Immortality

Title: Immortality
Author: destinial
Part: 4/?
Rating: NC17/R
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns these elves, the history, Middle-earth and my soul. No profit is made- even if there is, I’d be spending it on Tolkien.
Betas: The very marvellous story tellers, aglarien1 and athos_silvanus, without whom I would not have survived three months of sedate living. All other mistakes are mine.
/blah/ thoughts; italics: narrator
Remarks: Hmm. I hope it is worth reading after the long absence. *twiddle thumbs* Hmm. *sheepish*


10 years since the Great Journey

Stone is not dead. It is an aloof beauty, whose chilly appearance masks the frozen fire at its very core and who awaits the masterful hands that could release that passion. Few have that power and fewer still the patience. Tauron, however, had both. His tall and imposing physique was misleading and betrayed nothing of his talented carving knife and his gorgeous creations. He sat by a polished block of granite rock, carefully drawing the flowers with a piece of charcoal and then a hard nail. His brows were furrowed in concentration and little beads of perspiration dotted his forehead as he kept his hand steady.

A little elfling peeped in, and keeping extremely quiet, he crept into the workshop. An impish grin dimpled his cherubic face as he crept around exploring the room. He was certain that his father would be too intense on his work to notice him and he seldom had the chance to see the stonemason at work. His eyes filled with childish wonder at the various statues that his father had crafted and fell on a ball next to a grinning frog. He squatted down to have a closer look, and turning around to ensure that his father was still concentrating on his work, he tried picking the ball up with his little hands.

“Leave the ball alone, ‘Ress. It is heavier than it looks.” Tauron cautioned, his eyes still focused on the petal he was drawing.

Erestor stepped back from the ball with a start and looked guiltily at his father’s back. “You weren’t looking!”

His fingers still detailing the stone, Tauron snorted. “The Valar gave parents a pair of eyes at the back of their necks.”

The little elfling’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and keeping his eyes on his father this time, he tried putting his hand into the frog’s mouth.

Raising his eyebrow in mirth and still nonchalantly adding depth to the picture before him, Tauron continued, “Leave that frog alone as well, Ress. I haven’t smoothed the edges.”

Erestor stared with some amazement at his father’s back. Then running in the awkward fashion that only the youngest could, he came to his father and peered curiously at his father’s neck. “I don’t see your eyes!”

“Of course not. I have them closed.”

The persistent elfling grabbed at his father’s tunic and tried to look down his father’s back. He poked at each inch of flesh, trying to find the elusive eyes and when there was no reaction, he frowned. “Atar? You are funning me!” [Quenya: Father]

Tauron put down his tools with amusement, abandoning his pretence at work. His remarkable concentration could only be broken by his dearest, beloved Ancalë and his precious son. Turning around, he scooped his son into his arms and stood. “I am not funning you. I am making fun of you.”

Swinging the child high, Tauron marveled at the innocent cheer in those eyes and smiled. He brought his child’s nose to his own and said, “But I am your Atar, ‘Ress. I will always know what you are doing.”

“Why?” Erestor giggled, when his father pretended to drop him.

“Why?” Tauron mused, even as he carried his son out of the workshop away from all the heavy stones and sharp instruments. “Why, because my heart is stuck on you, you impertinent elfling.”
----

Erestor looked down at his shoes, peeking meekly at his irate mother. He knew he was in trouble and he gave a mental groan. “Amil…” [mother]

“Don’t Amil me.” Ancalë lifted an eyebrow imperiously. She was a healer and it was inevitable, even in Aman, that there was always a steady flow of visitors. Elves could be careless and injuries common, especially with the latest craze in designing jewellery. Erestor was unnaturally bright for his age and she could not resist satisfying his curiosity. She had already begun to teach Erestor the healing arts and therefore she was absolutely certain that feeding that dandelion root to Feanor was not a mistake. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“But he was so bad tempered he had to be constipated, Amil. Surely a laxative wasn’t wrong?” Erestor dared to try his doe-eyes on his mother but it was apparent the effort was wasted.

“Erestor. Don’t you even think of lying to me. I am your mother and I assure you I can pick a lie from a mile off.” Ancalë took a deep breath. “No self-respecting healer wishes harm on his patients. And it was most disrespectful of you. Your father works for Lord Fingolfin, and in case you don’t realize, they are half-brothers. Brothers! Erestor! I did not instruct you in my art just so you can poison unsuspecting elves! How am I to trust you now?”

