Silent Flight -Complete
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,942
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
2
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,942
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
2
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 2: Old Man Willow
Title: Silent Flight: The Wild Swans
Author: destinial
Part: 2/?
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: NC17/R
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns these elves, the history, Middle-earth, my sons and my soul. No profit was made.
Warning: Besides slash, I don’t think so. Maybe angst but I am seldom capable of it.
Beta: Agie. Now I am in serious debt. *twiddle thumbs*
Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.
Author's Note: I take responsibility for the bad poetry as well, but it was raining and I had a touch too much tea.
Erestor came to the middle of the forest, bewildered and confounded. He had been running for a very long time, his dainty feet dancing between the roots of the trees. The trees had not told him their purpose, yet their whispers remained urgent, and continued in a ceaseless hum. “Come to us, child of song, come, come, come…! ” When he would stop, the branches would gently push him along.
Even elven stamina could not last forever. Erestor stopped to catch his breath. Resting against the trunk of a birch tree, he placed a hand on the bark and sent a tendril of his mind forth. “Shining one*, what has called me hence?”
A deep murmur resonated in his mind, “Danger, child of song, danger. Come among us, come among us.”
Startled, Erestor asked of the birch again. “What danger stalks, wooded kin?” The birch would speak no longer, but beckoned him forth again with his leafy arm.
Even more puzzled now, Erestor allowed his mind to wander, opening himself to the murmurs of all that is living to wash in a flood across his consciousness. He could sense nothing amiss but still the whispers continued, only different now. “Danger, danger, child. Come among us, come among us.”
The forest was old and wise, but its ways were strange and different. The speech of the trees and plants co! uld barely translate into the oldest of elvish tongues, let alone Sindarin. The trees knew only the vaguest images of words and unable to speak more, they sought to bring Erestor to one among them who could: Old Man Willow.
Erestor looked about in surprise when the whispers suddenly stopped. He stood by the bank of a shallow stream, and across that stream, his roots dipping into the water, stood an old willow tree. The branches drooped low and Erestor unconsciously took a step back when they abruptly parted in the middle to reveal a writhing trunk. The invitation could not be clearer.
Curious and apprehensive, Erestor stepped across the river, deftly skipping from one rock and another. He moved behind the curtains and touching the trunk, he reached out his mind once more.
“Child of song, I have sought you.” The old tree sighed and the tremors were felt in the moss at his feet. The clarity of the thought took Erestor aback and he asked, “Oldest of trees, you have found me. Why have you called me hence?”
The tree sighed again, one of deep and long regret. “Danger of magic and wicked intent, danger, child of song.” A flood of images, strangely contorted by shadows, flowed into Erestor’s consciousness: of Ariendhel collecting stevia leaves from the forest, a distant view of the tea she served, the father’s wrath, the brothers’ curse - one after the other till the tragic end.
Erestor’s knees buckled and he fell upon his knees in shock as his mind caught the mental image of his brothers taking flight. His mind screamed, “Why had you not warned us before? Why did you not save them? How could you not? How could you? My brothers, my brothers!”
The willow wept. “We could not, child of song, we could not. Wooded we are, rooted deep and speaking not to any ! who know not our speech. We have not the words spoken by tongue, we have not the strength.”
Erestor snapped angrily, tears running down his cheeks that had turned pale in shock. “You have, blessed of Yavanna and Ulmo both. You could, tree of water, you could! But you did not!”
“Live I within this hidden grove, years upon years, ages upon ages. My voice is weak and my magic weaker still.” The old tree dropped his branches upon the sobbing elf. “I could not, child of song. Would it that I could.”
Erestor leant against the tree, crying bitter tears and finding no comfort in the gentle caress. He sobbed, he begged and he pleaded, “My brothers, my brothers all. Manwë, oh Manwë, they belong not to the skies. Return them to me. Please, Valar, return them to me.”
“Child, child, none of elven kind can be fully transformed to a creature of any other sort. No sorcery could undo what Eru willed.” The willow soothed with his waspy voice. “Enchanted they are, but not forever birds. When night falls, they must be elves again.”
Joy crept back into Erestor’s countenance and he asked. “The curse lasts but a day, and would thus be broken?”
“Alas, alas,” Old Man Willow moaned. “They will fly again as swans by day, robbed of voices and chained by night.”
There was little that brought more grief than stolen hope, and Erestor fell heavily against the tree and would have wept anew had the willow not spoken up again. “All is not lost, child of song. But softest of hands, gentlest of hearts, have you the courage and endurance enough? The pain, the anguish and the strongest fear must you endure.”
Parting his branches again, he spoke. “Know you the stinging nettles thence?” Erestor turned and saw the tall shrub. “Pluck its leaves with your hands though they will blister. Step on them with your bare feet, though they will scorch and itch. Weave the flax with your fingers though it will cut. Make nine tunics, with sleeves long enough to cover arms of length, and once you have, throw these over the enchanted swans, and the curse will be broken.”
Erestor stared at the shrub intently, determination strong in his eyes. “I would do so for the love of my brothers.”
