Silent Flight -Complete

Title: Silent Flight: The Wild Swans
Author: destinial
Part: 5/?
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- I’d give you my firstborn but I won’t wish him onto anybody I care for.
Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.
Author's notes: I am sorry it took me so long. RL had me all entangled.


Glorfindel sat by the side of the bed, tenderly moving the stray locks away from the fascinating face and smoothing the frown that knitted the elegantly arched brows together. He traced the delicate features even as he caressed the pale cheek with his fingers. The stranger captivated him. What was an elf of such exquisite loveliness doing in the middle of the forest in his weakened state?

He had ridden Asfaloth fast and hard the day before, and it was fortunate that they managed to enter the keep when they did. Another storm, as fierce as its predecessor, followed on their heels. It was the height of summer in the mountains and more storms would be expected. Glorfindel had told his stablehand to brush down his trusty steed and to move the baskets of nettles into his room. The basket on his back he carried along with the injured elf to the healing room.

The healers had helped bathe the feverish elf and discovered, to their astonishment, that the elf under the smudges of dirt and mud was even more striking than they had supposed. Like Glorfindel before them, it had taken considerable discipline for them to remember their duty. Applying a healing salve on his many blisters and sores, they dressed his wounds and wrapped him up warmly.

The clothes on the elf could hardly be worn any longer, tattered as they were. Finding a tunic small enough for his slender size was difficult, as there was no elfling in the keep. Glorfindel had ordered a tunic to be tailored immediately, but for the moment, comfort mattered more.

Clothed in an old cotton robe of the much bigger Glorfindel and cocooned on an oversized bed, the small elf looked even more fragile. An unfamiliar ache clenched Glorfindel’s heart and he found himself wishing he could cuddle the frail little thing close to him to shelter him from all harm.

So caught in the web of enthrallment was he that he was startled by the slight fluttering of lashes. Moving his hand away from the face in a hurry, he waited with bated breath for the eyes to open.
---
Erestor felt the soft comfort about him - he had not felt so warm and cosy for so long, and in the deep recesses of his consciously mind he thanked the Valar for numbing the pain in his limbs. Yet, as reluctant as he was to leave his slumber, his mind reminded him of his brothers’ plight.

The light hurt his eyes and he blinked repeatedly. The softness of the ground beneath him struck him as odd - he remembered falling asleep in a cave. Feeling something over him, he wondered hazily if his brothers had found him after all. He nudged the cover aside, trying to let his brothers know that he had already woken, but to no avail. Dimly he felt for the basket on his chest, but finding nothing, his eyes flew open.

Glorfindel let out the breath he was holding when he saw the hazel eyes peeking behind the long lashes. Lights of green, flints of brown and freckled with gold - if eyes were the windows to one’s soul, this elf must have the most benevolent of souls ever to grace Eru’s creation.

Erestor tried to push himself up but his body would not obey him. His sudden action shook Glorfindel from his astonishment. His arm slipped behind Erestor’s back and held him up, resting the weak elf against him.

Erestor stared at the golden elf, fully aware of the other’s presence for the first time. His anxiety sharpened and he panicked, trying to push the elf away. He had lived his entire life in the shadows of the forest and he had met no other elves but his own family. He did not know how to react to seeing a stranger and his sense of fear overrode his anxiety for the basket he lost.

Glorfindel held on tight, afraid that the sickly elf would injure himself further. “It’s safe, my friend, I do not mean harm.” Rubbing soothing circles on the small back, he softly pacified the struggling elf. “You have been very ill. This is my keep you are in and you are lying in the healing quarters. You are safe.”

The husky timbre of the voice ran through Erestor’s consciousness like warm honeyed tea, and he stopped his struggles. He curled up instinctively against the walls of muscle that held him and stared up in to the azure blue eyes, whose hue softened into a smile.

“I am Glorfindel, Lord of this keep. I found you in the cave. Do you need a drink?” Glorfindel asked in a mellifluous tone, afraid to raise his voice above the soft whisper for fear that it would hurt the ears of the delicate creature.

Erestor, upon reminder of the cave, began to panic again. His baskets! The three tunics! He opened his mouth wanting to ask the elven lord but he caught himself in time. He became flustered, trying to find a means to ask without speech, knowing that he had not the ability to mind-speak to fellow elves as yet. Looking about wildly, he forced his tired brain to come up with a solution.

