Silent Flight -Complete

Thank you for the kind reviews. I am glad you enjoyed the story thus far. It makes writing worth it. *does happy dance*

Title: Silent Flight: The Wild Swans
Author: jalynne
Part: 6/?
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'm in debt. All mistakes are my sole property.
Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.
Author’s notes: Mr. Anderson, I hope you’d forgive me for destroying the rather poignant plot in your story. I took it, like it a bit, twist it a bit and made it happier because I am an optimist.


Erestor walked to the window and stared out into clear skies. He had lain in bed waiting for the thunder to stop. Many questions ran through his mind: were his brothers safe? Have they found shelter against the storm? Could swans fall ill from the exposure to the elements? Could they have been hit by the lightning? Were they still looking for him? The uncertainty was gruelling and his helplessness was aggravating. This far away from the forest, he lacked the strength to call his feathered kith for aid.

His feet had healed and his hands took a little longer. It had been fourteen days. Fourteen long days and with each day, autumn drew dangerously closer. He never thought he would long for the touch of a stinging nettle, and he never thought he would miss the feel of flax winding around his hands.

Turning away from the window, he looked at the three tunics he had laid on the bed. He sat on the bed and ran a finger through one of them. First for Ecthelion. How he missed his eldest brother - he had never been away from him for any length of time. Erestor gave a sad, deprecating laugh and thought, Or rather, he has never let me out of his sight for this long a time. He must have strangled Duilin in his anxiety now.

Looking at the second tunic, he thought of Rog, his big, kind, gentle giant of a brother. Allowing himself a small smile, he thought to himself, If every brother was your size, Rog, I would have to strip the forest bare of nettle. His eyes travelled to the third tunic. The others will never forgive me if I don’t return soon. If Thel has not skinned them by now, Penlod would have lashed them to smithereens in his fury.

His smile disappeared. Six more: Galdor, Egalmoth, Lindir, Daeron, Hathel and Duilin. Six more - how was he to make those six tunics? Erestor’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and a tentative, “Pendínen?”

Erestor stood up and turned to greet Glorfindel with a small smile. He would have tried to escape if he had not felt compelled to at least respect the elf who had cared so much for him. Over the last few days he had been immensely grateful for the golden lord’s care, even if he had felt equally guilty for cherishing the warmth and comfort when his brothers were still languishing under the spell, waiting for him to free them. Yet every time he would point to the basket and beg Glorfindel to release him from the luxurious imprisonment, the elven lord would tell him, “When you are fully healed, pendínen.”

Glorfindel looked pensively at the small smile Erestor gave him and he gave a quick glance at the three tunics spread on the bed. That assured him that beyond his better senses, he had made the right choice. Holding the door open he held out a hand to Erestor and beckoned, “Come with me, pendínen. Bring your things with you.”

Erestor’s heart leapt. Did this mean that Glorfindel would return him his baskets? Bending to gather the three precious tunics against him, his only worldly possessions, he walked towards Glorfindel. Looking at the outstretched hand, he looked questioningly at the golden lord. When Glorfindel merely smiled at him, Erestor shyly placed his hand into the big palm and felt the warmth closing in on it.

Walking out of the door with Glorfindel, Erestor did not pay his strange surroundings any mind. His eyes were trained on the Glorfindel and their joint hands. A strange sensation coursed through him and for the first time since he took up the task of lifting his brothers’ curse, he wavered.

Erestor felt torn. It was more than gratitude and obligation that held him to Glorfindel and this keep, but he could not quite put his finger on it. He had wanted so badly to be free to resume his task that when that freedom was at last offered him, he found himself reluctant to take it. He thought of returning to the forest and to his brothers, but the thought brought him a peculiar stab of pain in his heart.

Then Erestor recalled his mission and rebuked himself angrily. How could he even think of anything other than finishing what he had started? His brothers depended on his commitment- he could not fail them now. Steeling his resolve he pushed all thoughts of regret aside.

Looking away from Glorfindel, he was surprised to see them walking out into the courtyard. The unexpected pang returned - he did not expect that Glorfindel would send him to the forest immediately. He caught sight of the carpet of green in the distance and the pang in the heart seemed to stab deeper into the core of his being. He had not realised that the keep was this high up in the mountains and that the forest was so far away. There would be no chance of him visiting once his work was done and the charm broken, not without Ecthelion in tow at least.

Lost in his maudlin thoughts, he allowed Glorfindel to lead him and thus nearly tripped when they came to an abrupt stop in front of a barn. Erestor looked up at Glorfindel intently, trying to memorise the features before he was whisked away on horseback. He could not imagine coming back again.

Noticing the expectant look on Erestor’s face, Glorfindel grinned and winked. “Brace yourself, pendínen.” He then bade one of the guards, who was grinning as broadly, to open the door, and led Erestor through.

Erestor would have fallen to his knees if Glorfindel had not grabbed him by the waist. He could not begin to imagine how Glorfindel had managed this spectacle before him. The stalls in the barn had been removed and it looked like a large empty hall carpeted in green. Lamps hanging from the ceiling illuminated the room. His baskets stood on a wooden rack by the door, but that was not what held him rapt.

