I was going to leave the Glorfindel bit out as I have already posted it on .de, but so many readers have asked so I've included it here

Notes to help with the Silm references:

Närmófinion is the name Erestor was given by Maedhros.

Eärendil and Elwing were the parents of Elrond and his twin, Elros. Elwing threw herself into the sea rather than give Maedhros the Silmaril that had been stolen from Morgoth, who had of course stolen all three Silmarils from Fëanor.

The Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad, The Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Morgoth absolutely defeated the Noldor and their allies in this battle- it was the end of the Fëanorians really because Morgoth then systematically destroyed all their strongholds and they were left pretty much on the run then and dependent on others for hospitality. They were not good guests all in all! The main thing here is that Fingon, whom Maedhros loved and was High King of the Noldor, was killed.

Beta: the fabulous Anarithilien.

Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. I don't think I've ever had so many reviews as I had for the Glorfindel/Thranduil snippet. So it's included in this as I originally intended. But it is gratuitous.

Beta: Anarithtilien. Thank you.

Chapter 7: Return

The mountains were behind the sons of Elrond now and Eregion lay ahead. They did not pause to rest or to gaze down the long march of the Hithaeglir to home but took the old road that led down from Caradhras and to long-abandoned Tharbad.

Ahead of them, a spike stuck up from the ground; a gory head had been impaled upon it. They had arrived at the spot where, on their way to Lorien, they had routed the company of Orcs. The Orc's eyes had been picked out and gory string ran from its sockets. Its mouth hung open and the tongue was black, engorged. That would be next, Elrohir thought dispassionately, surprised in fact that it yet remained. Perhaps even scavengers had preference not to pick at such carrion.

They passed the pile of rotting bodies for they had not stopped to burn them and they did not stop now. Pressing on, they eased their horses into a long, loping canter that ate up the miles and now they did not slow their pace. If all went well and they met no mishap on the road, both hoped to be at Phellanthir by nightfall of the next day.

Some hours later they stopped near the river for the horses needed to rest but Elrohir watched Elladan restlessly pace and he would not lie down to sleep.

'You feel the danger still?' Elrohir asked as he busied himself shaking out his cloak, settling saddles and packs on the ground. Both horses immediately nosed in the poor grass and tore up mouthfuls. He began to build a small fire to cook the rabbit they had caught a while earlier. It was skinny and to kill it may have been a mercy.

'It is closer than ever… Still indistinct but there is shadow there.' Elladan shook his head, agitated. 'It is not just Nazgûl but something…I have felt it before but long ago and I cannot place it.' He glanced over his shoulder towards the mountains, frowning. The tall peaks marched homewards towards Imladris many, many miles away but between them and home, somewhere, lay the Gates of Moria. He stiffened suddenly and leaned forwards slightly as if listening… His eyes were unfocused and his arms hung loosely by his sides so Elrohir knew he was seeing, that somehow the threads of time had shifted and Elladan was peering through. It had happened to them both.

'I have felt it before. It is old. And dark….Shadow and flame…'

Elrohir froze. Something in those words chilled him. He bent his head, frowning in concentration for he had heard those words before. He let his focus go wide and peered inward, seeking the spaces between the threads as Elladan had done. But whatever it was eluded him too, like mist and at last he shook his head and looked up.

Elladan had not moved, still standing looking towards Phellanthir. His long black hair fell sleekly down his back and his grey eyes were unfocused. His hand though clasped the dagger he carried at his hip rather than Alcarinwë, his frost-bright sword, as light as Aícanaro was dark. The pommel of the dagger with its Fëanorian runic M scrolled around it seemed brighter, although it did not glow blue as it did when Orcs were close by.

'Elladan, come and eat something,' Elrohir said, wanting to break that intense silence. The rabbit was not yet cooked but there was still lembas and hard cheese. Elladan seemed to shake himself and crouched beside him, but his eyes were still unfocused and concentrated.

'I will keep watch,' Elladan said, voice strung like wire.

'We will both watch,' Elrohir replied calmly. He let his warmth reach out to his brother, wrapped his brother's chilled heart with crimson heat and promised to protect him, whatever the cost.

Elladan blinked and smiled. It did not need saying for both knew they would fling themselves before the knives of all their enemies before they would give the other up.

He suddenly moved and shifted closer to Elrohir. 'Do you recall our journey with Aragorn that time, through Moria?'

Elrohir shuddered. It had been a dreadful winter returning from the Wilds of Rhovanion where they had hunted Orcs. Both brothers had been through Moria before but only once and many, many years before with Glorfindel and others. This time it was only the two of them and Aragorn.

It had been a strange and terrifying journey through the deep darkness of Khazad-dûm. He remembered with a shudder the suffocating pressure, the endless, endless dark that pressed upon their eyes and they dared not light a torch but crept silently along the broken and empty road through the deserted dwarven realm.

A threat had pursued them through the dark and not even Elrohir dared face it; they barely breathed, barely whispered in case their breath, a word should drift down the tunnels, echo and catch the attention of whatever it was down there…for there was something other than Orcs and Goblins.