Erestor shuffled his feet miserably. “I’m sorry, Amil. I honestly am. I didn’t know it was that effective. I only dealt out a tiny ounce of it, because I wasn’t happy he shouted at poor Amaire. I promise I will never, ever even think of doing such a thing again.”

Ancalë caught the tears her son was hiding behind his lashes and sighed. She often forgot just how young Erestor was, and when she thought about it, it was her fault. No elfling should be taught medicine and healing this early, before they could fully understand the consequences. Elflings, as do children, see the world through very simplistic lenses and justice was not that complicated a concept yet.

“I expect you to personally visit with Lord Feanor tomorrow and properly apologise. Is that clear?” Ancalë waited till she saw the hesitant nod and continued, “And I expect you to weed the entire herb garden for the next year. For using your knowledge wrongly, ‘Ress, I shall not have you in for lessons for the next fortnight. Knowledge is powerful and you must learn to be responsible for using it well.”

The thought of protest died on Erestor’s lips when he saw his mother’s fierce gaze and he nodded glumly. Ancalë’s eyes softened, and cupping her son’s chin she brought those teary eyes to meet her own. “Remember Erestor, I am not doing this to make you miserable. I want you to learn, and learn well, that herbs can never be misused. You are young yet, and do not know the full import of suffering. If you try it again, Erestor, I’ll personally administer the same medicine on you and you can feel the full effects of it yourself. I do not want to do that, ‘Ress, because you are my son and you are the very jewel of my heart.”

Erestor nodded again. Hugging his mother, he mumbled into her dress, “I’m sorry, Amil. I’ll never do that again. I swear. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

Ancalë leant down and kissed the crown of her son’s head. “A mother can always forgive her child, ‘Ress. Now go to Amaire and see what she has for you in the kitchen.”

Erestor wiped his tears on his sleeves and bowed, begging his leave. He came to his father as he was departing for the kitchens and he did the same. Tauron looked at the his son’s defeated back before turning to meet his wife’s sweet kiss. A chaste kiss quickly became something more and they were both panting when it was over.

Savouring his wife’s closeness, he asked, “So what’s wrong with our little shadow?”

Ancalë quirked an eyebrow. “He fed Feanor laxatives.”

Tauron’s eyes widened, before he slapped his thigh in a loud laugh. “About damn time.”

----

My parents. They always did claim that they had left Aman because our fealty to Fingolfin could not be broken, but I know the truth. They left because I did. I was the very jewel of my mother’s heart and I carried my father’s affection with me. They left because I refused to leave the sides of my childhood best friends, both Ecthelion and Glorfindel. They left because they could not persuade me to stay.

We all left, but only I was to reach the shores of Middle Earth.
The winds of the Helcarxe enveloped me as I committed the scene before me into immortal memory. The chill had imprisoned my mind and my fingers were unfeeling as I wrote the deceptive simple lines onto the parchment:

“Seventh sennight, seventh night, we lost Ancalë’s radiant light
For the love and grief he bore, the strength of Tauron was no more.”
---
80 years since the rising of the sun

The King’s Square was bustling with activity. Gleaming white against the brilliant light bursting through the prisms of the Encircling Mountains, Ondolindë was the true jewel of the Noldor. It was wrought of stone and born out of water, a feat that testified to the sheer elven skill to marry craft to nature in perfect symmetry.

The elves were about to put their skilled crafts to the test on the fountain that was to attest to the city’s given name. Erestor had only just finished the design the day before and the king had given orders for work to begin immediately. Erestor stood by the work site, shielding his eyes from the glare that his eyes had become unaccustomed to. Spreading the numerous plans on the wooden table he brought along, he gave short instructions to each of the guildmasters, directing corrections and discussing unexpected complications.

This was one of the main reasons why Turgon entrusted the building in Ondolindë to Erestor. Although there were several other advisors in the King’s Counsel, and Erestor was not the only one capable of the architectural work, his quiet and serious way had earned him a lot of respect from the frequently bickering guildmasters. Brilliant in his own way, he was able to understand each of the guildmaster’s concerns and thus managed to mediate through the worst of the quarrels. When Erestor was in charge of a building project it usually moved faster, not only because of the elf’s diligence, but also because he inspired greater cooperation.

