In Earendil's Light

Title: In Earendil’s Light, Part 1: Birth
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Dare to be surprised
Summary: Just as tragedy strikes the Last Homely House, and old foe proposes an unusual alliance.
Rating: PG-15 for the moment, for mature themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Author’s Note: Wanted to write something elven and epic, this is my shot. I don’t know if this can be considered AU… as it *does* follow the timeline established by Tolkien, it just ‘fills in’ some scenes he may have ‘left out’… *right*. My story, sticking, etc. Hope you enjoy!!
Feedback: Longed for, as always.
Dedication: For beautiful Alexias and golden Lysis, for wise Epaminondas and rash Pelopidas. I bow to the Shrine of Iolaus, in the wake of the Sacred Band, and offer up to them this proto-Platonic tale of warrior love. Elf-warrior, that is.

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Prologue

Middle Earth, Third Age, Year 139

The argent gauze of Earendil’s light shroud the Last Homely House of Imladris, as if his fairest ship of songs, the Foam-flower, had herself sailed through the halls, stables, and talans, blessing each with an unearthly glow.

On this star-kissed night, the peerless elf Glorfindel, sung in his previous life as slayer of the mighty Balrog and beloved of Tuor’s court at Gondolin, crept along the gabled pathways, beneath the watchful shrines to warriors passed or valiantly fallen. Fingon, Gil-galad, Turgon his kinsman… each had brought honor to the Noldor, each had railed against the Shadow with every breath of their might. Glorfindel himself had returned to this Middle-Earth from the waiting Halls of Mandos, such was his charge to Tuor and his kin.

As he lurched up the last of the outer steps, he came to a vital halt, resting a gored shoulder against the rippled folds of Feanor’s pewter robes, panting ferociously. The sweat of his flushed brow mingled with orc’s blood, snaking through the sodden gold wisps that framed his sallow face and staining them a cinder gray. He coughed, once, thickly, and spat a copious gob of smoke-black saliva behind him. The motion caused his vision to swim, swoon, and he unceremoniously crashed to his knees.

Some time later, a brazing cry ripped through the moon-hushed night, roused him.

Though still battle-weary, Glorfindel leapt up to his feet and flew into the Homely House. He burst through the doors to the Hall of Healing, sword drawn, in time to catch the ebullient gray eyes of his Lord and great friend, Elrond Half-Elven.

“My Lord,” Glorfindel rasped, the sprint itself almost besting him. “What trouble?”

“None, brave Glorfindel,” Elrond beamed at him, before notice of his wounds caused his smile to fade. “You’re injured. Your leg… how can you walk?”

“Well enough,” Glorfindel snipped, the proof in his brash strides into the Hall. “Did you not hear your Lady cry? Sharp as a skinned lamb, my Lord.”

“Aye, I heard.” Elrond’s smirk returned, along with a comely bashfulness. “You’ve been gone some five years, my friend. There is much news. Such news...” With no regard to his grimed appearance, Elrond fiercely gripped his guard-captain by the shoulders, before crushing him into an ecstatic hug.

Once released, Glorfindel fought not to recoil, such was his shock at the Half-Elf’s gesture.

Elrond, with a baleful laugh, struggled to explain: “A miracle, Glorfindel, of such elfkind has never witnessed before!! Elbereth has twice-blessed this House of Imladris… twin sons my heart and I have begotten, this very night, under Earendil’s light!!”

“*Twin* elflings begotten of a twin,” Glorfindel whispered, the import of the moment stifling every twinge, every ache. “And sons, no less. Heirs.”

“Come,” Elrond near-commanded him. “I would see them in your fine company, my captain returned.”

“You have not seen them?” Glorfindel inquired, still felled by the news, as they swept into the surgery.

“Erestor forbade me enter,” Elrond, in his delight, almost chuckled, where once he would most certainly scorn. “My presence was… a hindrance, as most generously described.”

At this, Glorfindel joined in his mirth, until the sight of two pearl-drop babes slumbering in a willow-bow cradle was before their wondering eyes. Their exhausted mother was tucked into a nearby cot, waiting her husband’s tender escort to their bedchamber.

