Silent Flight -Complete

Title: Silent Flight: The Wild Swans

Author: destinial

Part: 4/?

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. Thank you so much!

Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.

Author’s note: I kept wondering if I were going about the plot too slowly, but as an old bard in my hometown told me, stories can’t be rushed. Or rather, I can’t help being long-winded. But at least I finally got to Glorfindel.



Erestor’s hands moved as quickly as he could manage, gathering the mature nettle leaves and placing them into his baskets. The heart-shaped leaves had toothed edges and little sympathy. The tiny needles pierced into his fingers and its poison into his blood, causing the multitude of blisters that covered his hands and his arms.



Yet Erestor had stopped feeling the pain. It had been a sennight since he had started unravelling the curse and he could find no rest till his brothers were freed. For seven days and seven nights he had held each leaf firmly in each hand even as it burnt his skin raw. (1) He had stepped the leaves into flax and his swollen feet could no longer bear the touch of his shoes. (2) He had woven flax into yarn and yarn into tunic, coloured red by the droplets of his blood. His mind could no longer remember what ‘painless’ felt like - one thought alone remained: Eight more tunics now, eight more, eight more.



The trees had been kind - they had moved their roots, allowing the stricken elf to tread on the forest moss. They had moved their branches to shield him from the glaring light. The birds had been helpful - they had sought for nettles far and wide and had guided Erestor from one hidden trove to another. Yet neither could spare him.



His clothes hung loose on him, dirtied and tattered from his foraging in the forest. He could not stop his work to eat and only with his brothers’ insistent care did he not grow cold and weak. His eyes lost all lustre, for he no longer found cheer, so focused was he on his dreadful tasks. No comforting whisper of the trees reached his ears, no lilting song could he hear. Thus, he shared his brothers’ curse twofold.



Stripping the tall shrub bare, Erestor carefully stepped on the stems, pushing the barren plant to the ground to reach the plant behind it. The sharp spikes pricked the delicate arch of his feet, already stripped to the flesh. His eyes were already dried of tears - he could no longer cry and thus only a gasp for air was heard. It did not deter him and he proceeded to harvest his precious treasure.



Leaf after leaf, baskets after baskets, till at last the grove of shrubs was emptied. Tying four baskets together, he swung them on his back. The other four baskets he tied them onto the forest stag, who came at every dusk to graze patiently beside him, waiting till Erestor should need him. For all the kindness that Erestor had shown to the living creatures, curing their illnesses and mending their hurts, they now returned in kind.



He walked back to the clearing by the lake. Each day his journey grew longer as he sought the nettles that grew further and deeper within the forest. Fearing that his labour’s reward would be taken from him, he carried everything he had done and thus alas, his load increased each night as well.



Erestor could see Ecthelion, Penlod and Rog walking down the path just before he reached the clearing. Dusk had fallen and his brothers had returned to him, however momentarily. The older brothers ran up when they saw him, one gently prying the baskets off his bag, another taking the burden off the stag. Ecthelion bent and caught his brother around the knees, tenderly lifting Erestor into his arms. They would do what little they could.



Erestor reached to weakly hug his eldest brother’s neck, seeking just what comfort he could find. The four brothers walked together quietly to join the others.

---

Upon reaching the camping site that the brothers had called home for the last seven nights, Ecthelion knelt by the lake and gently lowered Erestor’s feet into the water. When the latter tried to get into the water on his own, Ecthelion shook his head. “The bed is rocky, fileg. Let me.” No more was spoken as Ecthelion and Penlod deftly cleaned their baby brother between them.



Standing up again, Ecthelion carried his heart’s dearest treasure to a chair that Galdor had fashioned from a fallen log, knowing well that Erestor would start his chore immediately. He cupped the chin that grew sharper by the day, parted the matted locks and left a soft kiss on the forehead, before moving away to suppress the sob choking him.



Erestor placed the basket of leaves before him. Emptying half its contents onto the grassy ground, he crushed the leaves with his feet, drawing the flax. He continued his chore, ignoring Lindir who was braiding his hair behind him and only numbly accepting the morsels of food that Duilin persuaded him to take. Reaching down, he wound the flattened remnants round his palm, drawing it into yarn.* He could not see nor hear Lindir’s sob and Duilin’s angry mutter when the yarn drew blood - he merely continued his duty.