Glorfindel was taken aback by the struggles, but when he saw the small elf look about, he instinctively knew what he was looking for. “It is all right, my friend,. yYour baskets are safe. I have brought them with me.”

Relief washed over Erestor in waves and he pleaded with Glorfindel with his eyes, anxious tears threatening at the floodgates. The doe-like expression hit Glorfindel’s mind with the force of a heavy brick and he found himself helpless to deny those eyes anything. Resting the elf against an arm, he reached down to pick up the basket he had left just beneath the bed and placed them on Erestor’s lap.

“Here. This is the one that was strapped to your chest. The rest are in my chambers.”

Erestor fumbled with the knot holding the cover over the basket, his tired hands unable to move as quickly as he would have liked. Glorfindel, seeing his difficulty, assisted him and lifted the cover, revealing the basket’s contents. Erestor reached his hands into the basket and anxiously counted their numbers, clutched the tunics close to him. Looking back into the basket, he was relieved to find the yarn he had pulled inside - he needed just a little bit more to weave another tunic.

Glorfindel watched the elf with some bafflement. A mystery was solved and another was discovered. The nettle leaves were for these tunics, but why would anyone make tunics out of the poisonous plants? Yet it was evident that these tunics meant a lot to this strange elf. He wanted very much to ask, but he did not want to make the other feel uncomfortable.

Instead Glorfindel coaxed the elf. “Let me keep the basket just beneath this bed. Can I?” Erestor grabbed at the basket but the clear blue eyes spoke to him. He looked down at his hands, feeling lost. Releasing his hold on the basket, he gave an imperceptible nod, but continued to hold the three tunics against his chest.

Glorfindel placed the basket back under the bed and reached out again for the cup of water on the table beside. Holding it to Erestor’s lips, he beseeched, “Come, you must be parched.”

Erestor sipped obediently. He was famished but his mind was on the remaining baskets and the nettle leaves. He wanted to get back to working, and as he thought of his awful tasks, he remembered his brothers. He must get back to the lake - Ecthelion must be out of his mind with worry now! Pushing the cup away he tried to get out of the bed.

Glorfindel was puzzled anew by the sudden action, but he continued to hold the elf. Putting the cup down and turning the petite face towards him, he was shocked to see tears. An invisible hand seemed to have gripped his throat and Glorfindel found it hard to swallow. His thumb involuntarily moved to wipe away the tears and he asked, “What is the matter? Tell me.”

Erestor pointed at his throat and shook his head. He wrung his bandaged hands and Glorfindel immediately pried them apart, holding one of the hands by the wrist and close to his chest lest the blisters broke and cause more pain. He understood the elf’s message - he was mute! His brows knitted with profound sympathy and cupping Erestor’s face with both his hands, he told him, “You are still too weak to move. The healers said you must rest.”

Feeling the dizzy weakness, Erestor knew Glorfindel was right. He did not know where the nettles were and his body was fighting the strength of his will. Frustrated by his inability and worried about his brothers, he wept.

A piece of Glorfindel’s heart shattered. Gently pushing the elf back into bed and onto the pillows, he wiped the wet cheeks and combed through the dark locks with his hands, trying desperately to comfort the sobbing elf. “Rest first, pendínen.(1) You must get better.”

Erestor turned his face into the pillow and continued to shed silent tears as he drifted yet again into healing sleep. Glorfindel stayed by his bedside, smoothing the crown of hair, till he fell asleep.
----

The elves in the keep marvelled at their lord’s beautiful guest, who became more enchanting by the day as he regained part of his strength and colour. Dressed in a soft linen tunic and his hair braided away from his face, few elves could claim to see a more beautiful sight and few elves questioned why Glorfindel was so smitten.

The golden lord had spared no expense. He had the tailors make tunics and gloves of the softest fabrics, and he had the richest foods brought to Erestor. He had sat quietly by the bedside, coaxing the reluctant patient to eat as much as he could take and he had insisted on applying the healing salve on the blistered hands and feet himself. Instead of the healing quarters, Erestor now resided in the guestroom on the highest floor that opened up to a rooftop garden. No creature comfort had been neglected. Soft candles lit the room with their warm flames, releasing the sweet scent of camomile. Small reeds were hung at the window, that every gust of wind would play a lilting tune.