“They are dark, as their father,” Glorfindel remarked, as Elrond was presently beyond the power of speech. “Yet their skin is fair as their mother’s and their eyes of her mithril hue.”

“They are my treasures,” the Lord barely spoke, overcome. With trembling yet resolute fingers, he whisked the moisture from his eyes and touched each hot brow with his dampened fingers. “I bless you Elrohir, elf-knight, child of Eru and Prince of Imladris, by the light of the Valar above. I bless you…” Elrond stopped, stunned at himself. “By Elbereth, Glorfindel. We’d not ever quarreled… There was no other name.”

Glorfindel pondered this, inwardly rallying his slowly-clouding mind. Elrond himself seemed at a loss without Celebrian’s counsel.

“What of… Elladan?” the guard-captain suggested. “Half elf. Half man.”

“But this may cause him to chose Middle-Earth over Valinor, as my brother,” Elrond objected. “The choice made before the first day of his eternal life has passed, in being so named. What say you?”

“I say you grieve your brother still, Elrond,” Glorfindel counseled cautiously. “As such I would not name the babe for him. But your sons may indeed chose the same path as he. The choice remains their own, now, in the future, at the world’s end… Naming this second son ‘Elladan’ does indeed imbue his path with the scent of destiny, but it is a glorious fate for him, to fight alongside his brother the elf-knight, to again unite the worlds of Elf and Men against the Shadow. One son named for bravery, the other for unity. Names befitting the sons of a great warrior and wise ruler, Elrond.”

“Well reasoned, my dear friend,” Elrond complimented him. “We’ll make a diplomat of you yet.” With a wry smile, the Lord of Imladris again moved to consecrate his son’s birth. “I bless you Elladan, elf and man united, child of Eru and Prince of Imladris, by the light of the Valar above.”

After the ritual blessings, both Eldar regarded the cherubic new elflings for a long, near-reverent moment. Unable to resist the lure of the first new elves born to the Noldor since the second age, Glorfindel reached down into the cradle, stroking a tender finger up the pointed tip and over the leaf-shaped rim of Elladan’s ear. The newborn elf batted open his eyes, taking his first sight of the daunting world.

“Greetings, pen-neth,” Glorfindel cooed. “I am your guardian, and tutor.” Elrond, breathlessly touched, quietly scooped up his son and handed him to the blonde elf, who was only too eager to take him up. The proud father soon gathered up the other twin, similarly stroking his little ear, a sensitive point for elfkind and a sign of deep affection.

As Glorfindel bent to kiss the baby’s ripe cheeks in welcome, a trickle of blood from his neck wound dripped onto Elladan’s tiny lips. The babe snortled sweetly and lapped away the wetness with a lazy pink tongue, while the captain stared down in horror. Glorfindel froze, afraid he had cursed the child.

“He has the taste of it now,” Elrond decreed, resting a calming hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Warriors both, then.” With a sigh of utter contentment, Elrond gestured them towards another ward, to not further disturb Celebrian. “Come, I will brew a broth with the afterbirth and tend to your wounds. There is no more potent elixir in all of Middle Earth, and a peerless remedy for nausea, than a boiled placenta.”

Glorfindel followed willingly, knowing better than to cross Elrond on this of any day, yet silently sought young Elladan’s sympathy for the foul soup he would soon ingest in the name of friendship.

The elfling beamed brilliantly up at him, his first of many smiles.

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Part One

Middle Earth, Third Age, Year 188

Studiously ignoring his brother’s latest harrumph, Elladan drew the tight string of his bow and anchored the arrow by his right incisor. A hawk-eye locked on the target beyond, he adjusted his stance with minuscule, almost imperceptible contractions of his taut muscles. The slightness of their firm bellies belied the unwavering control and the rapt agility his still-developing form had learnt; soon, with some refinement, to be mastered. His senses keen as a dagger’s edge, his arrow-tip traced Lindir’s progress through the nearby meadow, until the innocent house-master swept into a thicket of oarberry briars, the most common nesting-ground for red-feathered hollets.

