Quietude

Title: Quietude – Prologue and Part One
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Summary: After a vicious maiming, just when despair encroaches, one invaluable elf discovers just how dear he is to an unexpected someone.
Rating: NC-17 – for violent content and psychological distress
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: Please heed my warning, this one is brutal at first. A character is irrevocably maimed, the consequences are bloody, and the repercussions visceral. If this only incites you to read on, then please do! There are smutty treasures awaiting those who are loyal to the cause. :)
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, dearest friend, blessed writer, and shrewdest critic. Hope this is payment enough for your constant and vital support.

/ ---- / = mindspeech

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Quietude

Prologue

Greenwood, Year 873, Third Age

Fleet as a flock of hummingbirds, his arrows shot through the dank mist of the dense Greenwood forest, trenching deadly deep into bile green flesh. Every pluck of his bow sung as pure as the gossamer strings of a Galadric lyre, chord after chord slicing the tension clean as he slew his way through the writhing throng of orcs. In a brutal ballet of chops, punts, and kicks, he swooped up to a low-bending bough to avoid the crush of two colliding charges of the bumbling heathens, then, once they were amassed beneath him, flew down with all the fluid grace of an indigo-fletched egret landing on the pristine surface of a pond to trample their helmeted heads in the mud.

Even when, but moments later, he was lopping off said dirty, dizzy heads as nimbly as a gardener uprooted a wily weed, his quiver spent but his fat-bellied hunting knife keen to flay, not a bead of sweat marred his pale brow, not a twitch of effort creased his cool composure, not a flicker of excitement flushed his cheeks. Though he had not palmed a sword nor barely glanced at his bow for the greater part of a millennium, Erestor was one with his weapon in a way his twin escorts still daily struggled with, and they the most accomplished of those born to Imladris after the Last Alliance - the finest warriors in the valley, save the laurelled Balrog-slayer of old Gondolin. The efficient advisor to Lord Elrond had played no part in the defense of the elven refuge he had helped construct, nor had he ought but visited the sparring fields on some vague errand since its completion, yet here he mellifluously accomplished stance after predatory stance, as if he was in the prime of his warring powers.

Even as he gouged a gory path towards their all-too-astoundingly-able charge, Elladan was rapt upon the raven-haired elf, as admiring of his elegant battle form as he was of his ebony allures.

Yet this was no time to nurse his rather bewildering, if not outright adolescent, affection for his former tutor, constant friend, and lifelong confidant. While they were far from overwhelmed by the sudden surge of orcs from the foothills of the Mountains of Greenwood, they were currently so desperately undermanned that Erestor, the one purportedly under their guardianship, had had to take up sword. Thankfully, they were still near enough to Thranduil’s caves that a patrol of archers would swiftly be upon them, but for the moment he, Elrohir, and ten of their most cunning swords were struggling mightily to keep the fiends at bay. Indeed, Elladan had never before encountered orcs so vicious, nor so sly to the nuances of their attack style. Twas as if some dark magic had spelled them into deeper intuition, for certainly their form was as hackneyed as ever. Were the pack not so voluminous, he and Elrohir might have shredded them entirely by now; yet inwardly he cursed himself for allowing Erestor to be drawn away such a distance.

As he gutted another claw-beaked creature, his fuming innards pouring out over his boots, Elladan recognized that, despite his unforeseen battle-stealth, Erestor would soon require a second blade to back him. The slightly more sentient orcish leader quite obviously had designs on the settlement maps sewn into the lining of the advisor’s robes, a fact which lured fiend after slobbering fiend into the hordes that currently surrounded him. With the river soon licking at his heels, Erestor would have no recourse but to plunge himself in, a precarious prospect given how raucous the flow was, all the more raging due to the springtime thaw. Moving towards his charge was little trouble for Elladan, as the orcs around him veered in that very direction; with a sharp whistle he urged Elrohir to follow suit.

Despite his continued lethality, Erestor was veritably drowning in a foul swamp of heathen viscera, drenched by the scarlet gushes of blood that spurt forth as he patiently, methodically hacked off their limbs. As transfixed as he was by this grand, guignol vision of gifted prowess, Elladan manically cleared himself a path to the riverfront; even a warrior of ancient disciplines, such as Erestor had so stunningly proved himself this dire day, would eventually be swept away by the sheer force of the orc-tide. Even as the cawing cry of the Greenwood guard echoed through the treetops around them, he viciously battled forth, the ardent pump of his heart warning him to make haste, to be bold. When that primal chant grew frantic just as that raven head dipped out of view, all he saw before him was vile, violet red. A flurry of arrows flowered on the thick orc necks around him, twas not long before their leader snarled a call of retreat. He hacked through the now fleeing spawn, hobbling those he could not kill outright, as if fired by the black flame of Melkor himself. No gutter-wretch would survive this battle if Erestor was harmed!