A stumble from an exhausted Aragorn had sent a patter of small pebbles into a deep chasm and there had been drums in the deeps of the mines and they had fled. Not from the drums. Not even from the goblins, for the Sons of Thunder had never fled from goblins but taken delight in the slaughter and black blood on their blades. No. They fled from a whisper of something dark and terrifying and that had sent them blundering, stumbling through the tunnels, half dragging Aragorn with them for he could not keep up, his mortal blood demanding rest and their elven instincts afire with prescience.

No one went there after and the news that Balin had thought to take back the dwarven kingdom had been met with silence in Imladris.

As if entranced, Elladan drew his dagger and the firelight glinted along its steel edge, caught the Fëanorian M on its hilt so it seemed molten and flowed. He stared at it for a moment and then looked at Elrohir. 'Hold it.' He held the dagger, hilt first, to Elrohir.

Slowly Elrohir took it. Almost immediately he felt the tingling like a charge building. 'Have you felt that before?' he asked astonished and curious.

Elladan shook his head and held out his hand, took it back. 'It is strange. It almost trembles.' He held the dagger lightly in his hands and tilted it towards the firelight, squinting down the edge of the blade with one eye closed. 'Do you see how the light seems to catch on the M?' He laughed briefly and to Elrohir it did seem that the firelit rune was pouring and coiling about the hilt. 'As if Maedhros himself were here to reclaim it!' Elladan looked up and smiled recklessly.

'Fool,' Elrohir said fondly, for Elladan had been obsessed with the tale of Maedhros from a young age when Erestor was filling their heads with tales of the First Age, to the vexation of their mother and the amusement of their father.

He stood and stretched and looked towards the horses. They were grazing hungrily and would need some hours. The rabbit was roasting nicely and this small brake of trees gave them shelter. 'After this, we will not need to rest again. We will reach Phellanthir before nightfall.'

Elladan shot him a quick look and nodded with relief. 'With luck we will find Erestor and Glorfindel before then and leave at dawn. We could be home within the week.'

Elrohir had just stooped to pull a whetstone from his saddle bag when a sharp cry floated on the air high above and he looked up to see a falcon fold its wings and stoop, plummeting through the air towards them.

Instinctively he pulled on a gauntlet and gave a low whistle, holding up his hand for the bird. As it approached him, the bird almost overreached itself but Elrohir, so experienced and taught by his grandfather to be soft-handed with falcons, caught it and gently righted the bird on his arm. He spoke soothingly to it.

Slowly, carefully he smoothed the falcon and stilled himself, let his thoughts drift and focus on water, on open plains and the wide blue skies…then he carefully opened himself to the falcon.

Bloody meat, torn entrails ripped out by talons and beak. Hunger pierced the falcon's belly.

He should have thought of that. He leaned down and pulled a little rabbit offal that he had carefully put to one side to throw far from the camp and held it lightly, blood on his fingers he would have to wipe quickly lest the falcon seize that too.

He felt the falcon's confusion for a moment, it was focused on its own hunger and tiredness, and then at his gentle probing, it remembered….round eyes not like a falcon, green like the flat grass not yellow….soft talons, not hooked and clawed…

Quickly it swallowed the bloody gobbet and he moved his free hand quickly before it tore into his own flesh in its hunger.

Ravenously it ate and then slowly its thoughts settled and it fluffed up its feathers and preened. Round eyes, green like grass, long thin feathers and no feathers…Elrohir recognised the features of his grandfather's face. Giver of meat, succour, comfort, rest. He had a message. The falcon clenched its talons around Elrohir's gauntleted hand softly and he felt the concern and urgency of his grandfather and the words he had so carefully placed in the falcon's mind:

Seek my boys, my children. Tell them of danger. In the blasted tower, the ruin of all. A soul devoured, consumed. Lost. Return home swiftly and safely. I beg you, my dears. Do not forsake me now.

He felt the deep love Celeborn had for them; it was like being child again. Before everything went wrong. Wrapped in a soft blanket and sitting on Celeborn's lap, head against his deep chest and the sound of his steady heartbeat soothing him, the rumble of his voice telling them a story….Slowly all the pressure eased, all the pain and the lines around his mouth, the grimness softened and he smiled very slightly.

But Celeborn warned them of danger indeed; a soul lost? Devoured? What could that mean?

He glanced at Elladan who, though he did not have Elrohir's way, would have understood enough.

Elladan was strung tightly as a bow, his eyes wide and fearful. He met Elrohir's gaze. 'I heard.' Then he was on his feet and kicking over the fire to remove traces of their passing.

Elrohir inclined his head and looked back towards the bird. He bid it find food, hunt, rest, and return home for its work was done. The falcon shook itself as if from sleep and sprang into the air, wings outspread. It soared upwards and Elrohir watched it for a moment, the upward, straight path, the speed and power.