With the barest hint of a smirk, Elladan let fly. The resulting swarm of squawking hollets thoroughly ruffled Lindir’s feathers, enough to send the startled elf scurrying beneath the tree cover. Behind him, Elrohir’s subsequent fit of hysterical giggles caused him to unceremoniously roll off his stump-perch and into the moss bed below, no doubt staining his new copper tunic. As he deftly sheathed his bow alongside his rawhide quiver, Elladan allowed himself a glint of satisfaction.

Two for one.

“By the Valar, Elladan!” his brother pouted testily. “Nena completed the embroidery this very morning!”

“Noting, if I am not mistaken,” Elladan smartly pointed-out. “That the garment should be saved for the revels of our begetting, in a fortnight.”

“Aye,” Elrohir admitted, unable to remain cross with his twin for more than a brief moment. Elladan already stood above him, offering his hand. The older twin snorted, ashamed of his vanity, then took it gladly.

“It does not become you to preen, gwanur,” Elladan remarked softly. “We are Sons of Elrond. Our titles are ample adornment, to those who would woo us.”

“Angleien is not a wit impressed by titles,” the taciturn suitor griped.

“Angleien is the daughter of the stable-keep,” Elladan noted sensibly. “Who will flirt until she’s been thoroughly kissed, and once so will gladly be dismissed when the next swollen-faced temptation catches your eye. She’s too shrewd to be deceived by your weak troths of undying affection.”

“She’s a trifle,” his twin confessed. “But an alluring one.” Elrohir paused a moment, considering his brother’s resigned features, then added: “Come with me to the village. You seldom frequent the ale-halls and will be unfamiliar with their currency when we grow to questing age.”

“I am well acquainted with the ale houses,” Elladan mused. “And care little for trifles such as Angleien… or Kamarest, or Lilir, or Ceridawen, or whichother maid you abandon me to.”

“Am I so thoughtless?” Elrohir grinned warmly.

“Remarkably often, gwanur,” the prince grunted ruefully, then allowed himself to again be distracted by the targets. “But if you would court their favors, best be off. Glorfindel has wagered a week’s stable-duty he will best me, and will soon come down for the competition. Unless you prefer to court his displeasure…”

Elrohir immediately dismissed this warning in favor of gleaning on the timber in which it was uttered: tremulous, affectionate… almost unspeakably tender. His twin often spoke thusly of their tutor, shrouding his praise, his fondness with a rigid formality Glorfindel himself rarely expressed in his instruction to them.

“I doubt either of us could be so *courted* by the fair Glorfindel,” Elrohir replied, his lip-ends curling despite themselves.

“Aye,” Elladan agreed, grown pensive. “He alone among our elders seems to recall the time before their majority… and he has lived two lifetimes!” This last was uttered with such unabashed awe, Elrohir could not restrain himself from a peal of mad giggles.

Those hawk-eyes set him in their sights, their stare razing.

Elrohir swallowed hard. He tempered his response to his brother’s obvious fragility, not wanting to put him off such fearless romantic adventuring among the elders at Imladris. Indeed, for this undisclosed affection, he held his younger brother in considerable esteem. No giddy, willing maids to tame his newly flaming urges, but a warrior and a diplomat doubly learned in the ways of their immortal life. Ada himself had, in one of his more lubricated moments, confessed to Elrohir that Glorfindel and Elladan were destined for each other, though further questioning had sobered him sufficiently to stop his loosened tongue.

Yet Elrohir wondered how conscious Elladan himself was of his own heart’s yearnings, and wisely chose to demure.

“I will be at Barrowman’s Close, then, should he forget you,” Elrohir informed him.

“Forget me?” Elladan pounced, his eyes hollowed. “Why should he forget me?! He himself set the wager at last night’s evensong.”