He did the same again and again, seven basketfuls. Just as he would have stepped on the last lot of leaves, Rog knelt before the pile of leaves and took a handful. Erestor reached out his hands to protest the theft, but Rog caught one of the arms and said soothingly, “A few leaves will not make much yarn, fileg.”



Softly weeping the loss of the leaves, Erestor resumed stepping. Rog took the leaves and kept them among the other dried nettles within his knife’s leather scabbard. Taking a few of the dried leaves, he dropped them into a cup that they had cut from a creeping liana, and filled it with the hot water held in another. Leaving the tea to steep for a while, he then poured half the contents into the empty cup. Blowing gently to cool the tea, he handed one cup to Ecthelion, who sat by his youngest and waited for the latter to finish the last bundle of yarn.



“Drink this, fileg. It will help the blood.” (3) Erestor would have refused, but the cup was held at his lips and he had to sip. Even as he did so, Rog dabbed the wounds on his feet with the same concoction. It would not remove the pain, but it would hasten the healing process.



Once he had drunk enough of the tea to satisfy his eldest brother, Erestor took the yarn and spun. He had enough to make one more tunic now.

----



Erestor was again collecting the nettles when he heard thunder. Looking up at the canopy overhead, he tried to peek at the clouds. His brothers would be out taking turns to scout the area, and a storm would be dangerous to the unnatural fliers. Somewhat confident that Ecthelion would gather the rest within the shelter of the trees should the weather worsen, he returned to his chore.



But the weather was unpredictable - the storm that brewed was too strong even for the ancient forest to protect against. Caught in the middle of the forest and unable to run, Erestor tied up his baskets and fastened them to his waist, trying to pull them along. He had strapped the basket containing the three finished tunics tightly to his chest. He was too far from the clearing and he would not have found shelter if he had not noticed a lone wolf, limping towards the caves.



Following upon his tracks, Erestor used what strength he had left and opened his mind to the wolf,, “Let me share your shelter, pack brother.”



The wolf looked at him and growled, “One of your pack has nearly killed me. Run, or I will have your throat. Seek elsewhere.”



Desperate, for the baskets of nettles would grow heavier and he weaker, Erestor pleaded, “There is nowhere else. Let me near and I’ll heal you.” Mind-speaking drained much-needed energy from him and he needed the shelter far more than before.



The wolf appeared to consider. The elf before him was too weak to be a threat - he could smell the blood and the threat of death upon him. Satisfied that if nothing else, he would have his meal delivered to him, he replied, “Done.”



Erestor gratefully climbed into the cave hauling his load after him. Remembering his promise, he took a few leaves of nettle against his distressed will, wetted them and made them into a poultice and spread it on the wound on the wolf’s hind leg. He channelled his strength to prevent the wolf from feeling the pain while he closed the wound.



The wolf was gratified to have his wound healed, but Erestor did not hear his grudging gratitude. The exertion had been too much for his weak frame and he gathered his baskets close to him and sank into dark slumber.

----



Glorfindel dismounted from Asfaloth. He had been hunting a wolf, which had injured one of the elflings when it was caught poaching too close to the farms. His arrow had not managed to kill the creature, and Glorfindel was worried that the injured animal would become much too dangerous. Unfortunately, the storm which had started two days ago had only just subsided, and the tracks were faint, making his hunt difficult. His only clue was the slightest of blood droplets imprisoned by the wet soil.



When the tracks led him to the rocky caves, Glorfindel thought he had found the hidden lair, but realised that something was amiss when Asfaloth did not behave out of the ordinary. Horses had keen senses, elven horses keener still, and his faithful steed would have let him know if a wolf was nearby.



There were insufficient tracks for there to be a pack, though the numerous droplets of blood were somewhat puzzling. Glorfindel briefly pondered if the wolf was already dead from the blood loss in the rain, but drawing his sword, he moved towards the cave. He would be surer if he slit the creature’s throat himself.



