once shown the scene of the creation of Arda and the growth of the two trees; its destruction had seemed somehow fitting to one who was watching the collapse of his world. But Glorfindel had not had time to rage against the stupidity of those who only knew how to destroy, never how to create; he had a task to perform.
Glorfindel had soon given up on getting any useful information from the palace servants, merely advising them to leave off their packing and flee the city at once. Some hastened to obey, others just stood there as their world crashed down around their heads, unwilling to even accept what was happening, much less to do anything about it. But there had been no time to try to persuade them. Glorfindel had begun a frantic, hours' long search for the princess, who had seemingly dropped off the face of Arda.
The city had come apart all around him, billowing columns of smoke rising into the bright blue sky and everywhere was the reek of charred wood and sulpher. Every street had houses with doors standing wide open as their owners had fled. They looked strangely cheerful as many of them were, like the streets themselves, bedecked in garlands of spring flowers for the festival, but no one would admire them now. None he encountered had time or knowledge to help him in his quest, and for a while Glorfindel had despaired. But his retainers searched the city, heedless of the danger from the orcs that were beginning to stream through the wrecked Northern Gate, and at last brought him news.
Glorfindel had finally found her, looking far less regal than usual, huddled against the last remaining wall of the house he had thought destroyed in the attack on the city walls. It was a solid structure overlooking the ramparts of the city, but he saw on his arrival that much of the early tale he'd heard had been true, as a breach in the city walls had torn away much of the house's structure. A high wind from the fissure was blowing the princess' long hair and delicate blue robes about her as she watched, horrified, as her husband battled the traitor Maeglin along the narrow parapet of what remained of the city wall. They were fighting only inches from their doom, and orcish arrows sped by, narrowly missing them.
Glorfindel rushed up the stairs, several of his people close behind him, but could only watch helplessly, knowing he was too late, as the combatants grappled on the edge of the ramparts in the final seconds of battle. Then the princess ran forward, just a few steps, and called out Maeglin's name. He had betrayed a city for her, had destroyed his honour and caused countless deaths in an insane bid to possess one who would never love him, and yet, it must have been love of a sort he felt, for he looked up at her voice. "Maeglin, no!" Her cry distracted him--only for an instant, but that was enough. A second later he was gone, tumbling into the abyss below, screaming her name all the way down.
Glorfindel posted some of the elves attached to his house of the Golden Flower around the princess and Earendil, then went with Tuor to rally what support he could to help fight their way out of the city. Nothing had gone as planned, and he and his retainers had become involved in the final, desperate battle with the hoards of orcs, balrogs and dragons that were attacking the main square and palace complex. Glorfindel had sought for his lover's face in the chaos, knowing he would be wherever the fighting was greatest, but had seen no sign of his distinctive crystal and silver armor. Then blood from a cut above his brow almost obscured his vision, and the battle became so fierce that just staying alive and giving what direction he could to his elves consumed all his concentration. Glorfindel saw him briefly at the last, of course--he could hardly have missed him then--but there was no way to get to him, no way to save him, and he watched helplessly as he fell.
But there was no time for mourning. The combined might of the surviving elvish hosts looked likely to turn the tide for a brief period, and with heavy losses they defeated many balrogs, including their prince Gothmog, and a fire dragon, whose fall into the deep fountain at the square's centre caused a huge billow of steam to flood the scene, almost obliterating the conflict from sight. It had not been soon enough, however, to keep the princess from seeing the destruction of her father's tower. Her grip on Glorfindel's arm was desperate and the look in her eyes anguished as she begged him to make it all go away.
She had been strong to the point that Turgon fell; as Glorfindel learned much later, she defended herself and her child courageously against Maeglin until Tuor had arrived to save them. But something in her seemed to die along with her father and her city, and she collapsed in on herself, looking suddenly as brittle boned as a tiny bird, with the wild, frightened eyes of a child. Her privileged background had left her with few defenses against such times. She had been little more than a zombie as Glorfindel hurried the remains of Tuor's family to the hidden escape tunnel beneath the city, and she clutched her seven-year-old son in trembling arms. Like her, the strength seemed to go out of the elvish army with the death of their king, and Glorfindel knew where his duty lay.**
Glorfindel turned back into the tent, looking from Thranduil to Celeborn and back again, wondering if there was any way to make them understand what that day had been like. "I had taken a solemn oath to protect the remnants of Turgon's family. I could not forsake the last order my king ever gave me, especially not to save a city already doomed to fall. I chose to escape with them, and to insure their safety at whatever price." He did not mention what that price had been, as everyone knew the tale of his epic battle all too well.
