I have to make you angry – that, I think, is the only way I can get through to you now. It does seem to be working. Your voice has risen, you caution has virtually disappeared, and you, my friend, are being rude. Very rude.
Not that bad manners from you would bother me, at this point – I am prepared to take nearly anything that you can dish out. I know that it is for a good cause…
"You are making light of my death!" Glorfindel declared furiously, rising from his seat.
"How so?" Erestor raised an eyebrow. He did not sound even remotely interested, despite his question, and it only angered the seneschal more.
"Your lies suggest that it is not a matter of import to you. If you can so freely-"
The advisor broke in, softly. "Lies?" What lies?
"You know perfectly well! You little story – it was a lie, was it not?"
The dark-haired Elf merely stared at him, puzzled. His arms were threaded in the sleeves of his shirt – a habit from one who was used to heavy robes – and, indeed, he looked so mild-mannered that it was quite difficult to picture him as a warrior.
"Really, Erestor!" the seneschal spat, "You are no soldier! Dormouse, more likely…" he muttered, quietly but with every intention of being heard. With luck, the other Elf would take the bait.
Erestor, however, was not so easily provoked. Words were only words, and all the insults in the word were not going to rile this scholar. Not from Glorfindel, anyway…not right now.
"You are angry," he observed, blandly.
"Of course I am angry! Falsehoods of that magnitude should only be told to children or the elderly mad! That you would say such a thing to me means that you are seriously lacking in respect for my situation and -"
Good…This was real anger, now, not the false fury from before, and Glorfindel seemed at last to realize that he did have a problem on his hands. Using this to his advantage, Erestor made a wholly unexpected offer. "Would you care to fight me?"
Both Elves were tired – neither had really gotten any sleep during the night – and a sparring match was one of the last things Erestor wanted right now, but through it he could wear Glorfindel down – he was practiced enough to put up a decent fight – and hopefully get him to confess the reasons behind his actions.
If, that is, Glorfindel accepted… at the moment, though, he was too stunned to say much. "Fight you?" the blond asked, "What for?"
Knowing Erestor, this was a trick, and the seneschal did not consider himself that gullible. Disdainfully, he crowed, "I have never even seen you pick up a blade! I highly doubt you know how to wield one!"
As if in reply, a sudden spark adding to the gravity in his eyes, the advisor walked to a trunk resting under the window and from it retrieved an object that Glorfindel saw was a sheathed sword. The simple fact that it had been packed away was enough to tell of its disuse, and the seneschal was about to inform Erestor of this (in an appropriately scathing manner) when the dark-haired Elf began to speak.
"Think what you will, Glorfindel. But-" here, he glanced pointedly at the remains of the teacup, lying placidly on the low table. " – it would be healthy way for you to vent your frustration, as I have no wish to lose any more teacups. I am rather fond of tea, you know."
He stepped in closer. "Though...I do not know that it will be a good match. If I truly am no soldier, my reflexes will be rusty…"
Erestor then leaned forward, almost touching the blond, and continued in a conspiratorial sort of whisper, "And who knows? My hand could slip, and then you would have your wish…"
His narrowed eyes regarded Glorfindel's searchingly for a moment, gleaming. "Fetch your blade."
A few minutes later and they were both on one of the practice courts, swords unsheathed. Glorfindel was practically growling in his ire, and Erestor was thinking, and trying mightily to resist the urge to smirk. He remembered days when he would have given anything for this…
Existence was suffering.
He had been like this for weeks or months or years – he did not know anymore, did not care. He could tell the changing of the seasons by the different types of light that struck the wall of his room, and the times of day that the light came, but he had stopped keeping track of which days were which long ago. There was no point.
Elrond was kind to him, offered every day to take him somewhere other than this room, this miniscule, claustrophobic, hideous room, but Erestor always declined. What point was there in going somewhere else, in seeing the trees or the flowers or the snow, when he could not interact with his environment, could not move anything besides his head and neck?
What had he become? He used to be a warrior, a practiced fighter with reflexes faster than sight and the muscle to back them up! Now, all the muscle was wasted away, the reflexes long gone, replaced with numbness. He was a stick, a vegetative stick, and he hated it! Oh, how he hated it!