Moving stealthily and quietly, he came to the cave’s mouth and was surprised to see dark locks sprawling out on the rocky floor. He gripped his sword and turned abruptly into the cave and was surprised anew when he saw not a wolf but an elf lying on the floor. His immediate thought was to mourn the wolf’s unfortunate prey, but his elven ears picked up the barely audible breaths. Then he noticed the baskets that the elf was curling around, and he heaved a sigh of relief.



His relief turned quickly into curiosity. Why had the elf not woken? No elf would have been caught unawares. Glorfindel reached out to grab the slim shoulder and was taken aback when there was still no response. Greatly alarmed now, he moved to turn the elf.



The sight that greeted him stunned him. The ghastly white face, the dried lips and the sunken shadows of the eyes closed in reverie did not rob the elf of his beauty. His features were sharp and elegant, and his frame was petite. Hair that would have run to his knees spread across the cave’s floor and Glorfindel could imagine the wavy hair brushed to luscious form. He found himself wishing that the eyes would open, if only so he would see the colour.



Thinking about the eyes, Glorfindel was roused from his preoccupation. “Elves do not sleep with their eyes closed, you nimwit,” he berated himself. “You do not look at an injured elf and spend precious time admiring his looks.”



Lifting the smaller elf onto his arm gently, he placed his hand on the stranger’s forehead, his hand easily spanning his head. He frowned when he sensed the burning fever. Giving the elf a quick appraisal while mentally reining in his imagination from doing more, Glorfindel noticed the dried blood on the dainty feet and hands. Alarmed he lifted a limp hand to see shocking white blisters. This elf would need help as soon as possible!



Just as Glorfindel was trying to release the basket strapped to Erestor, the sickly elf let out a whimper, moving an arm to cuddle the basket closer to him. It was then that Glorfindel realised that all the other baskets were similarly tied to the elf.



“I do not know why they are this important to you, my friend.” Glorfindel smoothed the hair at Erestor’s temple, hoping to soothe the elf. “But be assured, I’ll bring them with you. Just rest now.”



Glorfindel took a knife and cut the rope tying the baskets to the elf and very, very gently, carried the elf onto Asfaloth, who sensibly knelt down. Trusting the elf to the intelligent horse, he returned to the cave and heaved all the baskets over his shoulders, astonished at the light weight. Peeking into one of them, he was even more astounded to see them filled with nettles. That would explain the sores on those hands, but why?



Despite his puzzlement, Glorfindel tied the baskets together and swung them over the saddle. The basket that had been tied to the elf’s chest, he tied to his back, certain that this particular basket, among the rest, held far greater import.



Glorfindel did not understand why the stranger invoked such a great need to protect in him. Perhaps it was because he was injured, or perhaps it was because he was slighter of built than most elves. Or perhaps, even in disturbed reverie, the elf’s beauty had mesmerized him. Whatever the reason, he spoke urgently to Asfaloth and rode as quickly as he could through the forest and back to his keep.



TBC…



*Author’s further notes, because she was writing against her will:



I have gone with the fairytale rather than the truth, and I guess I have to explain some word choices. Hans Christian Andersen was nearly a weaver but I would bet he had never seen how nettle cloth is made. Here are some titbits about the nettle:



(1) I’m not sure if the expression ‘grasp the nettle’ is familiar to folks outside of the Isles. That is used to mean facing up to trouble you rather not face. Grasping the nettle tightly actually prevents the nettle leaf from hurting you as much, but it still hurts.



(2) I’ve used ‘stepped’ into flax rather than ‘steeped’ into flax, because in the fairy tale, that was what the princess did: “She crushed every nettle with her bare feet and twisted it into green flax.” I went against my better senses in this, since the Scots have actually used nettle to make their cloth for centuries and this cloth generally lasts longer. (Now technically, you can’t even get flax from nettles, they are two entirely different plants! But I figured using the word ‘fibres’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it)



In making nettle cloth, the leaves are steeped and dried and then the fibre is extracted in traditional methods that are too long to describe here. Once soaked in water or dried, the nettles lose their sting. However, Hans Christian Andersen said pain was involved, so ah well, who am I to argue. I’ll just have a danish with tea.



(3) I probably have to clarify this small point as well. Nettle tea is drinkable and is in fact very, very tasty. It is one of the more nutritious drinks around, but when it is drunk, it must be accompanied with a lot of water. One of its many medicinal usages is to hasten healing.