The night before the Fellowship leaves.

Beta: Anarithilien, who just keeps me on track and is so generous with her precious time (Not that kind of Precious!)

Chapter 15: Närmófinion

Erestor rested his hands on the railing of one of the iron-wrought balconies that overlooked the western approach of the Valley. A breeze that smelled of snow and pine trees lifted his hair. Elladan was sleeping now, more peacefully than he had since that dreadful battle when he had thrown Erestor to the ground, and that it was Elladan's flesh that took the Morgul blade. His breath had eased and now the flush on his cheek was of sleep and not poison or sorcery.

Erestor had ceded his place at Elladan's side to Elrohir, and Arwen had joined him. Erestor watched them from the window of his own rooms and saw how she leaned her head against Elrohir's chest and he lifted his hand to stroke her hair. It was a tender scene, and one that rocked him with loss. Arwen had made her Choice, and it was commonly held that Elrohir too was most likely to make that path his, for he was like Elros in many ways, Erestor thought sadly.

But surely Elladan was most like the Elves? Surely he would not desert his father?

How much hope rested upon Elladan, thought Erestor, and if the pain in his chest was familiar it hurt no less.

What if he had died? What if he had died and his choice had not been made? Would he linger in some between-place? How could he make a choice when he did not know?

Erestor found his knuckles clenched so hard they were white and his fingers cracked under the strain. He looked away.

Along the terrace and the iron railing, so delicate that they appeared as mere tracery, were the other quarters and rooms of the counselors of Imladris and their families. There, across the lawns and closest to the waterfalls, were the quarters of the commanders and sons of Elrond. It was where Glorfindel was. He could see the light beneath his door, a thin gold line indicating that did Glorfindel not sleep either. He was to ride out on the morrow with but a handful of warriors to distract the Nazgûl, Sauron, for a while at least, thus allowing Frodo and the Fellowship to escape.

It was the most desperate, stupidest thing he had ever heard. And he had no control over it, and no argument to persuade them to do any different.

A burst of song came from the Hall of Fire as someone opened the door and lurched out into the cold air, the door closed again on the song. It was late and could only be some of the warriors drinking so late into the night, nay, the morning for it was surely near dawn? All good folk had gone to bed….which left him.

Well I am not good folk, he said with less irony and more bitterness than usual.

Elladan lay bespelled because he had put himself between Angmar and Erestor.

Foolish, sweet boy. Beloved.

'Should have let me have it,' he muttered. For he would cut his own throat before one hair on Elladan's head was harmed, he would have let his blood soak and enrich the earth until not one drop remained. 'Should have shoved the pair of them out of the door of that cursed Tower the minute they showed up.' He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn't do any good but he did it anyway.

A quiet laugh came from somewhere in the garden and he scanned the dark. Nothing. He let his gaze drift again over to the commanders' quarters. A crack of light still showed beneath Glorfindel's door so Erestor knew he still burned a lamp. Wakeful. Restless as he.

Movement pulled his gaze into the gardens once more for another figure stood in the shadows.

Elrohir. Erestor would recognise him anywhere; those powerful shoulders and that terrible stillness he had sometimes, like a predator. He was absolutely still now and looking up towards the balcony where Glorfindel's rooms were. A door opened nearby, not Glorfindel's but further along and another Elf emerged.

Tindómion.

The Fëanorian seemed to linger a moment, looking over his shoulder to within and said something. Then he quietly closed the door, an amused smile on his lips, and walked purposefully to his own room.

So. A secret assignation, thought Erestor unsurprised. Tindómion was discreet but not apologetic for who he was. Typical of his House, thought Erestor with pride. And not a single one of them had had a shred of discretion but Maedhros…and he was discreet almost to the point of destruction.

He watched Elrohir turn his head to follow Tindómion's path and wondered if there was more to their friendship than met the eye…Surely not? Elrohir was chaste, but not pure. His rage and killing lust was still lust. His violence….

Erestor knew that violence. Had he not seen it, the baur-ûr, in Sirion, in Beleriand? Doriath? Oh, he had seen it in too many skirmishes to mention or even remember. He had felt it too, and in those moments it had devoured all reason.

One could not run with wolves without becoming fleet and savage. One could not fight the Dark with Light, whatever they said. One could only really fight it with its own weapons and Erestor had honed his weapons with ruthless skill. He was not the only one in Imladris who had fought in those battles, but they only acknowledged each other in their silence.

Erestor looked into the garden; Elrohir was still there, cradled in the shadows, watching, although Erestor did not quite know what it was that he watched. He seemed to have fixed his gaze upon the door of the room Tindómion had quit; it was the guest room, and Erestor knew where everyone lodged…So he knew it was young Thranduillion who had entertained Tindómion the night before both left on equally blighted quests.