Elladan, uncharacteristically clumsy, threw Baraghur's saddle over his withers. Baraghur looked back at him in surprise but stood patiently, and bent his head for the headstall. 'Come, Elrohir. We must leave now,' Elladan demanded.

Elrohir glanced at him and crouched, swiftly pulled the almost cooked rabbit from its spit and broke it open, tore cooked meat from the bones. Quickly he wrapped the greasy meat inside an empty lembas leaf and tied the twine around the whole package, shoved it back in his bag. He did not look up but heard Elladan's impatience and anger as he swore quietly under his breath while he drew Baraghur's girth tight and threw his saddlebags over the horse's quarters.

Elladan cursed his brother for his slowness then and threw himself astride Baraghur. Baraghur lifted his head and circled restlessly, catching his rider's impatience and fear

Elrohir murmured softly to Barakhir as he placed the saddle on the horse's back and heard him sigh. Both horses were tired from the crossing of the Hithaeglir, and quickly Elrohir delved into his pack and rummaged for a moment, drew out the leaf-wrapped lembas and broke a piece off. He fed half to Barakhir and then turned to give the rest to Baraghur.

'We do not know this danger, Elladan. What do you think it is?' he asked, looking up. He asked to slow his brother down a little, to make him think before he galloped headlong into danger.

'Saruman? Nazgûl? I know not. When have you ever cared?' Elladan circled Baraghur impatiently so the horse had to snatch at the lembas as he passed. 'If you do not wish to join me, I will go alone,' he warned.

Elrohir knew he would, felt the turmoil within his brother; the calm blue peace that normally soothed him was like the sky before thunder, grey and louring with the pressure building, the fear for Erestor almost blinding him to reason. 'You will never go alone,' he answered fervently and swung up onto the saddle.

They rode hard and fast, pounding across the earth. They did not pause as they crossed the shallow ford of the Glanduin but fled across it. Icy water sprayed silver from their horses' hooves in the cold air, sable cloaks streamed in the wind as did their black hair and horses' tails. Silver gleamed from bit and sword and their silver-grey eyes were piercing bright, like their exiled ancestors.

Suddenly a wind swept over them, pulling Barakhir's mane streaming out and tugging at Elrohir's cloak. There was a thump on the wind like nothing he had heard before. A stench of dead meat wafted over him, the hot stink of rotting carcass, and daylight suddenly dimmed in the sky. It sent the horses wild and Barakhir shied and then surged forwards, flattened out at a gallop that was uncontrolled and panicked. The darkness passed but Barakhir did not stop, he galloped faster over the uneven earth, stumbling now and again and swerving when a bush or scrubby tree suddenly was in their path. Elrohir was aware that Baraghur galloped alongside and he sat deep and wrestled with Barakhir's reins. Barakhir pulled back hard, fighting him and Elrohir shouted to him, trying to get his attention.

Another shadow crossed over them, a thump of something huge on the wind and they were plunged into twilight for a moment and then it passed. Winter daylight again.

And suddenly Barakhir swerved and galloped off to the right, a different path, crashing through the bushes and scrub and back towards the river. Ahead of them, Elrohir knew was a steep cliff and below that the water boiled and churned. If he could not stop Barakhir they would both plummet to their deaths. He could throw himself from his horse, save himself with no more than broken bones and bruises but he would not lose Barakhir this way!

He leaned down and grabbed the left rein almost at the horse's cheek and pulled his head around hard. Barakhir stumbled and went down on his knees throwing Elrohir so the cold and iron hard earth hit him with full force, knocking all the air from his lungs. He slid for a few yards, grit tearing his skin and felt his arm pulled so hard he thought it would come loose from the socket.

He lay stunned for a second, hurting and then looked up to see Barakhir on his knees, head to the ground and flanks heaving, sweat drenched his neck. Elrohir scrambled to his feet, calling to Barakhir. 'Easy my boy, easy. Barakhir, my friend. Steady. All right now.' He made his voice low and reassuring. 'Easy my lad. Steady now.' Alarmed he saw that Barakhir's eyes were wide and panicked, the whites showing. He was breathing hard, his mouth open and nostrils flared.

Elrohir scrambled over to Barakhir and stroked his face, his neck in long, steady strokes. He scratched his neck and withers, murmuring softly, watching the horse's wide, frightened eyes and concentrating on looking to the side, breathing slowly, calm. He let his crimson warmth flood his fingers, hands as he stroked. He thought soothingly of calm meadows and gentle streams, and gradually Barakhir's panicked breath slowed and he looked at Elrohir.

Elladan too was dismounted and was jogging towards them, leading Baraghur who held his head up and alert, stepping high as if afraid to put his feet down.

'Did Barakhir fall? Is he all right?' Elladan called. Baraghur gave a frightened, anxious whinny as if echoing Elladan's panicked question. Even as he did, Barakhir surged to his feet and lowered his head to Elrohir, snuffling.