Twas a lengthy, bloody while before he drew a calm breath. Barely a quorum of orcs had escaped them, just enough for them to consider returning to Thranduil’s enclave to request an escort of their own. Yet as the last, staggering minion was smote by Legolas’ deadly aim, Elladan could do naught but race to the riverside, where his gray-feathered heron was slumped, motionless, along the verdant slope of the bank.

At first, he appeared to be merely slumbering, felled by sheer exhaustion into the instantaneous sleep of one unaccustomed to battling so relentlessly. Elladan crouched by his side, his warrior’s skin molted to reveal a healer’s compassionate colors. He made quick work of examining him, loathe to rouse him from a too-necessary rest without due cause. The advisor’s raiment was so soaked with blood that there was no distinguishing his own wounds from the crimson of those he had inflicted. As far as he could ascertain without stripping him, his arms, legs, and trunk were only bruised in florid bouquets, the orcs lacking imagination enough to strike him in ought but several key places. Such was the essence of their endless potential for a unilateral defeat: a paucity of creative methods in assault and battery.

Silently, Elrohir flanked the dozing advisor, feeling his opposite side for any major fractures, mimicking his twin’s technique. Their considering fingers traveled from toe to hip to neck, then snaked through his loose hair to scout for weaknesses in the bone of his skull.

Both gaped in crude, blanched-faced horror when his previously hidden ears were uncovered, their peaked tips clipped clean off.

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Part One

South Bank of the Forest River, Three Hours Later

The first plumes of flame crackled ominously as they consumed the damp kindling, before searing the bark of the thicker logs into a dusty coat of ash. Elladan numbly observed his brother, as he kicked stones into place along the edge of the sand, then threw their last reserve of wood into the heart of the fire. Their guards would surely, stealthily bring more, their somber faces, if glimpsed in their quiet efficacy, deferent to the healer-twins’ desolate endeavor: the succoring of their wounded charge.

There was no denying, even to those unlearned in the healing arts, the severity of the advisor’s injuries. That the soldiers immediately moved to protect them, to create a makeshift sanctuary in which Erestor could receive the full measure of both twins’ care without bother from them or further interruption from any straggling Shadowspawn, proved their own incredible respect for one who was certainly no swordbrother to them, but whose routine decisions affected every aspect of their daily lives in Imladris. Erestor’s kindness, consideration, and wisdom imbued every task he embarked upon, every elf he gave audience to. Though, whence in diplomatic councils, his cool stare could pin the most pompous of upstarts succinctly to his chair, about Imladris he was renown for his generosity of spirit; no request was too incidental for his personal attention, no beckoner was ignored, no rank of import to one who lived by the most guiding of elven values, that all were equal before the Valar above.

As such, twas not merely Elladan who was aghast at the advisor’s condition, though the elf-warrior was certainly the most heartsick. Embroiled in his own inner torment even as he fought to focus himself on Erestor’s care, he could not allow himself to entirely digest the bare, bleak truth of this atrocity, least his own glowering be at the expense of his tutor’s comfort. After gently moving him over to the camp they had hastily established nearby, the twins had washed, anointed, and dressed his clipped ears, careful not to incite more damage in the midst of their delicate ministrations. Once Erestor had been completely cleansed of blood, his robes changed and his bedroll plumped, the twins had planted themselves snugly at his sides, where they would remain as long as necessary to revive him. Both knew, all too sadly, the risks to Erestor waking to such a condition, both feared the sight of his slow realization of his handicapped state, as well as the dimming effect this might well have on his soul flame. Neither were so confident in their capabilities as to believe that they could, if needs be, dissuade him from fading, nor could they predict how swiftly his decline would proceed.

Yet without a word of discussion, they were both committed to engaging in the most terrific battle of their young lives: the fight to keep their beloved friend alive, and vitally so.

“Does he yet sleep?” Legolas softly inquired, as he crept into their circle.