“Aiya, gwanur, I meant no disrespect!” Elrohir groaned, but could not dismiss a knowing smirk. “He will come presently. You will spar. I wish you luck, for he will not be lightly bested, especially for a week’s stable chores.” The older twin patted his brother sweetly on the cheek, then moved to make his retreat. “But do not be too strong with him, else he will chafe. Go gently, and be sure…”

/…and even his guarded nature could not long resist you, nin bellas./

As he watched Elrohir go, his stomach prickled, swam. He collapsed onto the tree stump, somber, yet restless as well. Much as he adored his wiles, the elder twin often hit far too close to his heart, knowing implicitly what matters Elladan must thoroughly muse-over and which he must dismiss for fear of intemperance. In truth, Elladan cared little for maids or their glossy kisses, but wished his nature allowed him to gallivant the landscape of coyness and flirtation as freely as Elrohir. The experience alone would better serve his future lovers, whose ministrations Elladan anticipated with longing equal, he was sure, to his genial brother’s.

With a pregnant sigh, he set these weighty thoughts aside and searched the meadow for signs of Glorfindel. The tips of Arien’s autumn rays almost brushed the length of the horizon, but his tutor was nowhere to be seen. The wager had been set long before the nightly revels; regardless, Glorfindel had never before broken a promise to him. If anything, Elladan was prone to tardiness, especially where diplomacy lessons were concerned…

Elladan shut his eyes a long moment, seeking to silence his dizzy mind. If he waited on any other but Glorfindel, he would have gone to search for him by now. His guardian, however, lately overwhelmed and baffled him in equal measure. It had grown increasingly difficult for Elladan to keep counsel in his esteemed presence, such was his regard for his tutor. At times, he found himself so overswept by Glorfindel’s familiar manner, that the sparest compliment would send him reeling. Elladan was painfully aware of the new, viscerally physical effects the Noldor’s gentility sometimes produced in him, as he was of the ambiguous, heated, yet potent dreams he suffered. Still, he could not long keep himself from Glorfindel’s fine company, nor sought to with any forceful strength of resolve. He secretly feared that once his majority was reached, in little more than a year’s time, he would no longer be able to hide these feelings from anyone, Glorfindel included, and would thus be thoroughly shamed by them, or ordered to restrain them, or banished from Imladris, or worse…

Scorned and avoided by the guardian himself.

Elladan sunk down onto the moss beds, gathered his legs to his chest. He would remain until sunset, then would seek him out. His apologies would be warmer consolation than his inevitable irritation in defeat.

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“Afterbirth!!” Erestor exclaimed, his prim face drained entirely of color.

“Aye, a broth of it,” Glorfindel replied, somewhat leery of uncovering the cause of his dismay.

“A broth, or a tonic?” the Loremaster attempted to calmly inquire.

“A broth, if I recall,” the blonde elf elaborated. “With oarberries and brine. Ah, and tree sap.”

“Tree sap,” Erestor demanded in earnest. “Are you certain?”

“Forty-nine years have passed, but, aye, Erestor, I am certain!!” Glorfindel growled. “What of it? It was merely to sweeten –“

“Perhaps to your swordsman’s ear a pinch of syrup has little import, Glorfindel…” Erestor sighed, unable to continue on. He shuffled dully over to the requisite bookshelf and blindly selected a volume, knowing without having to properly check the answers inscribed there. The guard-captain, however, would require proof, as would Elrond, eventually. Glorfindel observed his purposeful paging out of the corner of his eye, tense and unrepentantly anxious. “How long have you felt… drawn to him?”

“All his life, Erestor, as have you.”

“Indeed, I have, meldir,” Erestor admitted soothingly. “But not as you are.”

“Aye,” Glorfindel conceded, then, with a dry swallow, resolved to tell the toll of it. “I have always felt a particular tenderness for him. When he was but an elfling… I would often have cause to hold him, rather than his brother, to coddle...” The blonde Noldor recalled many a thunderous night, when a white streak of satin would patter across his chamber floor and burrow into his bed. Into his arms, for comfort. “He grew into such an eager student…” The most able he had ever taught. The most graceful… “I am his guardian!! I would never- “

“I understand well, mellon-nin,” Erestor reminded him. “But go on.”

