Silent Flight -Complete

Title: Silent Flight: The Wild Swans
Author: destinial
Part: 7/?
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, who has just made me jolly jumping happy. Thank you!!! All other mistakes here are mine.
Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.
Author’s notes: I was homesick and was looking through some photos of my family in the middle of Glenmore forest and that inspired this chapter. Apologies for the delay yet again, I was away touring the Hebrides and visiting family over the holidays. Thank you very much for your kind reviews- *grin*

The skies were always more beautiful after a storm – it was as though the rain had cleaned the dusty surface and allowed the vibrant shades and hues beneath to shine through. The gleaming peaks of the mountains were bathed in golden light as Arien* came close behind them and the shadows dancing on the forest’s mossy ground grew longer. Reds and yellows faded into a royal violet and the light breeze shaped the remaining clouds into fine hairs which disappeared with the dim light.

As dusk drew near the birds returned to their nests to roost for the night and their brilliant feathers coloured the canopy of green. Among them were nine splendid swans, each flapping their huge wings now and then with simple ease. Their white cloaks caught the vibrant palette of colours as they glided stealthily and silently just above the trees. They flew in a triangle spiralling downwards, not unlike a flag fluttering to ground. With practised grace they landed among the reeds by the lake and flapped the great white wings.

Just as the last of Arien’s light disappeared into the swirling darkness of the water, the swans shed their feathers and became nine fetching elves of such built and chiselled strength. Yet weariness hung on them like a suffocating blanket as they each sank to the ground.

Ecthelion lay on the ground, resting his tired limbs and his exhausted mind. Each day they had done the same thing: they flew ceaselessly over and around the forest where the cities of men lay, around and up the mountains where the air grew thin, hoping for a sign, any sign at all, of their youngest brother. Each night they had continued their search, seeking on foot in the depths of the forest. All to no avail. The storms had slowed them down – they could not fly even if they had wished to and they could find no tracks.

Ecthelion knew in his mind that the arduous search could not continue. Even when they had taken turns, each brother was too much weakened by the physical and emotional strain. He did not know the exact physical limitations of their enchanted selves and he knew that they could fade from the fatigue in their elven forms. Yet his heart demanded that they press on. His youngest brother was still missing, and the fires of anxiety only burnt more strongly by the day.

Nor was he alone in that thought. Rog and Galdor slumped against the trees, Duilin rested his head on a outstretched root. The rest of the brothers curled up on the muddy edge of the lake, waiting for their strength to catch up with their will. Rog listened to the whispers among the trees, for once untouched by threatening gales, and wished he could understand them. For the first time, on this clear night, he was reminded of the curious speech of trees. The trees would be able to tell them where Erestor was and if he were safe. But none of the brothers shared Erestor’s sensitivity, not even Lindir and Daeron.

Egalmoth, ever the rational voice, spoke up in a hoarse whisper, “We must rest tonight.” He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked at Ecthelion, who was still lying on the ground, trying to catch his breath. It was for their eldest brother’s sake that he had made the suggestion; among them all, Ecthelion had been the only one who had persisted in his search endlessly.

“We cannot,” was the weak reply.

“We cannot help him if we ourselves fall, ‘Thel. We must rest tonight.” Egalmoth tried to reason.

Galdor opened his eyes from the momentary rest. “Egal is right, ‘Thel. We must rest.” Strongest among the brothers, even he had felt the strain.

Ecthelion sat up, his eyes red from the exhaustion and hidden tears, his muscles limp from the relentless use. He knew they were right. “Rest if you will.” With some effort he pulled himself up to his unsteady feet.

Penlod got up on his feet as well, and glaring at his eldest with equally red eyes, he shoved the other to the ground. Before the other could return to his feet, he had both his hands digging painfully into the fallen elf’s shoulder blades. “We must rest. You, most of all. We are useless to him dead.”

Ecthelion mustered his strength and wrestled the other off him. “He would be dead if we tarry any longer. He is too weak to survive these storms alone in the forest.”