**Glorfindel had never been able to remember that final fall, or the actual moment of his death amid the balrog's flames. He only knew that he came to consciousness once more in a dim room, where a lovely elf-maid sat weaving something on a huge loom. He had walked towards her, feeling strangely confused and empty, but also with the clear impression that he had forgotten something.
"Your pardon, lady, but could you tell me where I am?"
The elf looked up from her work, cocking her head to the side while she studied him. "I do not think I have it quite right, somehow," she commented. "Come and see, and tell me what you think." Confused, Glorfindel nonetheless moved as he was bid, not accustomed to arguing with the requests of females. The great tapestry stretched out before him, its colours muted by the dim light, but nonetheless beautiful in its intricacy. Then he realised just what he was seeing. His battle with the balrog was at the centre of the picture, which showed him and the demon wreathed in coral and crimson flames, in the instant just before they dropped together into the abyss. In the background, shining like the beacon it had once been, was Gondolin, brilliantly white despite the orange fire that had begun to consume it. At the very top of the image, a single eagle glowed gold, spreading its great wings against the roiling blackness of the smoke.
"You are skilled, lady," he had finally managed to say around the lump in his throat.
She laughed, a fair, tinkling sound, like water in a merry stream. "Persistent, rather! It took me centuries to get it right, but still, there is something . . . "
"Centuries?" Glorfindel did not usually correct a lady, but her words were very odd indeed. The events of that day's battle were now coming back to him, however, and too much emotion choked him for speech to be possible.
"Yes, you were very tired and slept long. But," and her lovely face grew cheerful, "you're awake now, so tell me, what did I do wrong?"
Glorfindel had tried to look away from the disturbingly accurate depiction of his final battle, but it drew the eye. As he contemplated it, something she had said began to penetrate his thoughts, and suddenly, he understood. "You are Vairë."
The elf--no, Glorfindel corrected himself, the Valar--tapped her foot impatiently. "Of course, who else? But tell me, is it accurate or no? I had them bring you to me in order to find out, and I will have your answer."
"It . . . appears true, as far as I can recall." It had been a day for new experiences, Glorfindel thought dizzily--first defeating a fire demon and now chatting with a goddess. "I think, though, that the demon's eyes were yellow, not red, and it wielded a whip of flame, not a glowing sword." He was afraid he might have offended her with his criticism, but Vairë seemed pleased.
"Ah, very good." She waved a hand casually over the surface of the tapestry, and suddenly it melted, then reformed with the changes in place. "Is that better?" When he nodded dumbly, she smiled and waved her hand again, and suddenly they were in an immensely long corridor, stretching, it seemed, for miles. Beautifully wrought tapestries lined most available surfaces, but here and there a blank spot showed through. They were standing in front of such a one, into which Vairë's latest creation slowly coalesced, as if woven anew from the air alone. "Yes, I like it there," she commented, stepping back a few paces. Glorfindel followed her lead, only to notice something strange.
"Forgive me, lady," he faltered over the last word, unsure how one was supposed to address the Valar, never having met one before, but she did not seem to mind. "But it seems that perhaps . . . ", he stopped, feeling foolish, as he was certainly no one to accuse the Valar of making mistakes.
"Something troubles you?" Her expression was innocent, yet Glorfindel received the impression that he had been maneuvered into this.
"It just seems," and he gestured to the pieces on each side of the new arrival, "a little . . . out of place."
She smiled, and all the beauty of Arda was in her gaze. "You sound like my husband. Námo wants everything recorded, and a job it is, I must say, but then after leaving me with all the work, he thinks he can tell me how to display the end result. I explained to him that he was mistaken, but we still have arguments about it from time to time. Still, I get my way." She drew Glorfindel down the hall to a beautiful tapestry showing Celebrimbor at his forge. Right next to it was another piece with a great battlefield stretched out under a deep red sky. Beyond that was a weaving depicting, of all things, a group of halflings in what looked like nothing so much as a common pub. "All these tell the same story, just different pieces of it. Despite the fact that they are separated by many centuries, then, I choose to display them all together . . . it is just an extra benefit that it also really annoys Námo."