“As he approaches his majority…” Glorfindel shut his eyes, as if unwilling to bear witness to his own torment. “My affections have become more… personal, in nature. He… entrances me. His beauty… his sweet temper…” He halts himself, his cheeks burning crimson. “At lessons, I can dismiss this… but I am shamed, Erestor, at night. In private… it shames me.”

Erestor regarded his friend with clenched heart. /Curse you, Elrond, for your carelessness./

Cautiously, he approached the trembling elf and lay his hands onto the back of his neck, thumbs stroking the length of his ears. To see one of such valor so beaten by self-beratement, so sickened with unwanted longing, fired Erestor’s will to guide him through the unbidden agony of this accidental binding. The solution, however, would not be pleasing.

“There is little wonder you are so afflicted, maltaren-nin,” Erestor explained, with as much gentility as he possessed. “These desires are a natural expression of your…You are bound to him.”

Glorfindel’s head flew up; his eyes wide, near-weeping.

“Bound?! No…”

“I wish it were not so,” the Loremaster continued mournfully. “But I have brewed the potion myself, at least once a year for every year since my majority… the blood of another, diluted, sweetened by tree sap…the draught of betrothal. Of binding.” Erestor paused a moment, his anger overtaking him. “Elrond should have known better. *Afterbirth*!! The very forge of the elfling’s spirit he fed you!!”

“He explained it was a potent remedy…” Glorfindel attempted dully.

“Aye, if the young one had not already drunk your blood!!” Erestor almost spat, such was his frustration. “The very basics of the binding ceremony… forgive me, meldir, I forget myself.”

“You do me great service, Erestor,” Glorfindel dismissed his apologies. “You sing of the regret I must not allow myself.” The blond elf grew quiet a moment, so quiet Erestor’s worry amplified considerably. “Tell me, Loremaster… will I fade?”

Strangely, Erestor almost smiled.

“You need not,” he related the less-ill news. “You are already bound to him. Unless he – Elbereth forbid it – is killed in battle, you should remain in fair health, your own flint-fire nature and all things considered.”

“Spare me the ridicule, if you will, mellon-nin,” Glorfindel whispered.

“Aye,” Erestor nodded solemnly. “However, as he reaches his majority, your affections will deepen. Lust will emerge, vicious, consuming. It could very well drive you mad, if unrequited.”

“But this is the heart of the matter,” Glorfindel insisted, suddenly animated. “He has not evidenced any similar affections for me. He seems… oddly unaffected, at times, by elf or maid. I am held in some regard, of course, as his tutor, but… my greatest desire for him, Erestor, is freedom. The freedom to chose the mate of his heart.”

Erestor absorbed this without comment for some time. At last, he ventured: “I do not doubt the nobility of your intent, mellon-nin. But this freedom you speak of for Elladan does not come without a price.”

“I will pay any price,” Glorfindel stated firmly, as if a soldier awaiting orders.

“Much as I myself will miss your company,” Erestor began. “You must leave Imladris, for long periods of time. The twins will begin to adventure on their own soon enough, only when they are gone may you return. I caution you not to spend more than a month at a time in their company, and this every decade or so, else the emotions you speak so intently of will become… ferocious. Elrond should have no trouble finding some matter of diplomacy worthy of your attention. If not, simply remind him what caused this trouble to begin with… Time enough will tell if Elladan is felled by a similar binding to you. The only trouble will come if he does marry, and is bound to another.”

“I will fade, then, from grief,” Glorfindel guessed easily. “My flame knows well enough the source of its power, it flickers at… at the mere thought of…”

Erestor exhaled slowly, rested his brow against his dear friend’s.

“Rest awhile, meldir,” Erestor softly advised him. “I will speak with Elrond on your behalf.”

Just as Elladan rounded the corner, in search of his tardy teacher, Erestor comforted the gentle Noldor with a tender, utterly platonic kiss.

By the time the Loremaster turned away, the room was empty…



End of Part One

A/N on elvish translations:

/Ada/ = Father
/Nena/ = Mother
/Gwanur/ = Brother
/Meldir/ = Friend
/Mellon-nin/ = My friend
/Maltaren-nin/ = My golden one
/nin bellas/ = my strength