DISENCHANTMENT

This story was written for the ‘Rings Remixed’ challenge and is based on “REVELATIONS”—BY ANORIELLE

It involves the slash pairing of Elrohir/Glorfindel.

Imladris 2911 Third Age


In the middle of the night, Elrohir’s restlessness overtook his ability to sleep, causing him to leap out of bed and head outdoors. He paused to glance at his twin, who was asleep in the adjacent bed, but the restlessness—that feeling of something amiss—had not affected Elladan, who slept peacefully.

Elrohir stopped to seize a long robe from his armoire to cover his nakedness and was glad of the meager warmth that it provided. The chill air outdoors caused his breath to rise in white wisps of steam into the blackness, and he walked the deserted pathway toward the forest, rubbing his arms through the thin satin cover of his robe.

Elrohir’s heightened sense of unrest caused him to turn away from the forest, and intuitively, his steps took him to the armory. Puzzled by the feeling of insistence that led him there, he entered the great outbuilding, a part of his mind wondering why he should want to go there, but the other part knowing that for some reason it was necessary.

When Elrohir stepped into the unheated armory, his breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed upon the solitary figure of his father. Elrond was kneeling before the great spear that had belonged to Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor who had perished in the Battle of the Last Alliance three thousand years before. His black hair, tousled and unbound, fell forward, obscuring his face. He was fully dressed from his day’s work still, not having found the time to go to bed, even though it was a late hour. A shaft of moonlight fell across his side, making him look like a statue that was lit purposely to show it off, like the many pieces of statuary in the garden. They sometimes appeared alight when many candles were placed around them on the ground and in the trees.

“So doomed was your family,” Elrond was saying as he wept and stroked the spear that lay upright, fastened between two ornamental brackets on the wall. His usually melodic voice was husky with emotion. “Three generations of High Kings—your grandfather, your father, and then you—all valiant men—you should not have perished—I was young, inexperienced—it should have been me,” he wept.

Elrohir stood frozen, listening in horror to his father’s anguish. He felt he should leave but he could not, and he stood, riveted, his feet planted to the floor in sudden arrested movement and his gaze fixed upon his father.

Elrond’s hand, pale and trembling, was stroking the shiny surface of Aeglos. Elrohir’s thoughts turned to what he had learned of the last day his father had spent with the High King. It was on the battle plain of the Dagorlad, and Gil-galad lay in the dust, cut down by Sauron’s Orcs, his blood staining the battlefield red. Elrond had told his sons the story of how he held his dear friend’s head in his lap, stroking the dark hair, his tears falling upon the High King’s unresponsive face, as the Elves and Men fought on.

“You took me under your wing after Maglor left,” he sobbed. “You made me your herald—I was not feeling worthy of that honor but you had faith in me. And everything I am today is because of you. The Dark Lord was defeated then, mellon nîn. But now he is returning—his strength is increasing, his Orcs are multiplying—he has others bound to him as well—other fell creatures that still threaten us. My dreams of late have been prophesying our inevitable doom. I need you, melethron—you should not have passed from this world. I need you here with me, now. Please come back to me, my dearest heart.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the shaft of the spear. Then he sat back and wiped the tears from his eyes. He whispered, almost inaudibly, “Ah, Celebrían, I hope you can forgive me at times like this when my feelings for him still take over my reason.”

Elrohir covered his mouth lest his heavy gasp of breath give him away. “No,” he whispered. He took a step backward, his mind in turmoil, the urge to flee too powerful to fight. But he bumped into the leg of a brazier, causing it to squeak along the floor, startling Elrond out of his lonely soliloquy.

The Master of Rivendell turned sharply and his gaze fell upon his son, standing still as a statue but clutching his throat. “Elrohir!” he gasped in a shocked whisper.

“No!” Elrohir cried. “N-no—what of Mother? How could you, Ada?” He turned and ran out of the armory, turning back along the path to the forest, his bare feet leaving small dark marks on the damp, packed earth.

Elrohir turned from the forest once again and made his way along a flagstone pathway to a private walled garden that his mother had kept, where she often wandered to sit alone or to walk among the many bright and fragrant flowers.