It was the rows and rows of nettle shrubs. There were so many of them, Erestor could hardly see the walls. For their love of their lord, the soldiers and farmers had heeded Glorfindel’s pleas and armed with gloves, thick tunics and shovels, they went into the forest with Glorfindel, seeking the queer plant. Planting them into the wooden trenches they had moved them back to the keep in cartloads and transplanted them into the newly empty barn. There would have been several injuries had the healers not been ready with jewelweed.

Erestor could only stare. There was more than enough to draw flax for a mile long piece of cloth, let along six tunics. Clutching the three tunics he had close to his chest, he felt the tears roll down, tears of immeasurable gratitude. Transfixing his tearful gaze on Glorfindel, who was looking at him with anticipation, Erestor burst into child like giggles, rendered silent from the long disuse of his throat. He dropped the tunics, threw his arms around Glorfindel’s neck and hugged him tighter as the latter swung him into an embrace.

Glorfindel rejoiced at the prettiest sight he had ever seen. He had never seen such radiance shine from an elf as it did when Erestor laughed and he silently swore that for as long as he lived he would keep that laugh in his heart. An eternity would not be too long for him to love this elf in his arms.

Placing the giggling elf back on his feet, he tipped the petite face up and touched the forehead with his own, gazing deeply into the eyes he so loved. “I do not know why you insist on making these tunics. I do not understand why you have to endure the ludicrous pain. But if you would promise to keep that smile, that laugh, I will gladly give you anything.”

Erestor was unused to feeling another elf, who was not a brother, this close to him and the blush on his cheeks betrayed his timidity. Yet, because he was too overwhelmed by the sudden joy, he beamed with a blinding brilliance and nodded his assent to the promise, stealing Glorfindel’s soul along with his heart.

Caressing the soft jawline, Glorfindel hesitantly, tenderly, lovingly touched his lips to Erestor’s. Daring only to leave a butterfly kiss, he moved back to see Erestor’s reaction and chuckled when he saw the other’s eyes wide with shock. The chuckle roused Erestor from that momentary jolt, and the blush in his cheeks flamed uncontrollably. Unable to look Glorfindel in the eye any longer, he looked down at his wringing hands.

But Glorfindel would have none of that. The shy, flustered expression was much too adorable and he cupped Erestor’s chin, and tipping the face up to meet him, he grinned at the closed eyes. Bending down again, he kissed the endearing elf again. Only this time, he allowed his tongue to trace the sweet lips. When the lips involuntarily parted, his tongue slipped through and began its dizzy exploration of the sweet cavern.

Erestor did not understand what was happening. He knew from the moment Glorfindel’s lips touched his that this was a kiss. That much alone he knew. He had read about a kiss before and had asked his brothers for an explanation. He could not get a sensible reply and even Ecthelion desisted, pushing the task to Rog, who told him to wait till they next went to the city for supplies but of course, they never allowed him to go the city with them.

Nothing prepared him for the heady sensation. He felt the foreign intrusion into his mouth, but he did not feel as queasy at the thought of it as he had expected. When his tongue accidentally brushed Glorfindel’s, he was fascinated by how wonderful it felt so he shyly tried it again. Encouraged, Glorfindel caught the questing tongue in a duel, deepening the kiss. As the slighter elf pulled himself to his toes and put his hands around Glorfindel’s neck, the golden lord tightened his arms about the tiny waist and ran his fingers through the velvet lock tumbling down the back.

The kiss ended too soon for Glorfindel’s liking, but he did not want Erestor, so newly recovered, to be discomfited by the lack of air. Releasing his firm hold of the elf, he tidied the tussled hair away from the furiously red face, smiling indulgently at the apparent bashfulness. Not wanting his sweet companion to feel any more embarrassment, he placed a gentle hand on the slim shoulders and guided him to a corner where a curious array of instruments stood beside a pile of green flax.

“These are what we used do make our hemp cloth, and the weavers at my keep are certain you can use the same for nettles. They could teach you.” Glorfindel caught one of the small hands in his and stroked it gently, with reluctance clear in his face. “That way, you would not injure your hands overly much.”

Erestor looked alternatively at Glorfindel and at the various instruments. Ariendhel had taught him how to use those same tools when he was very, very young: that was where they got their cloth for the clothes the brothers very quickly grew out of. He felt the sweet tingling at the tender caresses and his heart melted from the apparent concern. He was more than grateful but he remembered what Old Man Willow had said: Pluck its leaves with your hands though they will blister. Step on them with your bare feet, though they will scorch and itch. Weave the flax with your fingers though it will cut. The curse demanded a blood price and he would willingly pay.
Grasping Glorfindel’s hand between his own, Erestor looked at the attractive and charming lord who had given him so much and regretfully shook his head.

Glorfindel was perplexed. He did not wish to see his pendínen injured and he could not comprehend why he would persist with his dreadful working habits. He frowned intently at the elf and would have protested if he did not see the plea in those eyes.

“Gloves?” he asked, earning him another shake of the head. Glorfindel’s frown deepened - surely gloves would have been welcomed! But again he was arrested by the pleading eyes and the quiet squeeze of his hands. He sighed - those eyes would be the very death of him - and relented. “Only because you insist, though I cannot, for the life of me, understand why. But you must promise to allow the healers to apply the salve on you when you are done.”

Erestor considered the suggestion for a moment. There was nothing that stipulated against him doing so and he happily nodded. Giving the rough hands that had been nothing but gentle with him one more squeeze, he turned his back on Glorfindel and focused his attentions entirely on the flax before him.

TBC…