Every day, he tried to move and every day he met with the same failure. Every day he had visitors who came in and tried to console him, and he hated their pity. He hated this, he hated his life, and he wanted it to be over.
Give him death! He craved release from this prison, whatever form it took! Ten thousand years of blackness in Mandos' Halls was better than this, infinitely better, and had he had any way of doing such a thing to himself he would have. He hoped to fade, to dim his spirit into non-existence, to go to sleep and never wake up.
Every dawn he was met with the same disappointment. Another day to live, another day to carry on, trapped in this shell of flesh. He wanted it to end!
He told this to Elrond, over and over again, as Elrond visited him every day. Later, Erestor would realize just how much that meant, for Elrond was busy. Yet, he came to see Erestor, even though Erestor was bitter and only served to add more worry lines to his already furrowed forehead.
Always, Erestor asked why he was still alive, why he did not fade… the Elf-Lord did not know why Erestor was not dead yet, but he knew that it would happen. He was wasting away and miserable and soon his spirit would leave his body. Every day Elrond expected to find him dead, and every day he was still alive.
It was a mystery.
The dark-haired Elf shook his head to clear it, putting an end to his reminiscing. He needed to concentrate. The duel had begun.
Glorfindel made the first move, a thrust, and it was quickly blocked. He expected Erestor to attack him, but the advisor did not.
The seneschal continued his attacks. They all were knocked aside, or evaded, but never countered. He felt his suspicions deepen - the story must actually have been a ruse, or Erestor would have been fighting back. Glorfindel slowed down slightly, marring his form just a bit, to see if Erestor would take the opening and attack.
The advisor, though, remained entirely on the defensive. He needed a moment to get himself back into this, and anyway it would be easier to tire Glorfindel if all the seneschal could do was attack him.
Eventually, the fight fell into a rhythm, and he allowed his mind a bit of a departure.
"I cannot live like this, Elrond!"
It had been years since the battle, countless years, and Erestor was past his limit. "I cannot do this anymore!"
"I can do nothing about that, Erestor. I am sorry," Elrond told him.
"Yes you can!" the invalid exclaimed, more animated than he had been in weeks – this was important, very important, and he needed to get that across. "You can kill me!"
"Erestor, I cannot-"
"You can! You are a healer! Surely you possess something that is toxic, if given in the right quantities!"
The Elf-Lord sighed, heavily. He did not know how to help Erestor, how to shake him out of this omnipresent black mood, but he knew not to give in to his request. "Let me rephrase myself, Erestor. I will not."
Erestor's face took on a hurt expression. Elrond was not usually this stern towards him. "Elrond…"
The Half-Elf shook his head.
"Elrond, please! Please, Elrond. I cannot live this way…" He was desperate, now, begging for a way out. He had never begged before in his life…
Elrond raised an eyebrow, observing this. He felt sympathy for Erestor, yes, but death was not the answer, and his voice had a sad sort of kindness to it when he replied, "You can, Erestor, or you would not be alive right now."
Their eyes locked, Erestor's brown ones depressed and determined and beseeching, yet having no effect on the Elf-Lord's cool grey gaze. "I want to die."
"No."
Erestor began a reply, but Elrond broke in, "If that were truly, truly what you wanted, you would be dead by now. You must have some hope left, somewhere, or else you would have faded."
He took in the other Elf's sad visage. "Some hope," he repeated, "Some hope, Erestor, you have to…"
Erestor merely shook his head.
The fight continued, and Erestor remained devoted to his defense. He knew how this worked, and knew that this match would not be won quickly, would not be won through an offense, no matter how quick or coordinated or complex.
This fight would be won through waiting – waiting would wear the seneschal down, and waiting was something he was quite practiced at. He had experience in it, after all…
"Elrond…"
"No." How many times had they had this discussion, now? How many weeks had it been since the idea had first entered Erestor's head that death was the solution?
It had been very long, and Elrond was nearly grateful for the warrior's paralysis – it prevented him from taking his own life.
"Erestor," he began, starting what was by now a familiar lecture, and as such was generally paid very little heed. "You put so much energy into this… this death wish of yours – why not put it towards something useful?"