Glorfindel looked at her suspiciously. He had always assumed that the Valar had no sense of humour, that they were too noble and otherworldly and, well, god-like, for that. But now he decided he might have to rethink that assumption. Vairë gave him what could best be described as a grin, then dragged him back down the hall to stand in front of his tapestry again. "I've always found your story to be very interesting, Glorfindel. So many people just live and die, and the world is very much the same either way. But around some, whole eras seem to hinge, and a very few just keep popping up, so to speak, doing time-altering things, then disappearing for centuries. I think of them as catalysts for . . . "
"That is enough, Vairë." A dark form came towards them through the mists swirling about the corridor, a shadowy presence that was not menacing exactly, but nonetheless caused Glorfindel to shiver. He knew without being told that he was standing in the presence of Námo, the Valar better known for the name of his realm--Mandos.
* * *
Haldir woke up from a fitful sleep to see luminous dark eyes hovering above him, and he turned towards the love in that beautiful face like a flower seeking the sun. Then he remembered and scrambled back on the bed in something approaching panic. Gildor crawled after him, an almost predatory look on his face.
"This won't work." Haldir heard himself say the words, but they were weak and he was already hot and shivery just from the sight of his lover.
"What won't?," Gildor asked innocently, trailing an idle finger along his lover's arm. Already Haldir could feel his desire mounting, the familiar tightening causing him to hold himself stiff and wary under the sheets.
"You and me together. At least, not now."
"Really? Why?" Gildor did not wait for an answer, but moved to straddle his lover's body, carefully avoiding the damaged ankle.
"Because Lord Elrond said you need to rest--and gave orders that we were to be separated so I would not accidentally injure you." That had hurt, Haldir recalled with a grimace. As if he was so incapable of controlling his passions that he would risk harming his lover. He had made a solemn promise never to do that again, and had meant every word of it.
"Lord Elrond isn't here, and I feel fine," Gildor assured him, tugging at the nightshirt that was the only clothing Haldir had been left by his gaolers. Rumil had threatened to take even that, "except that I don't think the hazard of having to run naked through Lorien would deter you, and the family does have to maintain SOME dignity." Now Haldir was wishing he had some of the hodge-podge attire that ridiculous dwarf had put him in, or at least a few of those thick blankets between him and Gildor, as the thin sheets were doing little to hide his body's growing interest in the proceedings.
"Something will happen--some disaster," Haldir could not keep himself from looking fearfully towards the window. "A huge fire will break out, or a massive flood will drown all of Lorien," Gildor was ignoring him; he had managed to remove the nightshirt and was now trailing soft fingers down Haldir's exposed chest. "Sauron himself will return," Haldir protested, half seriously, clutching the sheet to the lower part of his body as Gildor reached lower, "leading a party of ten thousand orcs . . . "
Gildor laughed. "Don't be ridiculous." And he leaned in for a kiss.
"No!" Haldir tried not to notice the way his lover was shifting about on top of him, adding delicious friction to what was already an almost unbearable situation. He clung to his warm body for an instant, desperately desiring the pleasure it offered, but then resolutely pushed him away. "We HAVE to stop this! You almost died, Gildor, and lost much blood. You are still weak . . . "
"I know something that will make me feel MUCH better," Gildor commented, sucking one of the fingers gripping his shoulders into his mouth.
"No . . . ," Haldir knew he was weakening. He had never been able to deny Gildor anything, so how could he now refuse him something they both wanted so badly?
"THERE you are!" Haldir looked past Gildor's shoulder to see an enraged, three-foot tall virago standing in the doorway, with an equally annoyed Rumil just behind her. She glared at Haldir. "I should have known you'd find a way to lure him here, and the poor thing still barely able to walk!" Elwyyda rushed forward and tugged ineffectually at Gildor's arm. As she and Rumil managed to drag the protesting Gildor away, Haldir reflected that he would kiss her if he didn't hate her quite so much.
"I'll see you soon," Gildor said, turning back to give Haldir one last glance, his brown eyes promising many things as they towed him away. Haldir exhaled roughly, throwing an arm over his eyes and wondering what he had ever done to deserve this. He could only hope that the gods would find a new object for their amusement soon.