Elrohir’s glance was apologetic, but the Prince of Greenwood dismissed his contrition with a familiar gesture and positioned himself unadvisably close to the elf-knight. Though regal decorum and the proprieties of his noble position were typically the archer’s most remote considerations, he was enough of a solider to recognize the need to conceal their budding relationship from those in his patrol. Yet by Elrohir’s uncharacteristically blushing account he was also an extremely doting lover, who could not conscionably allow one so dearly held to suffer through this tragedy without his quiet, constant support. As such, his lissome fingers instinctively sought out Elrohir’s own, to rub, clasp, then twine for a pregnant moment; his solemn eyes promising later, private condolences.

“Aye,” Elrohir answered him, then reluctantly slipped his hand away. “Tis a remedial sleep. The wounds clotted rather quickly. His body has… accepted the change.”

“Then there is not even the slightest chance…?” Legolas questioned, with the delicacy of one of deep compassion.

“Nay,” Elladan whispered, struggling to even his tone, to form the wretched word.

“Unlike mannish physiology,” Elrohir elaborated, taking refuge in the formalities of diagnosis. “An elf is entirely dependent on his ear tips to receive and to interpret sounds. Tis for this that the peaks were formed by the Valar. They do not merely refine, or sharpen, our hearing so deftly keen. They are the most vital part of the instrument. To be without them is to exist as a harp without strings, a flute with no spout…” He drew a lengthy breath, weary of spelling out the truth so flagrantly before his obviously grave brother. “His hearing is entirely lost. He is deaf.”

“*Elbereth*,” Legolas swore, cursing for all of them.

“Indeed,” Elrohir seconded, with a faint smile of reassurance for his lover.

“Will he survive it?” Legolas asked hushly, as if even to utter such a thought would lead to its unerring accomplishment. At merely 517 years of age, he was somewhat younger than the twins, as well as far less experienced of the world, sheltered as he was by his Adar’s isolationist tendencies. He had never before battled through the emotional impact of loosing a loved one, though he prayed he never would become accustomed to such black circumstances.

“That is the great irony,” Elladan scowled, his answer envenomed by considerable cynicism. “Tis but a minor injury. A flap of skin, a snip of the gelatinous substance called cartilage, no major organs endangered… a crushed toe would be of greater cause for concern!”

“Physically, that may be so,” Elrohir cautiously chided him, well aware of the vivid, vengeful emotions coursing through his strident twin. “If true sickness comes, twill be in his soul. An elf who can no longer hear the lilting strains of the forest wilds… We fear for him, Legolas, for his continuance and for his sanity.”

“Can the Lord Elrond do nothing for him?” Legolas inquired, his own desperation mounting. “Surely one of his masterful skills…?”

“He may do what even we, the younglings he reared, cannot entirely accomplish,” Elrohir confided, with some resignation yet. “Help him carry on.” As he continued on, his silver eyes were foist not upon his beloved, but impressed quite adamantly upon his maudlin twin. “If any in this Middle-Earth can devise a method of communication for one of such poorly fortune, tis Adar. He is Erestor’s greatest friend. We must place our trust in him.” Ever the diplomat, Elrohir reconsidered his own words after a bout of inspiration. “Adar may be Lord of the valley, but both he and Erestor were instrumental in its inception, in its very creation. Indeed, tis questionable who is the more vital to our lush sanctuary. If we are of Ada’s siring, then Imladris is Erestor’s own conception, entirely dependent on his parental care. We must return there in the swiftest of haste. The valley herself will tend to his renewal. She will see him whole, Elladan.”

Elladan huffed in a not un-Elrondian tone in response, then gazed down at the slumbering advisor with unreadable, yet affecting, eyes. As he pried a clammy strand from Erestor’s slick temple, those quicksilver eyes took on the resilience of the tested, tenacious warrior he was.

“I will not wait upon a valley’s dulcet charms to cosset the soul so widely opened to me,” he vowed, with new fire. “In all our elfling years, he never once denied us succor, sage advice… his compassion. He deserves everything in our power to give, and he will have it. I would gift him the heat of my very flame, if I could.” Almost childlike in the purity of his intentions, Elladan sunk down into the folds of the bedroll and enveloped Erestor in a warming embrace. “He will not fade.”

He tucked his head into the crook of Erestor’s swan-like neck, then gave himself to a long night’s consolation.