'What was that?' Elladan asked as they drew close. The two black horses nosed each other anxiously, reassuring themselves. 'I have never seen either of these two run from anything.'

Elrohir rubbed Barakhir's head, his neck and then felt down his legs, checking his flanks. No injuries astonishingly. He walked the horse forwards a few yards and he did not limp.

'We are both unscathed.' He smiled reassuringly at his brother who clasped his arm and then looked away towards the river. The cliff was a matter of yards from them and he looked back in fear for what might have been. 'I do not know what that was. But it did not want us.'

0o0o0

Glorfindel watched into the deepness of the night. Above him the stars wheeled overhead and high above Eärendil sailed Vingilot with the Silmaril set at its prow.

So they said.

It was a children's story, he thought. He wondered where the Silmaril really was if not there. Erestor always said that the Valar had stolen Elwing's Silmaril and kept it in Tirion in Aman. He had also said that Maedhros had taken both remaining Silmarils, that Maglor had not taken one. If that were true, did that mean that both went with him into the fire? he wondered. And then dismissed it because it did not matter either way.

He turned his head towards the Mountains for the air was cold and filled with snow. All was utterly still and silent. Not a leaf stirred, not a twig broke under the foot of deer or fox. Only the soft breath of Erestor as he slept.

No longer afraid of the shadows and threat that had crowded in his mind up in the Oromardë in Phellanthir, Glorfindel allowed himself to settle into the watch, letting his senses spread out. Away from the High Hall of Curvë, he no longer felt a heat that singed the air, that threatened to boil his blood and melt his bones. There was no Balrog and there was no Maedhros either. Both he and Erestor had merely been beguiled by the atmosphere of the place into seeing what was buried deepest in their hearts. He told himself that he pitied Erestor for he had deluded himself that his beloved lord was somehow beyond the mirror, somehow still…alive? He could not be. No one could have survived that plunge into fire as had been told. And so they had both conjured something that was not real.

So he told himself. So he convinced himself because the alternative was fear.

Gone midnight it was when Erestor stirred and awoke. He stifled a yawn and rose without a word and stood at the edge of the clearing, looking into the trees.

After a moment, he turned his head and said, 'Sleep.'

Glorfindel thought suddenly that he was indeed tired. He sighed and sat beside the fire. Then he wrapped himself in his cloak and pulled it over his head. Immediately sleep came upon him, deep and filled with dreams. Sudden sharp memories of another Age, another place flooded his dreams. Memories he had suppressed, had ruthlessly quashed for it had been a fall from grace, succumbing to something he had not known he wanted. No, he told himself, he did not want this but was beguiled by empathy and loss and, he admitted now in his own dreams, by intense loneliness.

It had been during the Siege of Barad-dûr…a tent splashed with mud and its pennant torn. No guards.

There had been no guards because there were simply not enough of them left to spare and they spent every day battling Orcs and trolls and all of Sauron's dreadful force. Why would you need guards? Anyone could kill you easily enough on the battlefield.

He made a noise to announce himself and then slowly pulled aside the tent flap and ducked within. It was simple compared with the pavilions of the Noldor, but the silk was strangely warm and dampened the noise outside so for a moment, it felt one could indeed forget the near only feet away.

The young man within looked up, his eyes red-rimmed undoubtedly from weeping and Glorfindel felt an immediate empathy for him. In his hand was a quill, the end had been bent and he had ink splashed on his fingers, and on the parchment he had spread out on the travelling writing desk perched precariously on his knees. A stained cup held down one corner and the other was held by a dagger but the parchment curled over it as if defiant, unruly. Lamplight caught on hair the colour of gold coins. It spilled over the Woodelf's shoulders and down his back, pooled on the narrow camp bed on which he sat. Rich. Gold. Like Idril.

Glorfindel caught a sigh in his throat and stifled it.

Slate green eyes watched him warily, as all the Woodelves must, thought Glorfindel regretfully. None of them trusted the Noldor. They never had before but they felt they had a reason now. Oropher was dead and their grief could be heard, felt all over the Alliance camp. His son was the new King and here he sat, muddied, blood in his light leather armour that he had not even taken off yet, writing dispatches.

'What do you want?'

Thranduil had not been any friendlier to his Noldor allies than his father had; both Oropher and Thranduil had listened, non too politely, to Gil-Galad's plan, Oropher had said it would not work and then both had turned and strode away between the shining, armoured ranks of Noldor and Men. Now Thranduil's tone was positively frosty. There was a bloody knife at his side, blood on his fingers, and a hastily, badly wrapped bandage around his chest. Like he had dressed it himself, thought Glorfindel. It was spotted with blood, a pattern emerging. Three slashes and a rough-cut circle.

'I have messages from the High King.' Glorfindel tried not to look at the bandage; he had heard that the silvans keened over the loss of Oropher with an extravagance that shocked the Noldor. Instead he bowed his head slightly and held out the scrolls, three. One from Gil, one from Cirdan and one from Celeborn, Thranduil's kinsman.