He plunked down upon a stone bench and clasped a fistful of his raven hair in a clenched hand, pulling at it and groaning in agony as he thought about the scene that he had just witnessed. “How could he—how could he--?” he cried, and jumped to his feet, pacing the stone walkway that circled the bench and then led to a gate that opened upon the main section of the garden. He was about to enter the garden when he heard a voice behind him.

“Elrohir!”

Thinking in the first instant of hearing its resonance that it must be Elrond, he cringed and did not turn around, determined that his father was the last person to whom he wished to speak.

But it was a different voice that spoke to him, its timbre a different quality than his father’s, its pitch slightly higher, its tone less melodic. It had been a soft voice when speaking to Elrohir in the past, but at this time it conveyed a more severe note of concern.

“Elrohir, has your common sense abandoned you? This foolish behavior is not your usual habit. I would have expected better of you.”

Elrohir whirled around to face his tormentor. “Glorfindel, what are you doing here?” he asked. His cheeks were reddened from the hurt that he felt and from crying, and his lips pulled back in a rictus of anxiety.

The golden-haired Elf approached, one arm outstretched toward Elrond’s errant son, the other carrying a torch. “Come, Elrohir. You know that times have changed and the woods surrounding our realm are filled with white wolves and other fell creatures. It is not safe to wander alone.”

“Wander? I go but to seek solace in my mother’s garden and perhaps think upon her. Unfortunately, no one else has done so for too long, it seems. No wolf, white or otherwise, has ever dared to enter Imladris through our leaguer. Our borders are well-protected, or should be by our most senior guards at this hour of night. Why are you not among them—out there doing your job, Glorfindel?” Elrohir drew back, abruptly pulling his arm away from Glorfindel’s reach, protectively holding closed his thin robe.

Elrohir sensed that Glorfindel did not allow himself to be baited, although the obvious insult must have stung. He stared at his friend’s wise face, wondering if Glorfindel suspected the source of the pain that was causing him to be so defensive and rude.

“You do know that your brother would never be able to go on living if an accident claimed your life, do you not?” asked Glorfindel, trying another tactic and approaching the dark-haired Elf more closely, peering into his face.

This was too much for Elrohir, who sank onto the bench and buried his face in his hands. “You speak of my brother, who would not withstand the pain of my passing, nor I his, if our places were reversed,” he wept. After a moment his demeanor changed and he became quieter. “I am so sorry for my harsh words, Glorfindel,” he said. “Please forgive my foolishness. But you know not why I am upset so. I am not upset with you.”

Glorfindel sighed. “May I sit down?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Elrohir, sweeping aside his robe so that Glorfindel could seat himself and wiping his eyes with his other hand.

Glorfindel regarded the dark-haired Elf carefully, holding his torch close to Elrohir, iluminating the heightened color in his face and the bright glitter of unshed tears in his eyes, as well as the streaks of tears that had fallen upon his cheeks. “I know that you are not angry with me,” he said in a softer tone. “But I can guess the source of your pain.”

Elrohir looked up, startled, and his agonized glance fell upon the fair face of his old mentor. “What can you guess? What do you know of the cause of my pain?” he asked bitterly.

“It is your father, is it not?” asked Glorfindel kindly, pushing back a strand of raven hair from where it fell, veiling Elrohir’s troubled countenance.

“I saw you walk out of the armory,” the older Elf continued, “before you came this way. When I went to see who was there at this hour with the door swinging wide open, my glance fell upon your father, and I saw what he was doing. I reasoned then that this must have been the cause of your obvious consternation.”

“You reasoned correctly, mellon nîn,” replied Elrohir, his voice softening to a whisper.

“Can you talk to me about it?” asked Glorfindel.

“Nay,” replied Elrohir, looking away from his friend’s intense gaze. “I cannot.”

“You know, Celebrían knew of your father’s relationship with Gil-galad,” Glorfindel dared to say.

“Do not speak his name in the same sentence as hers!” Elrohir commanded, aghast at Glorfindel’s impertinent words.

“I am sorry. Please forgive me,” replied Glorfindel. “But your naneth knew that they were involved with each other for many hundreds of years before she met your father. She accepted that and to his credit, he did make her happy during their marriage.”