**************************************

The dismal, uniform gray of the sky mirrored the murky listlessness of his mood, as had the infested wood they had only lately escaped. The parched desolation of the vast plain before them was no better welcome to him from the vacant climes of fell slumber, where even his dreams of amorphous, shadowy images were bleak as the dead landscape. As the sooty-hided stallion beneath him tramped its way through the shallows of the great, grimy Anduin, he woozily peered up into the swarthy peaks of the Hithaeglir. They towered over him, appeared to mock him, as his perception was as perpetually shroud in mist as their highest crags. Yet there was a necessary peace in the numbing fog that had beset him throughout the long week since his first awakening to the empty, endless silence.

If he could not clearly see the world, then he would not have to mourn its loss.

A brief respite from the coming slap of harsh reality, of truths so unfathomable as to be completely foreign even to one so well traveled as he. An undiscovered country of woes best left raw, primitive, barren as his heart, as bereft of will as he surely was. As the tawny steed lurched up the riverbank, he swayed drunkenly despite the loose tethers of twine that anchored him to its brave rider, his vision swimming, swirling. The wretched nausea, slavish sister to his merciful fugue, clenched his feeble stomach with an iron grip, nearly as brawny as the arms that steadied him, encouraged him to lean back. His skipping head moored in the cove of a salty neck, he was further roped in by the constant, securing embrace that had been his one guideline through the fog. Elladan’s whispers of reassurance were but beads of condensation upon his brow, but their wisps of hazy heat did comfort him some. He burrowed into the folds of the warrior’s cloak and prayed that they would halt soon to set camp, as his upstart innards would not be appeased for long.

Erestor wondered ruefully if there would eventually be an end to the indignities of this most reprehensible condition.

Upon waking that dusky, frigid morn to the hollow vacuum that had become his soundscape, he had not wept, neither then nor since. Of this, he was most proud. The part of him that lived yet was the guardian, the protector of two identical elflings, their tutor in all intellectual arts and their lifelong example of decency. Although they had perhaps prepared themselves for his sorrow, to witness such a tantrum from one they had so longly, innocently admired would have gut them through. Even so groggy with fatigue and so heartbroken at his grievous fate, he had fought to save them from the full affront of his misery. The guilt they still suffered through had been only too readily apparent.

Such corrosive emotion had kept them from fulfilling what, if they had calmed themselves enough to reflect some, they would have understood was his deepest wish in the aftermath of such a crippling calamity. That they had not had the temerity, even ones so valiant as they, had not particularly surprised him. Even mighty Glorfindel, the most stalwart and imposing warrior he had ever known, would not have been able to perform the necessary sacrifice without lifelong regrets. Erestor recognized immediately that he would have to act alone, in stealthy secret, to end his life. This, however, was not executed with ease, given his weakened and sickly state. Indeed, as his flame had not been quietly extinguished whilst sleeping – which would have been infinitely preferable – he would regrettably have to regain a considerable portion of his strength in order to finish himself off. The added pain this would cause his beloved twins had stayed him so far; the means would have to be so blatantly an act of self will that they would never doubt the decisiveness of his own, private resolution.

In his few truly lucid moments of the past few days, he had troubled himself over how to best accomplish this unaided. He had encountered few decent solutions upon the winding path of his reasoning. The primary difficult was that his balance had not yet returned, his inner ear still traumatized by the shock of its exterior’s brutal severing. He could barely manage to grapple from the fireside to his bedroll without Elladan’s firm hold to guide him, let alone sneak away under the veil of night to do himself mischief. Indeed, he wondered if he even had the strength to smite himself; he would also have to devise some means of death that did not require him to self-inflict a stab, choke, or maim. Murder was a confounding business when one’s own self was the victim…

Yet he was not so far trenched in the mire of gloom as to forgo the few pleasantries available to him before his end. Even so tragic an elf as he was wise enough to spoil himself as best he could before sailing off to Mandos, thus whatever scheme he eventually resolved upon would necessarily have to involve some ritual indulgences beforehand. The parties that enjoyed these pleasures along with him might not themselves know the purpose of such revels, but this was an easily forgivable deception. Indeed, he hoped that, afterwards, they would be heartened by the memory of those final, shared moments, cherish then as he would as he wafted through the Halls of Awaiting.