Try as hard as he could, nothing Glorfindel could do brought a shadow of a smile to Erestor’s eyes. He leant back in the pillows, his face to the window, and gazing into the skies, wished his brothers would appear. His fingers grasped, alternatively, the three tunics and the loose yarn and he begged for his strength to return so that he could resume his tasks.

Still Glorfindel tried, till in desperation, he did something unimaginable, something that he knew would please the darkling beauty. When he sent forth the orders, every elf in the keep knew that whether Glorfindel knew it or not, he was beyond smitten with his unexpected guest. Not a few elleth sighed at the romance of it and many of the young soldiers moaned that even one as valiant as their golden lord could have fallen so deeply in the throes of love. The older elves, who knew the joys and trials of love better, smiled indulgently at their lord’s state.

Not all elves however looked upon Glorfindel’s courtship favourably. Beauty comes with a price - the more beautiful and striking a butterfly, the more attractive it is to the birds. Beauty incurs the irrational jealousy in others who deemed themselves worthier, it arouses fear in they who thought themselves inferior and it demands attention from those who would rather do the owner harm. Erestor’s charm had brought him Glorfindel’s ardent affection, but it had also brought upon him Ariendhel’s insane resentment and the jealousy of yet another.

A soldier whom Glorfindel went to the hunts frequently with watched his lord’s behaviour with ill-disguised ire. Salgant had made no secret of his own desire for the golden captain but all his advances on Glorfindel had not come to fruition. Although Glorfindel did seek his comfort elsewhere, Salgant had never felt threatened, nor had he felt overly concerned about his lord’s lack of reciprocity. His self-confidence had always served him well - but no longer. This was different. This elf, whom his lord was newly obsessed with, was rumoured to have a comeliness beyond compare, and for the first time he feared.

That day, nearly a week since Erestor arrived, Glorfindel went to the fields. The storm the night before had caused a few fences to fall and Glorfindel had gone to oversee its rebuilding. Taking note of his lord’s absence, Salgant volunteered to take Erestor’s lunch to him and the kitchen maid had jokingly told him, “Oh yes, you should, Sal. Maybe you will let go of that silly infatuation you have for our lord.”

Salgant smiled sweetly, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, I am not that silly. It is clear that our lord is obsessed with this creature, and I must say, I am dreadfully curious.” The maid kissed the charming soldier on the cheek and handed him the tray. Salgant was well thought of by the keep’s staff, and his infatuation with their lord had often been a source of bemusement.

Salgant brought the tray to the room, his anger seething with every step. The ridicule that he had heard since this dastardly elf arrived in this keep was burning his ears. Silly infatuation, indeed! He had loved his lord for decades, and all he received in return for his devotion was this senseless ridicule! Beauty or nay, this elf was his bane.

Opening the door to the room without the courtesy of a knock, his eyes rested on a petite elf who stared at him with unblinking alarm.

Erestor was startled out of his thoughts when the door flew open. Glorfindel had always knocked twice and would greet him before coming through the door, and all the healers and maids who had served him had been informed to do the same. The elf standing at door was a stranger to him and Erestor’s eyes was drawn to the sword hanging from the stranger’s belt. Looking back the elf who was clearly holding his lunch, his left hand moved instinctively over the pillow, which hid the finished tunics.

The elf’s ethereal beauty momentarily stunned Salgant. Wavy locks, now brushed to luscious form framed the heart-shaped face adorned with the most gorgeous eyes and peach-sweet lips. Amazement was swiftly replaced by a deep bitterness as he fully realised that he could not stand a whisper of a chance against this weakling.

He made his odium clear as he sneered. “So you are the beauty in the ivory tower that has captured my lord’s attentions?”

Erestor’s intuition had always been far more sensitive than his brothers and it now warned him against this intruder. He pressed further into his bed, attempting to move as far away as he could manage.

Noting the elf’s fear, Salgant’s sneer widened. “My, my. You aren’t afraid of me, are you? Do not fear, I am Glorfindel’s closest guard.” He walked closer to the bed, and Erestor’s eyes followed his every step. Salgant was greatly satisfied when he saw the elf jump when he placed the tray on the latter’s lap and was even more pleased when he noticed a hand clutching the pillow and its twin shaking under the blanket.