Erestor watched for a while. There was no further movement on the terrace. Legolas' door remained closed. The thin crack of light still showed under Glorfindel's door, and Elrohir remained, staring up at the terrace as though he dared not go there even though his own chambers and Elladan's were there. Tindómion had not gone to his own chambers but disappeared into the darkness that softened the Valley, and had not returned.

These two, he thought, Elrohir and Tindómion, both of the House of Finwë and so alike though only one was of Fëanor's blood, that fabulous magnificence that had been gobbled up by the hungry Dark….No. He paused, it was only his poor beloved lord who they had found in the Dark, and he was alone. And alone still.

Bitterly Erestor turned back to his own rooms. He poured wine into a fine glass goblet and drank it, let the richness soak his tongue, his mouth. In the darkness the mountains stretched away south but a sliver of moonlight gleamed upon the snowy peaks. He stared up at the mountains.

Ah, my lord, he thought. Dissipated into the Dark, his Song dispersed, his lost notes calling, beseeching, seeking each other in their profound loneliness. Ah. The loss. But I will not forget, he swore. He would return to Phellanthir and find a way to release Maedhros. For there must be way. Celebrimbor had knowledge and curvë beyond anyone since his grandfather. He must have known, planned, designed the Glass to bring Maedhros to him. It had been their intellects, shared curiosity that had found fellowship in the other, and for a while, Tyelpo had found refuge with them in Himring.

A cold day of course. The paved stones under their feet cracked with frost and the air almost spiked the throat with cold though they stood in a chamber in the tower, filled with astrolabes and metal-coated screens that gleamed in the dull light. There were delicate glass tubes filled with coloured liquids on a clutter of shelves around the stone walls, and a small forge at the centre burned dully.

'Is this the alloy of which you spoke?' Maedhros cradled a bowl of metal carefully in his hand. A dull sheen, like pewter it was, but its form, shape was exquisite, as was all Tyelpo's work. 'And you say it will split light? Does it reflect or refract?'

Tyelpo, excited and finding in his uncle a like curiosity and interest, had leaned forwards and tilted Maedhros' hand so the winter sun caught upon the bowl and a sudden arc of light spun from its surface. Delight shone on Maedhros' face then and the two bent their heads and talked in excited voices using words that neither Erestor nor Maglor knew. The two had shrugged at each other with complicit smiles….

Erestor sighed. Too long ago and all that knowledge lost. Forever. There was no one left who knew half the secrets that had been Tyelpo's. Or Maedhros for he had been obsessed with plant cultivation, growing food where it could not be grown, breeding livestock that could survive sieges. But it was Curufinwë who commanded his son, as he had been commanded by his own father…

Erestor stilled.

Tyelpo loved Maedhros but not enough to commit his life to reaching him surely?

Perhaps Celebrimbor had thought that Maedhros was not alone….

Excitement fluttered in Erestor's chest; suppose they were all there! If Curufinwë were there, then he would know how to use the Glass. And if he were there, perhaps there would also be Fëanáro himself!

The excitement became trepidation. Could it really be that Fëanáro and all his seven sons were there somewhere…in the Dark. And that they could be drawn somehow to Phellanthir? What would it take?

Erestor spun on his heel and took long strides to the windows. He threw open the tall windows to let in the cold brittle air that carried frost and snow.

Perhaps it is not too late...

A whisper...White fire. Distant. Like stars exploding in the immenseness of the Void... Burnished bronze hair and black, long silk streaming out in the wind…No. It was not too late. Now he knew: the Glass had opened a possibility.

He saw them then, as once they had been. He could take out each memory, one by one as if they were jewels, and hold them up to the light, explore each facet. How he had loved the magnificence of them, but Maedhros most of all. Maedhros the Tall. Maedhros One-Hand, tempered steel...How they had blazed! Like stars. No, brighter. Brighter than Eärendil for his borrowed Silmaril was but a shadow of Fëanor's flaming soul. How could such fire be quenched? Now he knew it was not… Erestor was certain now that Maedhros could be summoned once again. If there were a strong enough link, a call to his heart. And if he came, then perhaps….perhaps there were others.

There are two here in Imladris that he will come for.

Yes. Tindómion, son of his brother, and Elrond, son of his heart. He would come for either of them. For both of them.

But more, he would come for Maglor. That last, lost one…And not only Maedhros but others.

He stared at the glitter of starlight on the hard snow on the mountains looming above the Valley. For a moment he thought he saw a comet fall, blaze, a stream of bright red fire ... But it was not real, only a thought. He had not been there at the last, when his beloved lord had finally despaired and cast himself into that fire.

The moon was now a thin crescent in a black sky. He saw himself reflected in the glass, stared; the scar was invisible now, he thought, yet it throbbed as if to remind him of his fealty, as if Maedhros himself knew what was offered. He lifted his glass in silent salute to he who burned like a star, like a sun in the Void.

'I will not leave you in there, my lord. I will find a way,' he swore. As he had that last night when Maedhros had wrung that promise from him. Wrung it out of him as it had wrung out his love, his heart.