Erestor, as usual, was irked by that comment, and made the usual retort. "There is nothing useful that I can do, Elrond!" he exclaimed, and it was more than just argument for argument's sake – he truly believed that he was useless, and this view had influence over the whole of his thinking. "Look at me!"
He was like a child's illustration, stick thin and so pale that it made his dark hair and eyes look as though they had been drawn by black ink sprung up from an Elfling's pen. He was laid out like such a drawing, as well, splay-limbed and unmoving.
"I see you," Elrond replied, in a neutral tone of voice. He knew this had to be particularly hard on Erestor, as someone who was used to having his body do as he wished, used to moving freely and being strong. A warrior would not take kindly to immobility.
Nor would he take kindly to pity, Elrond thought, and pity was something he refused to give. Erestor could heal, he was sure of it, though he did not know how long it would take to come about, or whether said healing was influenced by mind as well as body.
"I see you," he repeated, musing over what to say next. "Erestor… you must look to recovery."
Recovery? That word was practically foreign to Erestor, now – it had been so long; surely he would have already gotten better if such a thing were possible. He would be trapped like this forever if he did not find a way to end it.
"No, Elrond…" he spoke softly, weary and unhappy and not wanting to exist anymore, "I have given up." With that statement, he shifted his gaze and proceeded to stare blankly at the ceiling.
Elrond's brow furrowed. "That does not sound like Erestor the warrior speaking... I must admit, I do prefer him to Erestor the hopeless invalid."
Erestor shot him a look, surprised and slightly hurt. "It is not necessary to insult me, Elrond…"
The Elf-Lord's face was as impassive as ever. "I speak the truth. Have you tried moving lately?" he inquired in a rather casual tone of voice. The look on Erestor's face was all the answer he needed. "Well, try again."
Erestor sighed, and rolled his eyes at the futility of it all. Eventually, though, he did as Elrond asked, and tried again. Hs arms were as immobile as ever, his legs were, too, but when it came to his feet, and he put forth as much effort as he could – effort that left him tired and breathless, afterwards – one toe moved.
It was the small toe, on his left foot, one that he had broken ages ago when he was still learning how to fight – it was crooked, now, but it moved.
That small achievement was more than he had been capable of in weeks, and he stared in wonder at his feet. He could move! Not much, at all, but still – he was capable of moving his toe, and with luck his other limbs might follow.
Erestor kept up his defense as Glorfindel continued his attacks. The advisor was quite skilled at evasion, and made no moves that were even remotely aggressive.
This fight, meanwhile, was beginning to frustrate Glorfindel – every time he was sure of landing something, every time he was just about to add a theatrical tilt to his sword and gloat that Erestor was not a warrior, after all, it were as thought the advisor simply was not there – he was a few paces to the left, or further back than he had been, or anywhere that he most definitely had not been a few seconds ago.
Yet, he did not attack – he preferred to back away, and the seneschal wondered why.
Gradually, over the course of several months, Erestor's limbs revived themselves, and he was again able to move. It made him unbelievably glad – gone was the brooding invalid who had nursed a death wish, replaced with a happy Elf that was almost constantly half-smiling.
This new freedom was not without its frustrations, however – Erestor had to relearn everything. How to comb his hair, how to eat, how to walk… the latter was by far the most difficult, as his leg muscles were incredibly weak and did not like to do as he wished them to. He spent months teetering about the house with no shoes on (he needed bare feet to keep a solid grip on the floor), more like a baby than a man. Indeed, in some things Elrond's twin sons – at less than a year old – were better than he, but Erestor never gave up.
It was hard, so hard, but he put all his effort into it because now he had hope; he had hope and he wanted to be himself again. Right now, he could barely walk but someday – someday he would again be a warrior.
The fight continued, with more attacks from the blond and more evasions from Erestor. Glorfindel was growing tired of it, and questioned, disdainfully, "Why are you not attacking? I doubt you know how to wield that blade, after all…"
"I can assure you that I do," he answered, not rising to the bait. "But there are other ways of winning a fight…" He cleanly sidestepped another sword thrust as he spoke, and Glorfindel decided that this was really getting on his nerves.
"You are a dishonorable liar!" he spat. "You never fought before in your life! You made up that story in a pathetic attempt to trick me into telling you my deepest thoughts and worst of all you do not even have the courage to admit that you are lying!"