Glorfindel led part of his House to look on at the carving of their emblem - not just to ensure that everything met his approval, but also to witness part of this monumental process. The fountain was the most ambitious project since Erestor last oversaw the building of the Golden Gate, and many elves had gathered around to watch the masters at work. Whereas the wayward comment irritated some of the craftmasters no end, it nevertheless presented an opportunity for them to recruit new students to their respective guilds.

Pleased with the progress, Erestor moved away from the table and walked around inspecting the mounting of the marble pieces. He caught sight of Glorfindel and smiled. Walking up to him, he arranged his robes and greeted Glorfindel, “My Lord, I trust it is to your satisfaction?”

Despite their close friendship, the advisor was often nothing but formal in public. He had an important influence over the council, being a personal friend of the king and cousin of one of the best-loved lords, and he was well aware that the more distant he was in public, the greater the aura of his rational authority.

Glorfindel muffled a snicker at the formality. It amused him that the elf who most often threatened to remove a certain part of his anatomy would bow with such deference in public. Drawing himself to full height, he replied in like tone. “This is most pleasing to the eye, Your Excellency. You have outdone yourself.”

“You flatter me, my Lord. This is not the work of one elf. Say rather that these masters have perfected their craft.” Erestor gestured at the elves working and unconsciously moved to stand beside his friend.

Glorfindel’s eyes followed Erestor’s gaze. A white marble slab was mounted on the chiselled stone frame. Pipes wrought from flattened silver, mined from the mountains, were being lowered into the ground. A few artisans were carving images from Valinor in marble, while yet others mounted pearls or basted silver and gold linings. It would not be long before the fountain came to life- elves worked fast for all their immortality. They had learnt that time could not be taken for granted.

“You have helped us heal, Your Excellency. Each of these elves will find a place in this new city now, for you have given them a sense of belonging etched in stone,” Glorfindel commented quietly to his companion.

Erestor looked up at him, and his eyes softening, replied, “That is my job, my Lord.”

“Your Excellency, your workmanship is as fabulous as ever.” The quiet moment was shattered by the interruption from behind, and Erestor winced inwardly upon recognising the voice. Salgant had been nothing but a pain in his neck from the moment they met at the first King’s Council.

Turning slowly, Erestor acknowledged the latter’s presence. “My Lord.” The sharp features, the elaborate braids in the golden hair, lent the elf before him a certain comeliness, even if he was a mite shorter and stouter than most elves. But the charm gleamed, as the scales of serpents shine. Erestor had always been instinctively cautious around the said elf, and his senses were even more greatly alarmed when he observed the masterful politicking in the council. One could only dodge a knife in the back by keeping his back against the wall.

Glorfindel scowled. He had not been awfully pleased with Salgant ever since the latter caused two members of his household to be sent to the Gates as a muted form of exile. Annual meets were held for the various Houses to pitch their skills against one another, so as to keep their senses sharp. The House of the Golden Flower was renowned for its superior swordsmen, who chose often to use two arming swords. In the first meet Glorfindel’s men had so soundly defeated Salgant’s cousin at the duels, that the Lord of the Harps took it as a personal insult. Manoeuvring at court led to a dubious fight, an injured elf, an irate king and a trial; only the intervention of Duilin and the subtle persuasion Erestor beseeched from Lady Idril prevented a total exile for the elves from Glorfindel’s House.

Lifting a sardonic eyebrow, Salgant smirked. “The attraction of your work cannot be denied, Your Excellency. I have not known the Lord of the Flower to be appreciative of such arts, and yet even one as he is persuaded to partake in this glory.”

Glorfindel bristled, and would have made a sharp retort had Erestor not immediately replied. “Your Lordship is most kind with your compliments. I must however warn your Lordship that I am most undeserving. The elven race is born aesthete - no other beings show the same deep and nearly worshipful regard for the finer beauty on Arda. Being so, any work of art will not find it difficult to find willing critics and admirers alike.”

Giving a little chuckle, Erestor looked up at Glorfindel to shoot a quick warning glance and turned back to Salgant to comment, “I must say, compliments from both your Lordships are a welcome salve on my bared nerves. I was most afraid of having more critics than admirers, particularly when these elves would have to live with this monstrosity of a fountain for an unforeseeable future!”

He did not allow Salgant any time to respond and asked, “Have you seen the emblem of your House, my Lord?” Erestor knew full well that Salgant could not possibly have seen it because the shipment of the artwork used for the segment of the fountain meant for the Folk of the Harps had just arrived from the guildhall, and had yet to be unpacked.