The willow cautioned. “But child, remember well, remember firm. From the instant you should choose to begin your work, not a single word must pass from your lips. The first whisper you should utter will pierce your brothers’ heart like a merciless arrow sure of its target.”
The slight elf closed his eyes and replied. “No words bind me. Even if the curse should demand the price of my life, I will deliver my brothers without a qualm.” He stood up, now brightened with a mission in mind and a goal in sight. Too long had he been the coddled and treasured babe - now it was his turn, his calling to hearken to his brothers’ need. Then remembering his pledge of silence, he asked. “Where will I find my brothers, willow wise? I would speak with them lest they despair.”
“Our feathered friends will know better than I, child.”
Kneeling once more before the tree, now in profound gratitude, he thanked Old Man Willow and sent his thoughts through the forests, singing of his debt to his wooded friends.
Stepping out of the cove of leaves and onto the watery rocks, Erestor lifted his sweet lilting voice and beckoned for the aid of the birds,
Green of the glens, bright with dew; red in roses deeply imbued- white of the mountain, snowed anew; black of the earth and skies of blue-
ye feathered kin of glorious hue, ye feathered kin of every hue
seek me now my folk who flew, seek me now, seek me out.
Keenest of eyes, and brightest too; smallest of kith and nimblest still; blessed of Manwë, Ulmo two; stoutest of heart and friendship true-
ye feathered kin of glad virtue, ye feathered kin of every hue
seek me now my folk who flew, seek me now, seek me out.
Strongest of spirit, cursed nine; bitter and banished, brothers mine; flight by day and chained by night; beloved kin I seek to find-
ye feathered kin your aid I seek, ye feather kin your aid I need
seek me now my folk who flew, seek me now, seek me out.
The song was light and gentle, the singer calm and composed - yet, so newly distraught that tears hung on every word and anguish on every tone. The birds had heard; swallows, owls and sparrows too, and they each took to flight and song, seeking nine swans born anew.
Erestor listened to the bustling forest, exhausted and in desperate hope. He crossed the stream to where the shrub of nettles stood and he fingered a nettle, grasping it tightly between his fingers and feeling the acute pain that ate into his skin. “Soon,” he told himself, looking at the white blisters on his thumb as he released the leaf. “Let me speak once more to my brothers and I will weave. No nettle leaf will deter my dearest wish.”
He sat down desolately by the shrub and he waited, still fingering the white sores upon his thumb in deep thought. He could do nothing till his brothers were found.
TBC…
Further Author’s notes, because she couldn’t resist:
*In Gaelic we call the Birch ‘Bieth’, which may mean shining one, or one of endurance, strength or courage. It probably has everything to do with the way it shines in the light. Though my fondest memory of the tree came because my mother used to put birch bark on our wounds to numb the pain (I grew up in Aviemore, near the Cairngorm Mountains, lots of trees around).
Author: destinial
Part: 2/?
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: NC17/R
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns these elves, the history, Middle-earth, my sons and my soul. No profit was made.
Warning: Besides slash, I don’t think so. Maybe angst but I am seldom capable of it.
Beta: Agie. Now I am in serious debt. *twiddle thumbs*
Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.
Author's Note: I take responsibility for the bad poetry as well, but it was raining and I had a touch too much tea.
Even elven stamina could not last forever. Erestor stopped to catch his breath. Resting against the trunk of a birch tree, he placed a hand on the bark and sent a tendril of his mind forth. “Shining one*, what has called me hence?”
A deep murmur resonated in his mind, “Danger, child of song, danger. Come among us, come among us.”
Startled, Erestor asked of the birch again. “What danger stalks, wooded kin?” The birch would speak no longer, but beckoned him forth again with his leafy arm.
Even more puzzled now, Erestor allowed his mind to wander, opening himself to the murmurs of all that is living to wash in a flood across his consciousness. He could sense nothing amiss but still the whispers continued, only different now. “Danger, danger, child. Come among us, come among us.”
The forest was old and wise, but its ways were strange and different. The speech of the trees and plants co! uld barely translate into the oldest of elvish tongues, let alone Sindarin. The trees knew only the vaguest images of words and unable to speak more, they sought to bring Erestor to one among them who could: Old Man Willow.
Erestor looked about in surprise when the whispers suddenly stopped. He stood by the bank of a shallow stream, and across that stream, his roots dipping into the water, stood an old willow tree. The branches drooped low and Erestor unconsciously took a step back when they abruptly parted in the middle to reveal a writhing trunk. The invitation could not be clearer.
Curious and apprehensive, Erestor stepped across the river, deftly skipping from one rock and another. He moved behind the curtains and touching the trunk, he reached out his mind once more.
“Child of song, I have sought you.” The old tree sighed and the tremors were felt in the moss at his feet. The clarity of the thought took Erestor aback and he asked, “Oldest of trees, you have found me. Why have you called me hence?”
The tree sighed again, one of deep and long regret. “Danger of magic and wicked intent, danger, child of song.” A flood of images, strangely contorted by shadows, flowed into Erestor’s consciousness: of Ariendhel collecting stevia leaves from the forest, a distant view of the tea she served, the father’s wrath, the brothers’ curse - one after the other till the tragic end.