* * *
Glorfindel sat at the small table with Celeborn and Thranduil, wishing he could explain the very odd twists his life had taken without sounding like a lying bard. It WAS a fantastic tale, but then, so had his battle with the balrog been . . . then he remembered that there were some who had always expressed serious doubts about that. He could only hope the two lords before him were going to be more open minded, although from their expressions that did not seem likely.
"Lord Námo took me away quickly, saying that someone wished to speak to me, but not before I noticed what I think Vairë had meant for me to see. The tapestries on either side of the fall of Gondolin showed scenes which had to be in some way related to it, but they made little sense at the time. On one side of my tapestry was a weaving showed a blond elf-maid of great beauty holding a small, dark haired infant. It meant nothing to me then, for I did not recognise either of them, but years later I chanced upon the Lady Celebrian nursing Elrohir in exactly the same position. Then I understood."
"And what, pray tell, was on the weaving on the other side?" Thranduil looked like he believed none of this, and sarcasm dripped from his tone. Glorfindel couldn't really blame him. He had been there, yet even to him it sometimes felt like a dream that had happened to someone else.
"The other side . . . ," He trailed off. Explaining that one might be a little tricky.
TBC
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
"You two are so much alike!" Twin pairs of eyes, so different in appearance but so similar in expression, regarded him with outrage. Gildor settled back against the plump pillows at the head of the bed and smiled happily. He had been so relieved to wake up, relatively well and certainly well cared for, in a guest room in Lorien, that at first he had thought that he was dreaming. Then he'd seen Haldir, with an absurdly sized bandage around his foot, slouched in a chair by the bed, and had known it was real. Haldir had been arguing with Elwyyda at the time and Gildor did not think that he would be likely to dream up those scowls, not to mention some of the phrases they used.
Gildor never found out what the reply to his quite truthful observation would have been, because Lord Elrond, who had been standing unobtrusively to the side, observing the argument with evident amusement, interrupted to insist that he drink something. It must have induced sleep, for Gildor soon drifted off again, his lover's annoyed tones still ringing in his ears. When he woke the second time, Elwyyda was by his bed but Haldir was gone. "Lord Elrond says you must stay in bed. You have been very badly hurt." She shot him a look that clearly said he should not have been so careless, "but we will see that you soon get well."
Gildor found it amusing that she had apparently elevated herself to Lord Elrond's assistant, but he tried to keep from letting his emotions show on his face. "Elwyyda, can you tell me about the rest of the party--how they are? And why were there so many orcs in the group that attacked us? There were far too many for a simple raiding party. What were they all doing there?"
Elwyyda looked at him sternly. "You don't need to worry about them. I am sure they will be more careful from now on." She tucked a blanket up under his chin. "You need to rest and sleep and recover your strength." She fussed about a bit more, giving Gildor the distinct impression that she was enjoying telling him what to do, but he accepted the pampering with good grace. In truth, it was rather nice to have someone see to his every need, and soon his bedside table was piled high with books, scrolls, a large pitcher of water, a plate filled to overflowing with cookies and pastries, and a large medicine bottle.
Gildor regarded the latter with distaste; he didn't know what Lord Elrond had put in it, but it tasted absolutely vile. On the assumption that it was the same draught he had previously taken, it would almost certainly cause him to sleep again, and he could not afford that. Elwyyda was adamant, however, and he swallowed the dosage obediently, but as soon as she looked away to pour him some water, he spit most of it into his handkerchief. Elwyyda bustled off a few minutes later at his request that she fetch his favourite tunic from the washing rooms, which would take her a good while as it had never been sent there. Then Gildor set about finding Haldir and, hopefully, some answers.
* * *
The orc fires were lit in the mountains--distant pinpoints of light that cast a reddish glow against the swiftly falling night. From the doorway of the tent, Glorfindel could hear the low beat of their drums, echoing oddly through the steep passes. They should have disturbed him, but in fact he found it all strangely soothing, like the cool night air that brushed across his face.