Erestor knew precisely what this black celebration must absolutely include. Ever since they had taken up their journey home, Elladan had committed himself to every aspect of the advisor’s care, but most especially his physical comfort. After a long day of riding as the others set up camp, he would ease him onto a cushy patch of green, cleanse him of any lingering sweat, unwind his braids and brush out his hair, then treat him to a thorough massage. Erestor would often be napping before those nimble, narcotic fingers worked down to his hips, so relaxing were these tension-vetting sessions. Even more luxurious were the plush slopes of Elladan’s broad chest, upon which he slept night after snug night. To be dragged from the cozy cocoon of their bed roll each morn was abject torture for him; only in his former charge’s chaste, caring embrace had he found even the merest measure of solace this last week. He wished he could secretly down a fatal dose of hemlock, then drift into eternity wrapped in those doting arms, but he knew only too well that Elladan might soon follow him to Mandos, if he woke to discover himself cradling his dearest tutor’s lifeless form.

Yet neither could he continue to haunt this world in his present form, a ghost among glorious beings, a shell of his former self. He could not imagine an existence apart from the throbbing heart of Imladris, which he himself had envisioned, then made real as surely as Elbereth had sown the green of Arda splendorous. If the daily routine of Imladris was a symphony, then he was its conductor; and while he was not so vain as to believe that it would strike dissonant without him, he knew that he himself could not survive without its lively melody ringing through his ears. He was acutely aware of his swaddled-to-bosom position over the hearts of the valley’s myriad inhabitants. They relied on him, depended upon him, yet so crippled they would alienate him, cast him out of their thriving core. How could they fail to do so? He would not be able to communicate with them, not sufficiently to take up his former office. He would be relegated to the library, where a quill and ample parchment would ever be at hand to field their occasional request. There, in his hermitage, he would wile away the hours in the admittedly lofty company of the great scribes of elfkind, his fellow phantoms, for those who had not sailed west had perished in one of the wars.

He was not that elf. Many who visited Imladris on a diplomatic mission often mistook him for cold, severe, or uncaring. Even by his own humble estimation, nothing could be further from the truth. He may behave thusly at the negotiating table, but to his familiars he was warm of spirit, wry of wit, and generous of heart. When he was not being visited by one of his countless friends resident in the other three elven cities, he was entertaining those nearest and dearest to him in the foyer of his rooms. He may be fiendishly dedicated to his work, but he only saw this as an extension of his ripe, resplendent life at the Last Homely House. Indeed, Imladris and her upkeep *was* his life’s work, which included the enrichment of her people at one of his evening soirees. If he retired early, twould only be to enjoy the company of a lover, though none about the valley would ever hear rumor of any affair. He was too well respected to be the fodder of gossip, both for the grace with which he executed his office and for his sensual prowess in the loving arts. Once their passions were spent, whether after months or years of togetherness, his lovers were often blended into his circle of closest friends. He understood that carnality was always best attended by tenderness, which could then segue into other aspects of the relationship. Though he chose his bed companions carefully, they had all been casual, intermittent, and monogamous affairs. None had ever truly captured his heart, perhaps his only regret in the face of his imminent demise.

Such a wave of sickness suddenly broke over him that he was forced to swallow back an acrid, bilious mouthful of ill. The steed slowed its quick canter at its rider’s behest; Elladan instinctively sensed the sluggishness of his charge. After some quick adjustments, he was lowered down from the horse in a dizzying motion. So vertiginous was this one, painfully common action that he shoved his stunned helpers away, fell hard on his knees, then vomited quite pathetically across the already yellowed field of dry grass. No less than the Prince of Greenwood himself held back his tousled sheathes of hair, while Elrohir stroked and soothed his trembling back. Yet the handkerchief that wiped his mouth once he had retched out the entirely of his insides was undeniably Elladan’s, though he could not bring himself to lift his head, to gaze into those argent eyes awash in the most insufferable pity. He would purge himself all over again if made to face such a sight, the babe he had coddled, the child he had consoled, the youth he had nurtured to gallantry staring at him with the most misguided sympathy imaginable.

Grieve not for me, he wished he could tell him, for I am resolved to my fate. Grieve for the years of fraternity stolen from us. Grieve that I will never see you giddy with first love, triumphant in your first proper war, bound to your heart’s treasure, father to a wilding brood. Grieve for the peredhel choice that might steal you from me forever, should I pass on to Mandos, for that is the true tragedy of my condition. That I might never see my twins again, should I toss myself over the cliffside.

The cliffside.