Salgant, forced to attend to Erestor, replied as anticipated. “Regretfully, no. I fear that my House was so insignificant and thusly overlooked.”

“I would not have dared, my Lord. You must come and see if it is to your exacting tastes. The artisans have spent days at end on your emblem, the harp being as elaborate an instrument as it is. Shall I, my Lord?” Erestor gestured a welcome genially.

“Most certainly, but I hope I shan’t be divesting you from your most delightful company.”

Glorfindel heeded the warning from Erestor, and mentally thanked his friend for restraining his urge to drench the miserable elf in hot water to rid him of that smarmy oil. Nevertheless he could not resist replying. “Do not worry about my presence, my Lord - I would not think of interrupting His Excellency’s pleasure. He takes great interest in explaining the finer points of art, which may not be all apparent to elves, even as attuned to beauty as we are. I would have to beg my leave - if I may, Your Excellency?”

Erestor bowed, hiding his face as he rolled his eyes. “Thank you yet again for your kindness, my Lord.” Glorfindel bowed in kind and without a by-your-leave to Salgant, swept across the yard with the members of his house in great majesty.

Standing upright again, Erestor braced himself for a long afternoon and prayed for the intervention of the artisans and guildmasters. “My Lord, if you would come this way.”
---------

“My, my, was your stay at the Gate that eventful?” Duilin commented as he noticed Ecthelion’s bandaged arm. It was hard not to, when glaring runes promising death to any who dared raise a sword were painted in red on the bandages. Unlike his usual garb at the training fields, Ecthelion wore a sleeveless tunic, held together by knots down his torso. His sword was missing, which caused Duilin to wonder about the seriousness of the injury.

“Eventful, my dandy ass, you blooming feathered fiend!” Ecthelion growled out. He had been tricked into drinking a sleeping draught, had his arm coloured and his sword stolen, by the most devious little healer. No amount of persuasion could make Lindir relent and return his favourite sword, and after Lindir threatened to move out to the Gate himself if he had to adjust the bandages, Ecthelion had conceded defeat. It did not mean he had to be happy about the forced leave from training.

“Hey, I happen to like my feathers. Very useful for an archer.” Duilin twirled the long purple feather playfully between his fingers.

On the founding of Gondolin, the legion of archers who had crossed with Fingon across Helcarxe formed a House, vowing to follow their then captain, Duilin. Duilin had been so frustrated by the quarrels among his councillors over their coat of arms that he declared that he would shoot an arrow blindfolded and the House would adopt whatever the arrow hit. Fortunately or otherwise, he hit a purple martin. Naming the House Folk of the Swallow, he adopted the martin’s purple feathers as his coat of arms.

It would have been well and good if Duilin were less flamboyant than he was, but the good captain discovered a mountain pheasant with a glorious hue of purple feathers. Since that discovery, the Folk of the Swallow had suffered the ignominy of wearing long purple feathers braided into their hair. Egalmoth, the other great archer, had chafed Duilin for making archers so visible, “The trick of staying alive in battle, pheasant, is to stay out of the line of fire.” To which Duilin had replied, “Exactly. We wouldn’t want you and your folks to shoot us by mistake would we?”

Ecthelion rolled his eyes and deliberately ripped the feathers off his friend’s braids, causing a yelp and a litany of vulgar protests. “What was that for? You just robbed my plume of vitality! Don’t you know how birds attract their mates, you unlearned barbarian. I’d be naked!”

“You are hardly a bird and I have absolutely no desire to see you naked.” Reaching to grab Duilin by the neck of his tunic, he growled in frustration. “And I am naked without my sword, so we are even.”

Duilin brushed Ecthelion off and scowled. “It is not my fault you lost your sword, you oaf.”

“Quite on contrary, it is exactly your fault.” Digging a finger painfully into Duilin’s windpipe, he bit out, “If you had taken your men to task and had them do a stint of swords training at either Fin’s House or mine, the way we send our elflings to yours and Egalmoth’s for archery, I would have my arm and my sword.”

Duilin raised an eyebrow. “If they managed to injure you, my friend, their training must have more than sufficed.”

Ecthelion snarled. “Your archer couldn’t even hold on to his carving knife, you feathered stick. The knife flew across the dining table, and had I been any slower this injury would have been on my head!”

The archer had the decency to look contrite. For all of one moment.