His thoughts were a tumultuous mix of relief, confusion and guilt. Relief that Elrohir had been so exhausted from the amount of energy he had expended to heal Camthalion that it had been easy to get Erestor to bustle him away while Glorfindel intercepted the two Eldar on his trail. Confusion because where did one even start to explain something this long in the making, and this complex? Guilt over the methods he had been forced to use to persuading the two Elda to speak with him rather than with Elrohir, but the cajolery and threats, the latter involving mention of what careless words might do to Elrohir's well being, had succeeded.
Thranduil had been highly displeased, but was still stunned enough by what he had witnessed to agree, especially after Glorfindel pointed out that he could probably explain things more coherently than could Elrohir, assuming he had even remembered. The sudden arrival of Thranduil's force of archers had also helped to serve as a distraction, as had the journey on towards the mountains, which had preoccupied them most of the day. Glorfindel had received the Eldar's promise to say nothing until he could speak with them in private, but it was likely to be a difficult conversation, and one that would dredge up memories he would have preferred not to relive.
** The great white city had been in flames, and frantic elves were everywhere, stumbling as they ran with a few possessions bundled onto their backs. He almost collided with a mother, who was clutching a baby to her breast and leading another elfling by the hand, desperately trying, as was everyone, to escape before it was too late. Glorfindel had steadied her, and steered her away from the besieged Northern Gate, where the allies of Morgoth were pressing their attack in unnumbered thousands.
His first thought had been to get his king beyond the walls and out of danger, but when he reached the throne room, Turgon flatly refused to leave. "I should have listened to Lord Ulmo's warning, Glorfindel," the king said sadly as the last of his armor was buckled onto him. "My pride led us to this, but I will see my family safe, at least." He then bound Glorfindel with a solemn vow to see to the safety of his daughter and grandson. "The loyalty you have always given to me, I ask you to bestow on them--get them safely away from here, at whatever cost." His dark eyes glowed with knowledge of his doom, and he gripped Glorfindel's arm so strongly as to leave bruises. "Do you swear?"
Glorfindel had not taken the oath lightly, but there had been no way he could possibly have dreamed of all that would come of it. He had assumed that he would see the princess to a place of safety and then return to stand by his king. It had not even crossed his mind that he would never see Turgon again. At his agreement, the king nodded once, then was gone, golden armor gleaming, blood red cape swirling about him, the white tunic he wore emblazoned with the symbol of a scarlet heart. It was the way Glorfindel would ever after remember him.
Glorfindel ran immediately from the throne room to the princess' quarters, which, although she now lived most of the time in her husband's house, she still kept to please her father. She used them on occasions when state business caused her to be needed at the palace as hostess, and Glorfindel had half expected to find her there in the midst of the current crisis, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her maids were haphazardly throwing silken dresses and jewels into cases, as if there would be anyone interested in carrying them away in the midst of such chaos. He gripped Erúvë, the princess' chief maid, by the arm, demanding to know where her mistress had gone.
"I do not know, I do not know!" She screamed and dropped to the floor, as a dragon's fireball, all unholy green and gold fire, burst through the stained glass panels lining the pretty room, instantly reducing them to a thousand twinkling shards. That prismatic orgy of light, a shower of gold, silver and blue, had once shown the scene of the creation of Arda and the growth of the two trees; its destruction had seemed somehow fitting to one who was watching the collapse of his world. But Glorfindel had not had time to rage against the stupidity of those who only knew how to destroy, never how to create; he had a task to perform.
Glorfindel had soon given up on getting any useful information from the palace servants, merely advising them to leave off their packing and flee the city at once. Some hastened to obey, others just stood there as their world crashed down around their heads, unwilling to even accept what was happening, much less to do anything about it. But there had been no time to try to persuade them. Glorfindel had begun a frantic, hours' long search for the princess, who had seemingly dropped off the face of Arda.
The city had come apart all around him, billowing columns of smoke rising into the bright blue sky and everywhere was the reek of charred wood and sulpher. Every street had houses with doors standing wide open as their owners had fled. They looked strangely cheerful as many of them were, like the streets themselves, bedecked in garlands of spring flowers for the festival, but no one would admire them now. None he encountered had time or knowledge to help him in his quest, and for a while Glorfindel had despaired. But his retainers searched the city, heedless of the danger from the orcs that were beginning to stream through the wrecked Northern Gate, and at last brought him news.