Duilin could not help the anger. Anger at the turn of events, anger at his brothers’ obstinacy, anger at the futility of their search, and anger at the thought of Erestor dead. “What good could you do for a dead elf? “

All his older brothers turned to glare at the doomsayer. Their penetrating fury came from their own fear, their own unspoken fear that they would find a mere corpse at the end of the search. Ecthelion heaved some heavy breaths. He refused to believe that Erestor could be dead, not without holding his brother in his arms one last time. He opened his mouth, about to speak when something extraordinary happened.

The tree root Duilin was resting on just a moment ago moved. Imperceptibly at first but the tip lifted itself off the ground and twirled around Duilin, crushing him to the ground. Duilin yelped in surprise at the sudden attack and all the brothers sprang to their feet, drawing their weapons.

“Get this thing off me!” Duilin tried pushing the root away but the effort was wasted. Ecthelion and Egalmoth knelt down beside him, anger forgotten, and tried to do the same.

Rog looked on at the scene and recalled what Erestor said about the living trees. He ventured a guess, “The tree is trying to tell us something.” The root loosened its grip and Duilin panted with the release, fixing his wide-eyed stare at Rog.

Ecthelion, stepping back, remembered the nature of these trees as well. He had often followed Erestor on his frequent trips into the forest and though the trees never did anything out of the ordinary to him, he had seen how roots moved and branches swayed when Erestor was near. He ran his tongue around his dried lips and asked the one question that his heart dreaded, “Is Erestor well and alive?”

The tree root moved a minute inch and loosened its death grip momentarily before squeezing around the frightened elf again. Duilin looked at Ecthelion, trying to catch a breath, shouting, “Was that an aye or nay?”

The rest of the brothers were panicking. It was not everyday that one spoke to a tree. Egalmoth and Galdor knelt at either side of Duilin, trying to prevent the root from hurting their younger brother. They were afraid to use their swords, for fear of greater retribution. Putting his sharp senses to work, Egalmoth asked, “My brother is dead?”

Instantaneously, the root squeezed even harder and threatened to bury Duilin into the ground. A neighbouring root lifted itself and Egalmoth moved deftly out of reach. Duilin cried desperately between pants, “Obviously not, you idiot!”

Ecthelion who was still trying to digest the scene, let out the breath he was holding, “My brother is alive, then?” The second root planted itself back into ground and the root around Duilin loosened again.

Looking at each other, the brothers felt a strange sense of rejuvenation. Encouraged, Galdor chipped in. “Our brother is well?” The root loosened just a bit more again and relieved grins went around.

Duilin heaved a sigh of relief at having his breath back. Looking up at the alder tree, he asked, “Is he near?” and felt the air wrung out of his lungs.

Egalmoth immediately followed, “He is far away.” The alder obviously agreed. Quirking an eyebrow, Egalmoth told Duilin who looked drained from the encounter, “I suggest you keep quiet. He obviously doesn’t like you overly much.” A grin split his face when the tree loosened its grip, again temporarily, apparently in assent to the statement.

Ecthelion, now assured and considerably cheered that his brother was alive and well, asked once more, “Can you show us where he is?” The root curled around Duilin, and ignoring the pitiful cry for the time being, he frowned.

The tree was obviously waiting for the right questions, since the root was still firmly fastened around Duilin’s waist. If they could not show them where Erestor was, then what could they ask? Rog and Penlod sat down and stared intently at the root, willing it to provide some inspiration.

It was Lindir who broke the silence. “Wooded kin, my brother is no longer within your shade?” The whispers among the trees, almost as a show of indignant impatience, answered the silver-haired elf before the merciful root. Lindir thought for a moment and asked again, “Kith between the worlds, (1) can you tell the story of my brother then?” The root loosened again.

Duilin fastened his hopeful stare at his brother. He ought to have known, the bard among them would be able to understand trees better! Trees would not have liked archers like Egalmoth and himself much, not when they made arrows from wood and shoot at trees routinely. He would not have liked archers much himself if he were a tree.