When Elrohir did not respond to this, Glorfindel asked him, “Will you not accept his past and be at peace with it, as your naneth did, mellon-nîn?”

More silence ensued as Elrohir could not speak, his thoughts too anguished. Then the tears fell from his eyes in torrents as vehement words gushed from his mouth. “What they did was wrong! Their affair was nothing but self-indulgent lust carried out with mindless disregard for the feelings of others!”

“But at the time, pen-neth-nîn, there was no one else to consider. Your father and mother did not wed until after Gil—the High King’s death, and you and your brother were not yet born.”

“Yet he thinks on him now, when he should be thinking of my mother,” cried Elrohir. “He insults her memory with his careless disregard of her!”

“Mellon-nîn, he was alone tonight when you discovered him,” said Glorfindel gently. He started to wrap his arms around the shoulders of his friend, then drew back. Elrohir’s pale beauty in the moonlight, made him look fragile and frightened. Glorfindel’s voice took on a note of pity. “He did not expect to have an audience while he mourned his lover’s death. It may have been a chance thing. Perhaps he walked into the arsenal and he happened to glance upon Aeglos, and it brought back too many memories to withstand. These are dire times. We all must glean our strength from whatever source supplies us with it.”

Elrohir’s countenance changed again. He gazed upon Glorfindel with a look of both confusion and vulnerability unsuccessfully masking the pain that shone from his eyes.

“I just—“ Elrohir began to say. At a look of encouragement from Glorfindel he continued. “I just think that it is wrong because he was Ada’s mentor, and at that time my father was young and looked up to the King,” he said, his color changing once more as a deeper feeling emerged from within his psyche. “I cannot help but feel that Gil-galad took advantage of him.”

“Ah,” Glorfindel sighed. “Yes, he was your father’s elder and his protector. As I am your mentor, Meleth-nîn. I hope you do not think I will take advantage of you.” He blurted out these words, looking with clear blue eyes free of guile at the blank, shocked face of his companion.

Elrohir gave a slight gasp as the realization of Glorfindel’s words hit him, a hand flying to his throat, closing the open neck of his robe. “Glorfindel!” he managed to squeak. His legs felt so wobbly that he knew if he tried to stand at that moment, they would not bear his weight.

Then he dared to peek at his friend’s face. Glorfindel was looking down at his boots, his facial expression betraying his emotions; a heightened color suffusing his usual golden skin with a rosy hue. “Loving you is a burden that I have carried for a long time, Elrohir,” he murmured.

Elrohir, with a great effort, managed to bring his feelings under control. When he spoke again it was in a calm voice that belied his discomfort. “How long have you carried these feelings for me?” he enquired, blinking rapidly.

“For hundreds of years” was the reply, Glorfindel joining Elrohir in the bashful fluttering of his eyelashes. “It has been for many years that I have been able to live without you as my lover, therefore I know I can live this way a while longer. I realize that for you it is a shock—something new—previously unknown and never considered—I shall go now and leave you alone to think.” Glorfindel abandoned his staccato speech and stood, intending to flee.

Elrohir put out a hand, clasping Glorfindel’s with fingers surprisingly warm and dry. “Nay. Stay,” he said, and tugged at his companion’s arm, causing the warrior to fall back onto the bench. “I want you too, Glorfindel,” he said softly. “I have known this for a long time and have denied it. But for now I need to be alone. Can you forgive me that and wait for me?” His luminous grey eyes stared into Glorfindel’s, entreating him to be patient a while longer. For now he needed to be alone by himself to think.

With sympathy emanating from his soft blue gaze, Glorfindel took Elrohir’s hands in his and raised them to his lips. “Of course, meleth-nîn,” he whispered. “I will go now and leave you to your thoughts. If you need me, I shall be in my chambers.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Elrohir’s forehead and then dropped the dark-haired Elf’s hands down onto his lap. Elrohir’s satin robe slipped off of one knee, exposing it and the full length of his thigh to Glorfindel’s adoring gaze. He looked up at his friend, who had risen to his feet, with a plaintive look in his eyes, and smiled with warm reassurance.

Glorfindel gazed back at Elrohir and smiled. He put two fingers to his lips and then held them to his heart before he turned abruptly and departed, walking quickly but stiffly along the pathway back to the Homely House.