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Enough for Tonight
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
7,532
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
7,532
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
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 15
Title: Enough for Tonight (15/22)
Author: Aglarien
Type: FPS
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. Except for the cat.
Warning: AU. Get your hankies ready.
Summary: Debris of Battle and Imladris is attacked.
Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy reading this part as much as I enjoyed writing it. I owe a profound “thank you” to two wonderful ladies for this chapter. First, Lady Mirfain set me thinking about sending the third group of Orcs to the western border instead of the north or south I had originally planned - which of course entailed another attack on Imladris. And then Dawnseaview’s review of the last chapter, and her standing with renewed purpose, black-Orc-bloodied pitchfork in hand, opened a door. Through the door walked a brave little elfling named Saercaeron in her honor. Saercaeron means bitter sea.
For Lady Mirfain and Dawnseaview.
Part 15
Glorfindel stayed by his mate’s side, caressing a hand, silently calling out to his love to stay with him, as Elrond worked.
They had constructed a litter and carefully carried Erestor back to where they had left their supplies and horses. Elrond had carefully assessed the blade’s path, and elected to keep it in place until he was in a position to better tend to the wound. Now they were in a hastily erected shelter, safely away from the stench and debris of battle.
The elves had been extraordinarily fortunate, albeit they were the most skilled of Imladris’ warriors. Not a single one had been lost, and Erestor was the only one who was gravely wounded. The elves simply accounted for everyone, set fire to the entire Orc camp, and moved away.
Erestor had luckily not regained consciousness. “Erestor, beloved, hear me. Do not leave me! Stay with me!” Glorfindel kept a firm hold on their connection as he watched Elrond work. When the blade was removed the blood loss was tremendous before Elrond could staunch it. The connection weakened, but Glorfindel held on by a thin thread. So focused was he on maintaining their connection, he did not even realize he was sobbing and badly shaking, near collapse.
Fearing for Glorfindel, Elrond motioned to two waiting elves to assist him. If Glorfindel collapsed, he would lose Erestor. Caladir and the other elf stood on either side of Glorfindel, holding him and offering him all the strength they could. Elrond continued to work.
Meanwhile, back on the borders……
Torladen was a seasoned leader, and had known exactly what he was doing when he kept fifty warriors posted as sentries in the west, closer in to the city. No battle plan was perfect, and assumptions were dangerous.
The third hoard of Orcs didn’t know where they were. They had moved too far north, and disoriented, stumbling around in the dark, they found themselves at the western border of Imladris.
Dawn was breaking as the Orcs broke through the western border. At the first sign of the Orcs, the fifty warriors rushed through the trees, some leaping from treetop to treetop, to raise the alarm in the city.
Tinnu and his healer had long ago been sent to the safety of the Last Homely House, where Tinnu decided the littlest elfings were his next target to comfort.
A small elfling of perhaps thirty years left the house for the stables, to tend to the horses there. Saercaeron loved the horses. He greeted the defenders in front of the door, and went inside. Grabbing a pitchfork that was nearly twice his size, he shoved it into the mound of hay, skewered a large bunch of the grass, and flung it into the first horses’ stall.
The defenders had remained at their post through the long, dark night, unwilling to rest, unwilling to leave their home in danger. Scribes and cooks and musicians watched atop houses, and sat hidden in trees. Servants lined the marketplace. Weavers and tailors and shoemakers encircled the Last Homely House and the healing hall. Ancient warriors sat ready in balconies; wounded rested in their beds, with bows on their breasts and arrows at hand.
The sentries broke into the city, calling the alarm, Orcs nearly overrunning them. Hundreds of loosed arrows slammed into the beasts, again and again. And still they came. The defenders on the ground took up swords and knives and fiercely attacked. Arrows continued to fly from the balconies, rooftops and trees. Had it not been for the defender’s arrows, most of the elves on the ground would not have survived.
The fierce battle spread through the city. One hundred skilled guards who had arrived the night before from the eastern border joined the defenders, and the elves began to beat the Orcs back. The battle would not last much longer.
Saercaeron was terrified. He huddled against the horse’s stall as Amarion battled a fierce Orc in the stable doorway. What could he do? He was just one small elfling. He didn’t know how to fight! But he couldn’t just watch that ugly Orc kill Amarion. It was going to happen. He could tell.
Saercaeron took a deep breath, and held on to his pitchfork tight. He stood up, took another deep breath, held the pitchfork level with his shoulder, and ran as fast as he could.
Amarion was faltering. The Orc was just too strong for him. Wounded from slashes of the Orc blade, blood dripping from his upper arm, Amarion was on the ground, sword raised, trying desperately to defend himself and the small elfling within. The Orc was about to deal Amarion a fatal blow when he suddenly stopped, eyes glazing over, and he fell forward. Amarion quickly rolled out of the way, struggled to his knees, and saw Saercaeron standing, determined purpose in his eyes, pitchfork still in his hands, dripping black Orc blood.
Saercaeron had run straight into the Orc, skewering him like a bale of hay.
“Ada!” Saercaeron screamed, throwing the pitchfork aside and hurling himself into his father’s arms.
Amarion enfolded his sobbing little son in his arms, and stroking Saercaeron’s soft hair, whispered, “Shh, my son, my brave little son, it’s all over, it’s all right now…oh, my brave little elfling.” Tears streaming from his eyes, he lifted Saercaeron in his arms, kissed his brow, and carried him to the Last Homely House to find his mother and place their son in her arms.