Unwilling to disturb the one-sided conversation and greatly anxious, Ecthelion, Rog and Penlod were gesturing wildly for Lindir to continue. Lindir glanced at the expectant looks on all his brothers’ faces and gulped under the stress, before asking, “Will you lead us to where the story starts, worthy kith?”


He was relieved when the root widened enough for Duilin to slip out and the younger elf immediately scooted out of reach. Lindir cleared his throat and asked on behalf of his brothers yet again, “Can you show us now?”

The alder did not respond immediately as the trees around began to sway in loud whispers causing the brothers to look warily around. For a moment, Lindir thought he had asked the wrong question and he looked anxiously at his twin Daeron, frantically thinking of an alternative.

The tension in the brothers’ nerves caused them all to jolt when the alder’s branches suddenly dipped and pushed Ecthelion. Ecthelion raised his eyebrows at the offending branch and commented to his brothers, “I think they mean to guide us the way they do ‘Tor.” The tree branch brushed against his hair again, causing Ecthelion to duck in reflex.

For the first time since they started their search, the brothers felt alive. Their exhaustion was forgotten and their despair already a memory. Rog and Galdor bent to fill their bottles with water, even as the others sheathed their swords and readied themselves to follow the waves of branches and sweeping roots. As they started to run, Duilin grumbled, “Why didn’t they say so earlier?”

A random root caught his foot and Duilin tripped in a manner most unbecoming for an elf. Egalmoth snorted in amusement as he sidestepped his younger brother. “I told you to keep quiet.”
----

The brothers ran, with Ecthelion in the lead, looking up periodically at the branches. A branch would dip and gently nudge Ecthelion in a direction and the rest of the brothers would follow. Even with their spirits renewed, their bodies had not recovered fully from the earlier abuse and progress was much slower than they would have liked. They ran for a considerable difference and Ecthelion frowned when he noticed the thinning of the undergrowth. They were approaching the edge of the forest. He could already feel the chill of the mountains.

At long last, the waves of the branches stopped. The brothers looked around in great puzzlement, Hathel and Egalmoth being more experienced trackers already bending down to observe twig and leaf. There was no sign that Erestor had ever been there.

Then a dug out patch of ground caught their eye. Ecthelion and Penlod moved quickly towards the ditch, afraid of what it might imply. The brothers’ hands moved instinctively to touch their weapons, but once near enough, they lost the sense of threat and knelt down by the ditch, mystified.

Ecthelion felt the earth. “This was dug not too long ago. The rain might have made this ditch seem older than it does now.” Scanning the site, his keen eyes picked up a few downtrodden leaves. Stepping into the ditch softened by the rain, he picked one of the leaves up. “Nettle!” he exclaimed, passing it to the waiting Egalmoth for confirmation.

While the brothers were feeling the bare beginnings of elation at the implication of the nettle, Hathel shouted, “’Thel! Wheel tracks!” Ecthelion rushed to his brother’s side, the rest following soon after. Bending down to finger the grooves, the eldest brother watched as Hathel ran along the tracks which led away from the forest and up the mountains.

He turned away from Hathel and exchanged a look with Rog, before standing up and casting his sight up the mountain slope. Erestor was in the mountains, he was sure of it. The question was, why did he remain in the mountains?

Whistling to beckon Hathel to return, he faced his brothers, realising that the weariness of the night would overwhelm them once the adrenaline calmed. He spoke with a soft command, “We’ll rest now. Tomorrow, we will make the fullest use of our gift of wings.”

TBC…

* Arien was the Mair chosen to guide Anar, the vessel of the sun.

Author’s notes, because she likes her lore too much (a sure sign of age):

(1) I’ve used the alder tree because it is a tree caught between the worlds. In Celtic folklore, it is a tree of death and resurrection, it is a water tree that bears the symbol of fire, and it is a harbinger of spring well known for its resilience in winter. Fascinating tree it is. And because it is a kind of birch, it makes sense that it’ll be a moving tree at night.