“Will you not have anything? My lord has allowed only the best to dress your plates.” Salgant asked in a sanguine voice. Mocking concern, he moved a chair towards the bed. “Or perhaps you will need help eating. Let me feed you then.”

Erestor’s eyes widened. He did not understand why he feared the elf, but he shook his head vehemently. Hoping to appease the elf and prevent him from getting closer, he raised his hands to his tray, but his shaking hands caused the hot stew to spill over. A soundless yelp escaped him and he tried to wipe his hands on the blanket gently. The scalding of already raw skin caused tears of pain to well in his eyes, and he blinked them away furiously, unwilling to give the other elf the satisfaction.

But Salgant noticed. Feigning worry, he took hold of one of Erestor’s hands and staring into the hazel depths said, “Dear, dear, aren’t we careless now.” Taking the cloth hanging over his sword, the same cloth he would have used to clean it after a hunt or battle, he dabbed at the hand. Unfortunately the cloth was rough and it chafed Erestor’s skin, causing him even greater pain. Noticing the elf’s discomfort, Salgant began to rub, as if to clean the hand.

The pain was excruciating, but beyond a whimper, Erestor was unable to make a sound. He dared not yelp, lest a careless word slip past his lips and he was unable to call for help. He tried to move the hand away but he lacked the strength and when he did so, the other elf would grasp it tighter, causing the pain to become worse. It burnt. The heat seared through his veins and blood threatened to surface again from the rough treatment. He looked pleadingly at the other elf, willing him to stop. He needed his hands to heal - how was he to resume his work if he could not convince Glorfindel to return him his baskets?

Just as Erestor turned his head away to make a silent cry, a voice boomed through the open door, “What is going on here?”

Glorfindel had returned earlier than expected because an older elf in the fields had told him that jewelweed would heal the blisters caused by stinging nettles miraculously in an instance. In his excitement he had dragged the farmer and his pot of jewelweed back to the keep to try the salve on Erestor. The sight that greeted him was however unexpected. From his angle he could only see a soldier holding Erestor’s hand and the later writhing in pain.

Salgant’s face turned ashen as he turned to face his lord. Composing himself, he released the hand, stood up and said in a worried tone, “The soup spilled over his hands my lord. I am trying to clean it.”

Glorfindel’s eyes fell on the oiling cloth in Salgant’s hands and asked in a low, dangerous tone, “With an oiling cloth?” He knew of Salgant’s attraction to him, something which he had tried to discourage as he bore the soldier no interest, and he was certain that he had deliberately caused the mute elf pain. His eyes betrayed his guilt.

Looking past Salgant, Glorfindel saw Erestor cradling his hand, blowing on it softly even while sobs shook his shoulders. In great alarm, Glorfindel pushed Salgant away and sat by the bed, handing the tray to the healer standing behind him. Grabbing Erestor’s wrist, he bade the other to let him have a look and was incensed when he saw the hand bleeding. Willing his anger aside for the time being, he fingered the raw patch gingerly and blew on it gently. “Did he hurt you, pendínen? Is the pain bearable?” Glorfindel asked, his concern apparent.

Erestor felt more than the pain in his hands - he felt the stab in his heart. He knew that Glorfindel would not return him his precious packs now, let alone allow him to resume his tasks. Every moment wasted meant that his brothers would remain in their forms for another moment. Autumn was creeping and the hunting season would start. How could nine magnificent swans remain safe? The love for his brothers coupled with a deepening despair enveloped him and unable to control his emotions any longer, he suddenly threw his arms around Glorfindel’s neck and sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder.

Glorfindel was unnerved. He had wished Erestor would initiate contact with him but never did he dream that it would happen in this manner. Thinking that Erestor had to be in great pain, his fury boiled over. Cradling the shaking elf closer to him, he turned and glared at Salgant. “Leave. Leave my keep and until I can even think of forgiving you, do not step within my lands or I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

Salgant, greatly shaken by the banishment, stared at his lord. Unable to meet that sharp glare any longer, he turned on his heels and fled.
TBC…

(1) Pendínen: Silent one.