Thranduil snorted. 'I do not have a High King.' And then with a wracking sob that he tried to hide but could not, 'I do not have a King.' He bowed his head and for a moment, his shoulders shook.

Glorfindel shifted, compassion moved him and he reached out to clasp the other's broad and muscled shoulder. An archer like the best of his folk then.

Strangely, Glorfindel found the same words in his mouth now as those he had spoken to Turgon in the aftermath of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears after Fingon's death; long, long ago, when Gondolin was fair and filled with the sound of water and bells. Before the demon had come. 'You must be King now. You must find whatever there is in you to lead your people. Grieve, yes. But you must lead them too.'

He thought that Thranduil though would shove him away, tell him to leave, how dare he…but instead Thranduil lifted his face, his beautiful, sculpted face made even lovelier with grief, and said, 'How do you bear it?'

Glorfindel leaned forward and without a thought, without having ever felt a moment of lust for another man, he pressed his mouth over Thranduil's.

The explosion of lust detonated through Glorfindel as he dreamed, remembered warm skin and the rich hair, those strange marking of the Woodelves on Thranduil's skin, gold and green like Thranduil himself, the slate green eyes locked upon him, deep, knowing and filled with grief that, for a moment, he could forget in the glory of that love-making that Glorfindel had never known before or since… for it was not his way, nor did he desire men… until that moment.

Rough hands stroked him to hardness, a demanding mouth on his, shoving him down, fumbling with buckles and belt, gripping so it hurt and then a hot, hot explosion like fire, like burning. Fierce pain that he had forgotten and then it was breathless and intense desire, pleasure, ecstasy that made the pain easier to bear.

There was no sweetness in the aftermath. Glorfindel was bemused, not ashamed but he had been thoroughly taken, used, and was now dismissed. He stood outside Thranduil's tent, confused as he had not been for long ages, soreness now settling in his bones and flesh, and a light bruise on his heart. Like flame that excoriated the memory of his enemy and instead of pain or fear, he felt… renewed.

He had not seen Thranduil again except in battle, beautiful and sad, fierce and powerful. Glorfindel thought rarely of the encounter for it had awoken something in him that he did not know he had wanted. He forced himself to forget and smothered the groan that pushed itself up from his chest for Erestor was too close…He closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to forget that mistake, that fall from grace. Was he not Glorfindel, beloved of the Valar, golden, untouchable, pristine? And he was so lonely that he envied Maedhros his forbidden love for had not he and Fingon loved deeply, passionately and without restraint?

0o0o

Erestor, standing at the edge of the clearing in the shadows of Phellanthir, watched while Glorfindel slept. He too was lost in memory, those intense and vivid memories of the past that defined him.

It was the aftermath of the Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad, The Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Later he would remember that it was his lord, Maedhros who dubbed it that in his bitterness and sorrow. Närmófinion had dragged himself from beneath his dead horse, struggled to his knees in the mud and blood and scarcely able to stand. All about him was devastation and he turned in horror, searching for the King, Fingon - whom his lord had entrusted to him, sending Närmó with Fingon on that cold clear day in Himring a scant two years before.

It was only the scrap of silver and blue, fluttering in the hot and searing wind that drew his attention. And had it not, he could not have made out the bloody mess as a man… what had been a man.

Fingon had been trampled into the mud. His limbs were splayed and at odd angles, like a broken doll. There was a bloody mush all over his chest and stomach and at first Närmófinion could not understand what he was looking at. Then he realised that Fingon's sternum had been burst open, stamped upon by gigantic feet, and his organs, intestines, dragged from his body, pounded into the mud. His face was a bloody pulp. There was such hate in the utter obliteration of the man, an attempt to completely expunge his identity.

But Närmófinion could see gold braid gleaming defiantly through the bloody mud and he knew whose hand had twisted that gold through black silk hair and had cupped this unrecognizable face for a last tender kiss. Närmófinion's heart swelled with such grief for his lord that he thought it too would burst upon the battlefield. How could he tell Maedhros his beloved's fate? How could he deliver this final blow?

Around him were bodies as far as his eye could see; Elves, Men, horses, Orcs and goblins and some twisted misshapen creature he could not bear to look at.

There was no one else near. He looked about him, pain tearing down one side of his body, his arm useless and his leg would not respond. He crawled over to where Fingon lay. Only he could not describe his position as lying for so brutal had been his death. One hand reached out of the mud, splayed out as if he reached for something, someone, or protested. A ring was still upon it. The fierce ruby proclaimed to whom Fingon belonged, its red fire as unmistakable as its owner's hair.

Närmófinion did not take it from him. Instead he struggled to pull the King's sword from under the mess that had been Fingon. Then he bent and peeled a bloody scrap of silver-blue out of the wet mud. Fingon's banner. Soaked in blood. Soaked. Still wet.