Glorfindel had finally found her, looking far less regal than usual, huddled against the last remaining wall of the house he had thought destroyed in the attack on the city walls. It was a solid structure overlooking the ramparts of the city, but he saw on his arrival that much of the early tale he'd heard had been true, as a breach in the city walls had torn away much of the house's structure. A high wind from the fissure was blowing the princess' long hair and delicate blue robes about her as she watched, horrified, as her husband battled the traitor Maeglin along the narrow parapet of what remained of the city wall. They were fighting only inches from their doom, and orcish arrows sped by, narrowly missing them.
Glorfindel rushed up the stairs, several of his people close behind him, but could only watch helplessly, knowing he was too late, as the combatants grappled on the edge of the ramparts in the final seconds of battle. Then the princess ran forward, just a few steps, and called out Maeglin's name. He had betrayed a city for her, had destroyed his honour and caused countless deaths in an insane bid to possess one who would never love him, and yet, it must have been love of a sort he felt, for he looked up at her voice. "Maeglin, no!" Her cry distracted him--only for an instant, but that was enough. A second later he was gone, tumbling into the abyss below, screaming her name all the way down.
Glorfindel posted some of the elves attached to his house of the Golden Flower around the princess and Earendil, then went with Tuor to rally what support he could to help fight their way out of the city. Nothing had gone as planned, and he and his retainers had become involved in the final, desperate battle with the hoards of orcs, balrogs and dragons that were attacking the main square and palace complex. Glorfindel had sought for his lover's face in the chaos, knowing he would be wherever the fighting was greatest, but had seen no sign of his distinctive crystal and silver armor. Then blood from a cut above his brow almost obscured his vision, and the battle became so fierce that just staying alive and giving what direction he could to his elves consumed all his concentration. Glorfindel saw him briefly at the last, of course--he could hardly have missed him then--but there was no way to get to him, no way to save him, and he watched helplessly as he fell.
But there was no time for mourning. The combined might of the surviving elvish hosts looked likely to turn the tide for a brief period, and with heavy losses they defeated many balrogs, including their prince Gothmog, and a fire dragon, whose fall into the deep fountain at the square's centre caused a huge billow of steam to flood the scene, almost obliterating the conflict from sight. It had not been soon enough, however, to keep the princess from seeing the destruction of her father's tower. Her grip on Glorfindel's arm was desperate and the look in her eyes anguished as she begged him to make it all go away.
She had been strong to the point that Turgon fell; as Glorfindel learned much later, she defended herself and her child courageously against Maeglin until Tuor had arrived to save them. But something in her seemed to die along with her father and her city, and she collapsed in on herself, looking suddenly as brittle boned as a tiny bird, with the wild, frightened eyes of a child. Her privileged background had left her with few defenses against such times. She had been little more than a zombie as Glorfindel hurried the remains of Tuor's family to the hidden escape tunnel beneath the city, and she clutched her seven-year-old son in trembling arms. Like her, the strength seemed to go out of the elvish army with the death of their king, and Glorfindel knew where his duty lay.**
Glorfindel turned back into the tent, looking from Thranduil to Celeborn and back again, wondering if there was any way to make them understand what that day had been like. "I had taken a solemn oath to protect the remnants of Turgon's family. I could not forsake the last order my king ever gave me, especially not to save a city already doomed to fall. I chose to escape with them, and to insure their safety at whatever price." He did not mention what that price had been, as everyone knew the tale of his epic battle all too well.
**Glorfindel had never been able to remember that final fall, or the actual moment of his death amid the balrog's flames. He only knew that he came to consciousness once more in a dim room, where a lovely elf-maid sat weaving something on a huge loom. He had walked towards her, feeling strangely confused and empty, but also with the clear impression that he had forgotten something.
"Your pardon, lady, but could you tell me where I am?"
The elf looked up from her work, cocking her head to the side while she studied him. "I do not think I have it quite right, somehow," she commented. "Come and see, and tell me what you think." Confused, Glorfindel nonetheless moved as he was bid, not accustomed to arguing with the requests of females. The great tapestry stretched out before him, its colours muted by the dim light, but nonetheless beautiful in its intricacy. Then he realised just what he was seeing. His battle with the balrog was at the centre of the picture, which showed him and the demon wreathed in coral and crimson flames, in the instant just before they dropped together into the abyss. In the background, shining like the beacon it had once been, was Gondolin, brilliantly white despite the orange fire that had begun to consume it. At the very top of the image, a single eagle glowed gold, spreading its great wings against the roiling blackness of the smoke.