Erestor’s knees buckled and he fell upon his knees in shock as his mind caught the mental image of his brothers taking flight. His mind screamed, “Why had you not warned us before? Why did you not save them? How could you not? How could you? My brothers, my brothers!”
The willow wept. “We could not, child of song, we could not. Wooded we are, rooted deep and speaking not to any ! who know not our speech. We have not the words spoken by tongue, we have not the strength.”
Erestor snapped angrily, tears running down his cheeks that had turned pale in shock. “You have, blessed of Yavanna and Ulmo both. You could, tree of water, you could! But you did not!”
“Live I within this hidden grove, years upon years, ages upon ages. My voice is weak and my magic weaker still.” The old tree dropped his branches upon the sobbing elf. “I could not, child of song. Would it that I could.”
Erestor leant against the tree, crying bitter tears and finding no comfort in the gentle caress. He sobbed, he begged and he pleaded, “My brothers, my brothers all. Manwë, oh Manwë, they belong not to the skies. Return them to me. Please, Valar, return them to me.”
“Child, child, none of elven kind can be fully transformed to a creature of any other sort. No sorcery could undo what Eru willed.” The willow soothed with his waspy voice. “Enchanted they are, but not forever birds. When night falls, they must be elves again.”
Joy crept back into Erestor’s countenance and he asked. “The curse lasts but a day, and would thus be broken?”
“Alas, alas,” Old Man Willow moaned. “They will fly again as swans by day, robbed of voices and chained by night.”
There was little that brought more grief than stolen hope, and Erestor fell heavily against the tree and would have wept anew had the willow not spoken up again. “All is not lost, child of song. But softest of hands, gentlest of hearts, have you the courage and endurance enough? The pain, the anguish and the strongest fear must you endure.”
Parting his branches again, he spoke. “Know you the stinging nettles thence?” Erestor turned and saw the tall shrub. “Pluck its leaves with your hands though they will blister. Step on them with your bare feet, though they will scorch and itch. Weave the flax with your fingers though it will cut. Make nine tunics, with sleeves long enough to cover arms of length, and once you have, throw these over the enchanted swans, and the curse will be broken.”
Erestor stared at the shrub intently, determination strong in his eyes. “I would do so for the love of my brothers.”
The willow cautioned. “But child, remember well, remember firm. From the instant you should choose to begin your work, not a single word must pass from your lips. The first whisper you should utter will pierce your brothers’ heart like a merciless arrow sure of its target.”
The slight elf closed his eyes and replied. “No words bind me. Even if the curse should demand the price of my life, I will deliver my brothers without a qualm.” He stood up, now brightened with a mission in mind and a goal in sight. Too long had he been the coddled and treasured babe - now it was his turn, his calling to hearken to his brothers’ need. Then remembering his pledge of silence, he asked. “Where will I find my brothers, willow wise? I would speak with them lest they despair.”
“Our feathered friends will know better than I, child.”
Kneeling once more before the tree, now in profound gratitude, he thanked Old Man Willow and sent his thoughts through the forests, singing of his debt to his wooded friends.
Stepping out of the cove of leaves and onto the watery rocks, Erestor lifted his sweet lilting voice and beckoned for the aid of the birds,
Green of the glens, bright with dew; red in roses deeply imbued- white of the mountain, snowed anew; black of the earth and skies of blue-
ye feathered kin of glorious hue, ye feathered kin of every hue
seek me now my folk who flew, seek me now, seek me out.
Keenest of eyes, and brightest too; smallest of kith and nimblest still; blessed of Manwë, Ulmo two; stoutest of heart and friendship true-
ye feathered kin of glad virtue, ye feathered kin of every hue
seek me now my folk who flew, seek me now, seek me out.
Strongest of spirit, cursed nine; bitter and banished, brothers mine; flight by day and chained by night; beloved kin I seek to find-
ye feathered kin your aid I seek, ye feather kin your aid I need
seek me now my folk who flew, seek me now, seek me out.
The song was light and gentle, the singer calm and composed - yet, so newly distraught that tears hung on every word and anguish on every tone. The birds had heard; swallows, owls and sparrows too, and they each took to flight and song, seeking nine swans born anew.
Erestor listened to the bustling forest, exhausted and in desperate hope. He crossed the stream to where the shrub of nettles stood and he fingered a nettle, grasping it tightly between his fingers and feeling the acute pain that ate into his skin. “Soon,” he told himself, looking at the white blisters on his thumb as he released the leaf. “Let me speak once more to my brothers and I will weave. No nettle leaf will deter my dearest wish.”
He sat down desolately by the shrub and he waited, still fingering the white sores upon his thumb in deep thought. He could do nothing till his brothers were found.
TBC…
Further Author’s notes, because she couldn’t resist:
*In Gaelic we call the Birch ‘Bieth’, which may mean shining one, or one of endurance, strength or courage. It probably has everything to do with the way it shines in the light. Though my fondest memory of the tree came because my mother used to put birch bark on our wounds to numb the pain (I grew up in Aviemore, near the Cairngorm Mountains, lots of trees around).