There were none left on the battlefield but Orcs scavenging in gangs. They were gathered around something they had found and were squabbling over it. A pile of something indistinct, tattered. It groaned. Närmófinion froze. One of the Orcs laughed and the others jeered while the first Orc slowly drew a hatchet and stood over the tattered pile.Närmófinion's heart leapt and he thought he might be sick but he could do nothing. Nor could he escape for he was so injured himself it was merely time before the Orcs found him too. But he decided now that he would not leave the ring to be so easily stolen by Orcs so he carefully, gently pulled the ring from what remained of Fingon's cold hand and shoved it beneath his armour and into his shirt beneath. Perhaps they would not find it. Perhaps they would not find him…

A horse was cantering, frightened, riderless and lost, reins flapping around its neck. It cantered first towards the Orcs and then threw up its head and careered off, terrified. One of the Orcs carelessly threw a spear and it grazed the horse's flank. The horse put its head down and bolted away, towards Närmófinion.

Taking his only chance, Närmófinion struggled to his feet, leaning heavily Fingon's sword. The horse shied at first but he called out softly to it and it came towards him trembling. As slowly and discreetly as he could, Närmófinion caught the pommel of the saddle and tried to swing himself up but a bolt of pain thrust through him and he almost collapsed. The Orc that had thrown the spear was lurching after the horse and suddenly saw Närmófinion. It gave a shout of jubilation and started running. Other Orcs looked up now and seeing the prospect of sport in both horse and Elf, came running after the first Orc. The horse circled nervously but its heart was true and it did not flee. Groaning in pain, Närmófinion flung himself over the horse and holding on for his life, not even astride, he bid the horse run. And it did.

And so he found himself a survivor of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. He and the horse stumbled into the scattered and sorry remains of the army of Gondolin and there he had met Glorfindel for the first time. The Elves of Gondolin had tried to persuade him to return with them, that the battle had been a rout, that though the Fëanorians had fled to Himring, it was already was lost, was bound to fall next. They said that Morgoth would not countenance its survival after he had routed Fingon and though they did not speak it, it seemed common belief that Morgoth was focused and determined to vanquish Maedhros. It was almost personal. They did not seem to understand that Gondolin was by no means invincible and that for him, Gondolin would be a cage. And anyway, Närmófinion knew his duty and later, and still stunned and lost in grief, he limped up the steep stone steps of Himring.

Maglor caught at him as he passed, himself still bloody from battle and wide-eyed with horror...because he too had seen what had happened.

'Do not tell him.' Maglor begged him, Maglor who loved beyond reason. 'Närmó, I beg you...do not tell him.'

But it was too late to back out now despite Maglor's haggard face, his beseeching eyes.

Within the stone walls of his chamber that had almost become a cell, low firelight caught in copper-bronze hair, stroked it like Maedhros' father had stroked fire into the jewels that brought his own destruction and that of all his sons. Maedhros turned grey eyes to Närmófinion that were filled with an other-worldly light, one might say silver but it would not do them justice. But this time, in them was a deep well of emptiness. Soul-void. And though Maedhros had not been broken by his grandfather's murder by Morgoth, or his father's, and he had emerged from Angband as steel, a tempered blade, it was Fingon's death that broke him now.

Not a sound passed his lips.

He simply turned at the sound of Närmófinion opening the door. Närmófinion's boots scuffed on the cold flagstones. He halted, standing uselessly by, unable to speak and Maedhros simply looked at him. If Maglor had already seen that Fingon was dead, how much sharper Maedhros' gaze?

The moment seemed frozen and then Maedhros forgot himself in that moment and reached out with his missing hand to steady himself. His arm missed the mantle above the fire and he stumbled.

'It is not true!' Maglor pushed past Närmófinion to reach his brother. 'It has not been confirmed. Närmó, tell him you could be mistaken.'

But the scrap of blue and silver Närmófinion clutched in his hand was stained with Fingon's blood and he held it out, wordless. Maedhros reached for it in a dream and the long, elegant fingers of his one hand took it so gently and sifted it against his fingertips. Unbearably, he brought it to his lips, his nose and smelled the blood, and closed his eyes.

Ages on from the Tears, Erestor found his face was wet for it seemed no more distant than yesterday; Himring's bleak granite walls had done nothing to hide the even bleaker mountains in the distance where lay Angband. For that short span of time before Himring too fell, Maedhros would stand in the bitter cold letting the wind stream through his long burnished copper hair, and staring with hatred and futile anger at the distant peaks that ripped the sky like black teeth. In these unguarded moments, his scarred face revealed all his pain; it was like looking upon his soul now that Fingon was dead.

Everywhere he carried that blue and silver scrap of Fingon's banner against his heart and punished himself every day, every hour, every minute that Fingon did not live.

It was the start of his slow descent into madness, that ended like a shooting star in flames and a burst of light. Erestor knew the last thing Maedhros would have seen before the flames engulfed him, would not have been the hard brightness of the Silmarils, but a tiny, threadbare scrap of blue-silver.

Tears unnumbered indeed, Námo you old bastard, he swore.

