Isolation

Part 23…

The day passed quickly for Glorfindel and Erestor as they shared their thoughts and tales of the past, asking and answer questions of each other. Glorfindel reclined against Erestor as he spoke of Gondolin, of its beauty and splendor. He spoke of the battle that had reduced the once great city to ruin and he spoke of his death. Recounting how he had been dragged from the mountain side, thoughts of failure and the fall of his beloved city the last he had before being consumed by the flames of a demon and his own screams. Of Mandos’ Halls he would say little as there was not much to recall beyond the cold feeling of numbness and a general listlessness that was so different from any sensation ever felt before. He spoke of re-birth, of being returned to a life that no longer existed, to a world he no longer knew and in which he had no place. He spoke of Elrond, of how the half-elf had found him and brought him back to Imladris, where he had since remained; a loyal servant to the last of Tuors’ line. Erestor had held him, stroking soft golden hair as the memories had overwhelmed the distraught warrior and tremors had wracked his body.

Erestor had then told his own story, of being born to a prominent family and raised as a warrior in the hidden realm of Nargothrond until its fall. How he and the few remaining survivors had fled to Lindon to find refuge among their kin. He had found a place at court, serving as a strategist to the council of the High King Fingon and later his son Gil-galad, following him into the battle of the Last Alliance. After the death of the last High King he and the remaining refugees that had not sail for Valinor traveled to Imladris. Sick of death and bloodshed he took up the position of chief advisor to Elrond, burying his past as a warrior and surrounding himself instead with the tranquility of books and parchment, striving for peace. After Glorfindel had kissed the tears from his face and they had slowly worship each others bodies as the sun set. Spent they had lain together in the fading twilight until the cool night air had prodded them into the warmth of their bed roll.




Lindir felt absolutely wretched. He had awakened in Elronds arms to the joys of a horrific hangover, complete with nausea and a splitting headache. His stomach lurched and he scrambled from the bed to race into the bathing chamber, vomiting the remnants of last nights meager meal and wine into the latrine. Sitting back he hung his head in misery and bemoaned his own foolishness before feeling a presence settle at his back and strong arms wrapped around him. Leaning against Elrond he closed his eyes and allowed his lover to soothingly stroke his upper arms. Once he felt better he shifted to look over his shoulder, eyes widening as he realized that Elrond was nude and sitting on the stone cold floor. Shaking his head he stood and pulled the elf Lord to his feet. Without spng tng they returned to the bedroom, Lindir quickly shedding his bedraggled robe, and crawled between the sheets. Allowing Elrond to once again wrap his arms about him he rested his head on an available shoulder and began to doze, sleeping off the leftover effects of too much wine. Hours later Elrond dressed and, leaving his sleepy minstrel to rest and recovery, returned to his own rooms to begin the day.

TBC…