"You are skilled, lady," he had finally managed to say around the lump in his throat.
She laughed, a fair, tinkling sound, like water in a merry stream. "Persistent, rather! It took me centuries to get it right, but still, there is something . . . "
"Centuries?" Glorfindel did not usually correct a lady, but her words were very odd indeed. The events of that day's battle were now coming back to him, however, and too much emotion choked him for speech to be possible.
"Yes, you were very tired and slept long. But," and her lovely face grew cheerful, "you're awake now, so tell me, what did I do wrong?"
Glorfindel had tried to look away from the disturbingly accurate depiction of his final battle, but it drew the eye. As he contemplated it, something she had said began to penetrate his thoughts, and suddenly, he understood. "You are Vairë."
The elf--no, Glorfindel corrected himself, the Valar--tapped her foot impatiently. "Of course, who else? But tell me, is it accurate or no? I had them bring you to me in order to find out, and I will have your answer."
"It . . . appears true, as far as I can recall." It had been a day for new experiences, Glorfindel thought dizzily--first defeating a fire demon and now chatting with a goddess. "I think, though, that the demon's eyes were yellow, not red, and it wielded a whip of flame, not a glowing sword." He was afraid he might have offended her with his criticism, but Vairë seemed pleased.
"Ah, very good." She waved a hand casually over the surface of the tapestry, and suddenly it melted, then reformed with the changes in place. "Is that better?" When he nodded dumbly, she smiled and waved her hand again, and suddenly they were in an immensely long corridor, stretching, it seemed, for miles. Beautifully wrought tapestries lined most available surfaces, but here and there a blank spot showed through. They were standing in front of such a one, into which Vairë's latest creation slowly coalesced, as if woven anew from the air alone. "Yes, I like it there," she commented, stepping back a few paces. Glorfindel followed her lead, only to notice something strange.
"Forgive me, lady," he faltered over the last word, unsure how one was supposed to address the Valar, never having met one before, but she did not seem to mind. "But it seems that perhaps . . . ", he stopped, feeling foolish, as he was certainly no one to accuse the Valar of making mistakes.
"Something troubles you?" Her expression was innocent, yet Glorfindel received the impression that he had been maneuvered into this.
"It just seems," and he gestured to the pieces on each side of the new arrival, "a little . . . out of place."
She smiled, and all the beauty of Arda was in her gaze. "You sound like my husband. Námo wants everything recorded, and a job it is, I must say, but then after leaving me with all the work, he thinks he can tell me how to display the end result. I explained to him that he was mistaken, but we still have arguments about it from time to time. Still, I get my way." She drew Glorfindel down the hall to a beautiful tapestry showing Celebrimbor at his forge. Right next to it was another piece with a great battlefield stretched out under a deep red sky. Beyond that was a weaving depicting, of all things, a group of halflings in what looked like nothing so much as a common pub. "All these tell the same story, just different pieces of it. Despite the fact that they are separated by many centuries, then, I choose to display them all together . . . it is just an extra benefit that it also really annoys Námo."
Glorfindel looked at her suspiciously. He had always assumed that the Valar had no sense of humour, that they were too noble and otherworldly and, well, god-like, for that. But now he decided he might have to rethink that assumption. Vairë gave him what could best be described as a grin, then dragged him back down the hall to stand in front of his tapestry again. "I've always found your story to be very interesting, Glorfindel. So many people just live and die, and the world is very much the same either way. But around some, whole eras seem to hinge, and a very few just keep popping up, so to speak, doing time-altering things, then disappearing for centuries. I think of them as catalysts for . . . "
"That is enough, Vairë." A dark form came towards them through the mists swirling about the corridor, a shadowy presence that was not menacing exactly, but nonetheless caused Glorfindel to shiver. He knew without being told that he was standing in the presence of Námo, the Valar better known for the name of his realm--Mandos.
* * *
Haldir woke up from a fitful sleep to see luminous dark eyes hovering above him, and he turned towards the love in that beautiful face like a flower seeking the sun. Then he remembered and scrambled back on the bed in something approaching panic. Gildor crawled after him, an almost predatory look on his face.