He heard a muffled groan. Glorfindel too was deep in dreams of the past and Erestor thought it a nightmare riding Glorfindel into the Cristhorn, into dreams of his own death upon the mountain, incinerated by the demon of shadow and flame…But it was not.

Slate-green eyes flashed at him, no, at Glorfindel- this was Glorfindel's dream - and hair the colour of gold coins gleamed in candlelight. But there was something familiar in the slant of the eyes, in the dark brows…

Erestor did not move for in spite of his enviable and hard won reputation, he did not pry into the secrets of his friends. He brushed his hand over his eyes and turned away from Glorfindel and those dreams that melted into Erestor's like the tide.

He turned back to his own thoughts, picking at them like an old scab that would not heal. Fool, he chided himself. You are still dreaming of Himring, wishing you could change things. What could you have done? But even as he thought it, there was a flutter in his belly, an excitement. There was something in the mirror up in the high hall of Celebrimbor's curvë, something more than just the reflection of Glorfindel's secret fear

Dawn was breaking over the Hithaeglir, a thin line of light between the jagged, peaked horizon and night. Above him the sky seemed very dark and Eärendil sailed down towards the West.

He smiled grimly and made his customary obscene gesture at the star. 'Go on, fuck off back to the Nadorhuanrim*,' he muttered because he did not wish to waken Glorfindel just yet, and not with such blasphemy. 'Keep your fucking Silmaril you cursed dog, and we will keep your children and have the better end of the bargain. Not that you ever cared about them,' he added more bitterly than usual.

It was after all, the only Silmaril not recovered by Maedhros. Erestor wondered if it could ever be recovered, and if it were, would it mean the Oath was truly fulfilled? And would those Exiles be released who had been condemned to the Dark? Or more likely kept imprisoned by that old goat, Námo, thought Erestor blasphemously, for the Valar had ever wanted control over the fiery and spirited House of Fëanor. One thing Erestor was certain of however, was that his lord, Maedhros would cut off his other arm and all his limbs and willingly go into the Dark before accepting the Doomsman's summons to his Halls of Waiting. He could not say the same for the other sons of Fëanor for he did not know them so well. But he hoped that Maedhros was not alone in the Dark with Morgoth and his beasts, as he had been in Angband. As he had been at the very end.

Turning back towards the fire, he threw a few sticks onto the low-banked flames, trying to push back the swell of grief that almost overwhelmed him. Needing something to do, he reached for the tin cup that Glorfindel had left by the side of the fire. He flipped open his water-skin and poured water into the cup, and then pushed it carefully into the ash. He fumbled in his pouch for a few leaves of athelas and dropped them into the water.

He used to make this for Elrond and Elros when they could not sleep, when the nightmares came but it was Maglor who, long before, had shown him how to steep the athelas in the water so he could make it for Maedhros when the pain came, and the heartache.

He was leaning over, head bowed and eyes closed, remembering and weeping shamelessly, when he felt a hand gently on his shoulder. Glorfindel. He must have risen and Erestor not even notice; some sentry, he told himself. But we still live.

'You were dreaming of Fingon,' Glorfindel said so kindly that it made Erestor want to bury his head against his friend's shoulder. 'I saw what you dreamed. Come, sip this. It will revive you.'

Miruvor of course, thought Erestor and did not refuse. The taste exploded sweetly on his tongue but could not banish the bitterness in his mouth.

'Forgive me.' He was ashamed. Rightly so. Not of weeping, but of his goading Glorfindel the evening before for no more reason that he wanted to see that smooth, unruffled surface shatter like glass, so he had become sucked into the age-old arguments that he thought had been long ago exhausted between them. 'It is this place,' he said by way of apology, although he knew that was not quite true. It was always near the surface with him, but with Glorfindel it was buried deep, he had had to dig harder to uncover it. Like treasure, his old loyalties and passion.

Glorfindel handed him the tin cup from where Erestor had lodged it amongst the stones of the fire-pit. He smiled as he pushed it back towards Glorfindel. 'I warmed that for you. You cried out in your sleep.'

Glorfindel took the cup and sipped it once, then pushed it back towards Erestor. 'So you did not see what I dreamed?' he asked faintly, and Erestor shook his head, ignoring the slight flush to his cheeks and the wariness in the question for Erestor had already glimpsed slate-green eyes and hair the colour of gold coins; he just did not know to whom they belonged. He had never met Idril and there was a familiarity to the shape of the eyes that he could not quite place.

The tea was sharp and hot and brought Erestor back to himself.

'When you are ready,' Glorfindel said quietly, far more himself, thought Erestor, than he had been since they had arrived here, 'we will go back.'

Erestor smiled and raised his eyebrows at himself ironically. 'I feel as if I have been finding my way by moonlight and suddenly it is dawn and I know what it is we seek for I have dreamed it.'