Quick as flash, so quick the seneschal did not even see it, his sword was flung away and the tip of Erestor's blade was underneath the blond Elf's chin.
"Now do you believe me?" Erestor spoke the words through clenched teeth, so quietly that only an Elf could have heard them, but he was serious, and his statement was laced with anger and not-so-well-concealed provocation. This had gone far enough – he would not be called a coward. He was getting rather fed up with Glorfindel's cynicism and wished for it to stop.
"Or shall we fight again?" He did not like being called dishonorable, either. The counselor in him was willing to put up with very many things, but the warrior begged to differ. Perhaps the warrior was better suited to this, anyways…
"Why do you not move, Glorfindel?" They were glaring at each other down the length of the blade, the rage in the seneschal's blue eyes set equally against the anger ignited in the advisor's dark ones. Erestor was still speaking quietly, teeth still clenched.
The seneschal was seething, breathing hard and looking very much like he wanted to reply to that, yet he said nothing. This was a surprise…
Erestor's eyes narrowed. "Go on, then. Do it. Step forward and run yourself through, if you want it so badly."
Glorfindel's eyes narrowed too, almost imperceptibly. "No," he growled, and stepped to the side. He reached forward, and with the edge of his hand struck a spot on the advisor's arm – a nerve – that forced him to let go of the blade, and then they were at it again, grappling and striking and blocking.
This time, Erestor did attack – he remembered this, remembered forcing the recognition of techniques and drill and patterns that he had once had down into weak and useless muscles. He remembered the bruised days, the days when it had hurt to move and he could barely walk in a straight line, but he had made himself do this, forced himself to fight and fight against the invisible enemy. He had fought and fought and drilled and trained and tested himself, and yet it was never the same.
He was never like the old Erestor, never the warrior, never as quick or as sharp or as strong. The others – Elrond, and the like – who sparred with him did not notice, did not understand that by whatever marginal increment it was that he was dulled, and could not comprehend his frustration.
He no longer enjoyed it, this practicing for war. No longer did he relish the hours spent, aching and sweaty, swinging a sword until even the lightest of Elven blades seemed to weigh as much as Barad-Dûr itself. Eventually, sad and resigned and miserable, he had given it up. Given it up and donned the stiff, conservative robes of a scholar and made a home and a name for himself in the library, ordering himself to be content with merely reading the tales of warriors, with listening to the guards' reports.
It had stuck, and he became resigned to the fact that this was his lot in life, this – the dusty books and boring reports and requisitions – was all he had. It was all he had, and it was horrid. He had suppressed that feeling, though, compressed it into a little, inconsequential idea somewhere in the back of his mind, and he tried not to think about it again.
Neither of them, during this fistfight, took a hit, but neither of them landed one, and Erestor managed to feel slightly smug that he was still as flexible as he used to be when the seneschal grabbed him by the side of his shirt, and tried to trip him up, and he evaded by twisting out of the garment altogether.
He ended with his back to the blond, and looked over his shoulder when Glorfindel did not resume his attack. The seneschal was standing there, stock-still, the forgotten shirt hanging limply from his hand. He was staring and Erestor, having a good guess at what about, turned his head away.
"Ah, yes… those. It has been over a thousand years, and I still remember them."
One hand pointed to a small, rectangular scar on his back, faded to white with time. He knew its location from memory, and he also knew its cause.
"Spear," he explained, still turned away. "This one –" a nearly identical wound, on the other side of his spine, "-also a spear. Here-" the line, going from right shoulder to the left side of his waist "- axe. At least, as near as I can recall. This one –" his hand moved to the side of his neck, to a small, feathery line that was barely noticeable. "-arrow. It missed me."
He turned around to face Glorfindel, who opened his mouth to say something, but Erestor spoke first. "That is not all."
He leaned over, letting his long black tresses fall so they nearly touched the floor, and parted the hair on the back of his head, revealing a jagged line where he was bald. "That one is what disabled me."
He straightened up, looked Glorfindel in the eyes, and continued, with surprising levity, "At least, that is what I like to think. It is a mite more honorable than being stabbed in the back, is it not?"
The blond merely stared at him, stunned. At length, he noted, sounding dazed, "You were not lying…"