Duilin guffawed to his companion’s annoyance. “My, injured by a kitchen knife. What would become of Gondolin? All the Dark Lord has to do is send a legion of kitchen lads and our best captain would be doomed.”

Ecthelion would have gladly punched the daylights out of the irritant had he not been interrupted by an exclamation, which sounded more annoyed than he was. “’Thel, you lout! I told you to stay away from the bloody training fields for a day! Are you a blooming elfling?!”

Ecthelion winced and turned to face an incensed Lindir, who proceeded to sprout a litany. “I went to your place, thinking that you would at least have the simple sense to stay in for the day. But no… did you listen to me? Of course not. Why would the great captain of the Gate listen to the lowly healer, who obviously wouldn’t know how an injury to the sword arm should be treated?”

Lindir crossed his arms and wiped the smile off the archer’s face with a narrowed glare before returning to glower furiously at the captain who visibly cowered. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt and went to the fountain, thinking that you might have decided to at least purview the magnificent efforts of your cousin. And your cousin was intelligent enough, much unlike my naiveté, to know that you would come to this Valar-forsaken place. After I explicitly told you not to step into it!”

Ecthelion tried to defend himself. “But Tinu, I am only here to watch, really. I didn’t even raise my hand, let alone touch a weapon.” He looked pleadingly at Duilin, who nodded vehemently in agreement.

The usually mild healer was not amused. “And you were not about to engage in a friendly fight with our dearest friend here?”

Ecthelion shook his head and denied the accusation. “Of course not! It would have set a bad example to the men we lead.”

Duilin chipped in. “Besides, we are the best of friends. Wouldn’t want to get nasty.”

Lindir huffed. “And apparently you are such good friends that you had gifted the dear captain here with your purple feathers.” Not waiting for an explanation, Lindir closed in on Ecthelion, and pointing accusingly at the beleaguered elf, declared, “Do not ever step into my healing room again. I do not want to see even an inkling of your shadow in there. You can bleed to death, perish in a fever from infection, or meet your demise by a stronger blade for all I care. And you can jolly well have your dinner with your dearest friend here too.” Spinning on his heels, Lindir stomped off.

“But Tinu…”

Just as Ecthelion tried to catch hold of Lindir, the minstrel healer spun around and poked the swordsman back. “You stay out of my sight. I see you any moment before I could even think of forgiving you, I am going to the First Gate on first light.”

With that, Lindir marched off to stew and Ecthelion was left in a fix. Duilin clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Magnificent in his fury, isn’t he?”

Ecthelion looked disconsolately at the archer. “Magnificently furious.”

Duilin observed his friend and thought about the scene that had just transpired, which led him to one conclusion. “Does Erestor know?”

Ecthelion turned quizzically at him and the archer shrugged. “It seems pretty obvious to me. Why else would the good healer threaten you with leaving for the Gate?”

“Hmpf. Unfortunately my beloved cousin is absolutely blind to all but his work. And I am not about to tell him. Especially not when he is supposed to be ‘in love with Lindir.’”

Duilin raised his eyebrows was some surprise - didn’t the betting pool on Erestor and… it was not Lindir, he was quite sure of it… after all, he had only just struck a bet with Galdor on the bonding date of Ecthelion and the healer. Wait, Erestor was ‘supposed to be’ in love - Duilin’s cunning and wily mind caught on.

His eyes narrowed at Ecthelion. “This would have nothing to do with a certain bet we have with Galdor and Rog, I presume?”

Ecthelion grinned; Duilin could always be counted upon. “Of course not. What bet? I am a troubled elf torn by love and nobility.”

“You are going to have two irate elves on your hands by the time they find out.”

“No chance of that happening. They are fools in love. Now we just have to nudge one of them to do something, anything. Maybe I’ll just fall ill. Lindir will make a convincing death’s door speech.”

“No need for that. Turgon will have to be informed, and we won’t want the world to know that Turgon is in this with us - he does have an image to keep.” Winking conspiratorially, he added, “Though speaking of which, a little swallow friend of mine has been whispering into Salgant’s ear. That cousin of yours is so influential that not even the king himself would gainsay him. Fabulous mate for a power hungry lord.”

Ecthelion’s jaw dropped in incredulity, before widening into a mad grin. “I am calling on Egal to up my stakes.”

Though that grin fell almost immediately when he remembered the sentence laid upon him.

TBC…