Glorfindel opened his mouth to reply but a tremendous wind suddenly blasted through the treetops and even the solid oaks creaked. A thump on the wind like Ulmo's storm soughing in the sails of white ships had them both throwing themselves to the ground, rolling away from the brush, flicking up earth to cover themselves in soil, against fire, against the flames that might blast them, burying themselves shallowly. Fear froze stiff the hair on their heads.

…It was the silence before dragonfire and then the great wind. Colossal armoured wings whumped down on the wind. And sudden fire…a blast of heat roaring from the belly of the dragon, sunlight drowned by the great shadows as they passed overhead.

No! It could not be? Not after all these long Ages past? Erestor's heart pounded in his chest, and he waited for fire to plunge into the wood, for great armoured talons to smash into the earth, ploughing up the wood and stone like huge blades, for the immense destruction. He clutched his hands over his head. Around him small twigs and pine cones fell as the pines were dragged and tousled and tossed by the wind.

Then it was gone.

He kept his head hidden in his arms, pressing himself into the earth.

There was nothing. Silence and then the slow sounds of the woods crept back. He cracked open an eye. An ant went past busily, holding something in its jaws too big for it and yet it managed. Small feet pattered and scurried through the dry leaves on the forest floor. He heard Glorfindel shift nearby.

Slowly Erestor looked up.

Scudding overhead were storm clouds, so that though the dawn was breaking it still felt like night. Far away a flash of lightning skittered across the sky and there was distant thunder over the mountains.

He heard Glorfindel breathing, then a scrape of metal. He must have drawn his sword, thought Erestor. He had not even drawn his; it was futile against a dragon.

But this had not been a dragon, he thought. There was not the malicious smile that grazed against your awareness that you got with dragons, the ironic amusement or the sense that it enjoyed fear. This was blunt, unintelligent.

Erestor glanced across at Glorfindel. His companion was as pristine as always but his face was dismayed and he breathed slowly as if to rid himself of images before him. Erestor knew what he saw; tall white towers smashed into rubble, fire blasting through the colonnaded squares and courtyards, a dark rabble of goblins and orcs and worse, clambering over tumbling walls to kill and maim and rape.

'I thought a dragon at first. But it had not the smell or feel of dragon.' Erestor sat down heavily near their still burning fire and fished out the tin cup from where it had fallen amongst the dry leaves. The athelas leaves were still there, stuck at the bottom amongst the dregs but the tea had drained away. He sniffed it.

'No. That was no dragon. Something less… formed,' Glorfindel said, puzzled. He dug the point of his sword into the earth a little, lifting the dead leaves as if looking for something.

No. Erestor agreed silently. Dragons stank of brimstone and metal. This was something else; a lingering smell of rotting flesh.

'Is this some new monstrosity?' he asked. 'Not just a freak wind carrying a stink of carrion?' He pulled his cloak about his shoulders, suddenly cold.

'I know not.' Glorfindel doused the small flames of their fire and kicked the ash over what still smouldered. He swung his bow over his shoulder and shifted his sword belt slightly.

Erestor cast a look about their small campsite. 'It barely matters that we hide our traces,' he said, feeling the shock recede and his purpose reassert itself. 'If anyone is interested they already know we are here.' He loosened his own sword in its sheath and grinned at Glorfindel, though it was more than a little forced. 'Perhaps our presence here is unwelcome.' He spoke deliberately as if surprised and hurt. 'Perhaps Pitya-angu has visitors.' He rolled his shoulders, wanting battle then, wanting to force the sorrow and loss from his heart with battle and blood instead. He wanted revenge. 'Good. I need something to get my teeth into.' He gnashed his teeth exaggeratedly then and grinned at Glorfindel provocatively.

He could see Glorfindel resist rolling his eyes heavenward, and he sheathed his sword instead. Inwardly Erestor steeled himself for he was in truth not at all as brave as his words.

'Then there is indeed a reason that Sauron does not wish us to enter the Tower again,' Glorfindel called back over his shoulder for already he was striding out of the clearing and heading back towards the tower.

Erestor stared for a moment at the broad back that tapered to narrow hips, the long golden hair that poured down his back and he felt his chest swell. He loved Glorfindel. He smiled to himself. He should tell him really, just to see the look of horror that would spread over that lovely face. Oh, he did not think of Glorfindel as a lover. No, he loved him for his courage and his purity. It gave Erestor hope, and comfort. And gave him courage too.

So he settled his own sword at his hip and followed Glorfindel back into the ruined tower where he was sure the Nazgûl waited, and where his own beloved lord too was hidden somewhere, somehow in that dark glass in the abandoned high hall of Celebrimbor's secret knowledge. He pushed the knowledge of Glorfindel's own bane to the back of his mind, not wanting to face the thought that if his own desires were real that perhaps Glorfindel's fears might be too.

0o0o

tbc

* Elrond and Elros are Eärendil's children who were fostered by Maglor and Maedhros when both their parents abandoned them.

Nandohuanrim: a hugely insulting term implying ones who go back on their word, liars, dogs, cowards and other insults. It's considered blasphemous amongst polite elven society but as we know, Erestor is certainly not that.