Tbc…
Author: Aglarien
Type: FPS
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. Except for the cat.
Warning: AU. Get your hankies ready.
Summary: Debris of Battle and Imladris is attacked.
Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy reading this part as much as I enjoyed writing it. I owe a profound “thank you” to two wonderful ladies for this chapter. First, Lady Mirfain set me thinking about sending the third group of Orcs to the western border instead of the north or south I had originally planned - which of course entailed another attack on Imladris. And then Dawnseaview’s review of the last chapter, and her standing with renewed purpose, black-Orc-bloodied pitchfork in hand, opened a door. Through the door walked a brave little elfling named Saercaeron in her honor. Saercaeron means bitter sea.
For Lady Mirfain and Dawnseaview.
Part 15
Glorfindel stayed by his mate’s side, caressing a hand, silently calling out to his love to stay with him, as Elrond worked.
They had constructed a litter and carefully carried Erestor back to where they had left their supplies and horses. Elrond had carefully assessed the blade’s path, and elected to keep it in place until he was in a position to better tend to the wound. Now they were in a hastily erected shelter, safely away from the stench and debris of battle.
The elves had been extraordinarily fortunate, albeit they were the most skilled of Imladris’ warriors. Not a single one had been lost, and Erestor was the only one who was gravely wounded. The elves simply accounted for everyone, set fire to the entire Orc camp, and moved away.
Erestor had luckily not regained consciousness. “Erestor, beloved, hear me. Do not leave me! Stay with me!” Glorfindel kept a firm hold on their connection as he watched Elrond work. When the blade was removed the blood loss was tremendous before Elrond could staunch it. The connection weakened, but Glorfindel held on by a thin thread. So focused was he on maintaining their connection, he did not even realize he was sobbing and badly shaking, near collapse.
Fearing for Glorfindel, Elrond motioned to two waiting elves to assist him. If Glorfindel collapsed, he would lose Erestor. Caladir and the other elf stood on either side of Glorfindel, holding him and offering him all the strength they could. Elrond continued to work.
Meanwhile, back on the borders……
Torladen was a seasoned leader, and had known exactly what he was doing when he kept fifty warriors posted as sentries in the west, closer in to the city. No battle plan was perfect, and assumptions were dangerous.
The third hoard of Orcs didn’t know where they were. They had moved too far north, and disoriented, stumbling around in the dark, they found themselves at the western border of Imladris.
Dawn was breaking as the Orcs broke through the western border. At the first sign of the Orcs, the fifty warriors rushed through the trees, some leaping from treetop to treetop, to raise the alarm in the city.
Tinnu and his healer had long ago been sent to the safety of the Last Homely House, where Tinnu decided the littlest elfings were his next target to comfort.
A small elfling of perhaps thirty years left the house for the stables, to tend to the horses there. Saercaeron loved the horses. He greeted the defenders in front of the door, and went inside. Grabbing a pitchfork that was nearly twice his size, he shoved it into the mound of hay, skewered a large bunch of the grass, and flung it into the first horses’ stall.
The defenders had remained at their post through the long, dark night, unwilling to rest, unwilling to leave their home in danger. Scribes and cooks and musicians watched atop houses, and sat hidden in trees. Servants lined the marketplace. Weavers and tailors and shoemakers encircled the Last Homely House and the healing hall. Ancient warriors sat ready in balconies; wounded rested in their beds, with bows on their breasts and arrows at hand.
The sentries broke into the city, calling the alarm, Orcs nearly overrunning them. Hundreds of loosed arrows slammed into the beasts, again and again. And still they came. The defenders on the ground took up swords and knives and fiercely attacked. Arrows continued to fly from the balconies, rooftops and trees. Had it not been for the defender’s arrows, most of the elves on the ground would not have survived.
The fierce battle spread through the city. One hundred skilled guards who had arrived the night before from the eastern border joined the defenders, and the elves began to beat the Orcs back. The battle would not last much longer.
Saercaeron was terrified. He huddled against the horse’s stall as Amarion battled a fierce Orc in the stable doorway. What could he do? He was just one small elfling. He didn’t know how to fight! But he couldn’t just watch that ugly Orc kill Amarion. It was going to happen. He could tell.
Saercaeron took a deep breath, and held on to his pitchfork tight. He stood up, took another deep breath, held the pitchfork level with his shoulder, and ran as fast as he could.
Amarion was faltering. The Orc was just too strong for him. Wounded from slashes of the Orc blade, blood dripping from his upper arm, Amarion was on the ground, sword raised, trying desperately to defend himself and the small elfling within. The Orc was about to deal Amarion a fatal blow when he suddenly stopped, eyes glazing over, and he fell forward. Amarion quickly rolled out of the way, struggled to his knees, and saw Saercaeron standing, determined purpose in his eyes, pitchfork still in his hands, dripping black Orc blood.
Saercaeron had run straight into the Orc, skewering him like a bale of hay.
“Ada!” Saercaeron screamed, throwing the pitchfork aside and hurling himself into his father’s arms.
Amarion enfolded his sobbing little son in his arms, and stroking Saercaeron’s soft hair, whispered, “Shh, my son, my brave little son, it’s all over, it’s all right now…oh, my brave little elfling.” Tears streaming from his eyes, he lifted Saercaeron in his arms, kissed his brow, and carried him to the Last Homely House to find his mother and place their son in her arms.
Tbc…