"This won't work." Haldir heard himself say the words, but they were weak and he was already hot and shivery just from the sight of his lover.
"What won't?," Gildor asked innocently, trailing an idle finger along his lover's arm. Already Haldir could feel his desire mounting, the familiar tightening causing him to hold himself stiff and wary under the sheets.
"You and me together. At least, not now."
"Really? Why?" Gildor did not wait for an answer, but moved to straddle his lover's body, carefully avoiding the damaged ankle.
"Because Lord Elrond said you need to rest--and gave orders that we were to be separated so I would not accidentally injure you." That had hurt, Haldir recalled with a grimace. As if he was so incapable of controlling his passions that he would risk harming his lover. He had made a solemn promise never to do that again, and had meant every word of it.
"Lord Elrond isn't here, and I feel fine," Gildor assured him, tugging at the nightshirt that was the only clothing Haldir had been left by his gaolers. Rumil had threatened to take even that, "except that I don't think the hazard of having to run naked through Lorien would deter you, and the family does have to maintain SOME dignity." Now Haldir was wishing he had some of the hodge-podge attire that ridiculous dwarf had put him in, or at least a few of those thick blankets between him and Gildor, as the thin sheets were doing little to hide his body's growing interest in the proceedings.
"Something will happen--some disaster," Haldir could not keep himself from looking fearfully towards the window. "A huge fire will break out, or a massive flood will drown all of Lorien," Gildor was ignoring him; he had managed to remove the nightshirt and was now trailing soft fingers down Haldir's exposed chest. "Sauron himself will return," Haldir protested, half seriously, clutching the sheet to the lower part of his body as Gildor reached lower, "leading a party of ten thousand orcs . . . "
Gildor laughed. "Don't be ridiculous." And he leaned in for a kiss.
"No!" Haldir tried not to notice the way his lover was shifting about on top of him, adding delicious friction to what was already an almost unbearable situation. He clung to his warm body for an instant, desperately desiring the pleasure it offered, but then resolutely pushed him away. "We HAVE to stop this! You almost died, Gildor, and lost much blood. You are still weak . . . "
"I know something that will make me feel MUCH better," Gildor commented, sucking one of the fingers gripping his shoulders into his mouth.
"No . . . ," Haldir knew he was weakening. He had never been able to deny Gildor anything, so how could he now refuse him something they both wanted so badly?
"THERE you are!" Haldir looked past Gildor's shoulder to see an enraged, three-foot tall virago standing in the doorway, with an equally annoyed Rumil just behind her. She glared at Haldir. "I should have known you'd find a way to lure him here, and the poor thing still barely able to walk!" Elwyyda rushed forward and tugged ineffectually at Gildor's arm. As she and Rumil managed to drag the protesting Gildor away, Haldir reflected that he would kiss her if he didn't hate her quite so much.
"I'll see you soon," Gildor said, turning back to give Haldir one last glance, his brown eyes promising many things as they towed him away. Haldir exhaled roughly, throwing an arm over his eyes and wondering what he had ever done to deserve this. He could only hope that the gods would find a new object for their amusement soon.
* * *
Glorfindel sat at the small table with Celeborn and Thranduil, wishing he could explain the very odd twists his life had taken without sounding like a lying bard. It WAS a fantastic tale, but then, so had his battle with the balrog been . . . then he remembered that there were some who had always expressed serious doubts about that. He could only hope the two lords before him were going to be more open minded, although from their expressions that did not seem likely.
"Lord Námo took me away quickly, saying that someone wished to speak to me, but not before I noticed what I think Vairë had meant for me to see. The tapestries on either side of the fall of Gondolin showed scenes which had to be in some way related to it, but they made little sense at the time. On one side of my tapestry was a weaving showed a blond elf-maid of great beauty holding a small, dark haired infant. It meant nothing to me then, for I did not recognise either of them, but years later I chanced upon the Lady Celebrian nursing Elrohir in exactly the same position. Then I understood."
"And what, pray tell, was on the weaving on the other side?" Thranduil looked like he believed none of this, and sarcasm dripped from his tone. Glorfindel couldn't really blame him. He had been there, yet even to him it sometimes felt like a dream that had happened to someone else.
"The other side . . . ," He trailed off. Explaining that one might be a little tricky.
TBC