As he was carried over to their hastily set up camp, Erestor did indeed raise his head, to gaze up into the jagged spires of the Hithaeglir. He saw his destiny there, his demise, and thanked the Valar for this small pittance of inspiration.

***********************************

Glacial blasts of wind bit sharp at his cheeks, its howl as shrill as a Nazgul’s shriek. He flopped a fringe of his cloak over his frost-ruddy face, but the woolly cloth only itched at his nose. With a rumbling groan of frustration, he wormed himself in closer to Erestor, who had strangely clamped himself to Elrohir. Not once in eight long nights had the darkling elf escaped his cozy embrace. Elladan instantly feared that he was fevered, as restlessness in repose was one of its chief symptom, as well as overheating even in such a chill climate. Although reluctant to disturb him if he had found some measure of rest huddled against the elf-knight – and equally reluctant to expose his bare hand to the vicious cold – he nevertheless untwined his fingers from the threadbare blanket that covered him and reached out to test his patient’s brow.

The resulting snicker was a surprise, even to one so stoic as he. The elf before him wriggled around to face him, eyebrow peaked in peerless Elrondian form. One would expect nothing less from his own son.

Elrohir was as shocked, then concerned, then outright distressed to note that it was Elladan, and not Erestor, hugging to his back. They had fallen into the routine of positioning the advisor between them, so that he might benefit from both the warmth of their bodies and the nurturing of their twin bond whilst slumbering. Neither would hesitate to admit to ranking authorities that they had also done this to ensure not only his security, but so that they would sense any movement. They were not so naïve, nor so green of the world, as to not have considered what measures Erestor might entertain to end the agony he was so vividly embroiled in. While they had given such ideas only the briefest, at times unspoken, consideration, these black thoughts loomed – ever present – at the back of their minds, their every decision informed by what they refused to concede to.

As such, both brothers instantly threw off their covers and leapt to their feet, scouring the area for any sign of the sickly elf even as they buckled their swordbelts. They barked a quick word to Legolas, who was also clamoring out of his bedroll, to rally the guard for a thorough search of the shelf, though there was barely space enough for them to make camp. Faced with the reality that Erestor would only have had to stumble a few paces eastward to reach a decent precipice, they raced to the nearest edge, but the drop was yet too black to yield the necessary sight to even elven eyes. Any tracks he might have left were equally invisible, though they doubted any decent imprint would have been dusted over such hard rock. Both grew more resigned, when faced with how well their friend had planned his suicide leap.

They had no choice but to climb higher, skirting the cliffside for any scrap or speck of indication that Erestor had passed there. They did so with all the rapt efficacy of those trained by the Balrog-slayer himself; leaving not a stray leaf unturned, reasoning that he would rather move higher than lower, finally gleaning upon his desire to reach to topmost shelf, so as to view the Rivendell valley one last time, before he dove off. This ignited a faint flame of hope within them. The valley below was presently shroud in darkness. Perhaps Erestor would wait until the first rays of dawn, on this overcast night of little moonlight? They prayed it was so.

At last, they bound onto the highest shelf of this particular traversing path, just as a peachy aura fumed up over the horizon. There, naked body bathed as sweetly as babe on his birthing day in the rosy cast of first light, stood Erestor. Though both gulped down a heady sigh of relief, they were not fool enough to think themselves, or their fraught charge, in the clear. The darkling elf was hovering perilously close to the edge, seemingly transfixed by the golden hues flooding the lush slopes of his beloved Rivendell valley. In typically Erestorian fashion, he had removed his clothes, far too respectful of his seamstress’ craftsmanship to mar them with blood and gore. They were neatly folded on a nearby rock, a tidily bound scroll peaking out from under his cloak. Where he had found the implements, the balance, and the time to write them of his intentions, neither twin could guess at. Nevertheless, they were touched by this evidence of his concern for their state of mind, so much that they intuited in this choice the dimmest glimmer of reluctance to end himself.

Where there was care, there was heart. Where there was heart, there was a will – however mangled, maimed, or wounded – to live.

Their battle instincts took over immediately. The emotional alchemy of the situation was daunting. They had to meld just the right mixture of condolence, reproach, shaming, and affection into their appeal, all this while not startling him into an accidental step forward. As he was fearfully close to the edge, some manner of physical intimidation must be employed, if not some deliberate overpowering. With his hearing gone, he was rather dangerous to approach altogether, though they did begin to inch towards his left side, attempting to get a better view of his stricken face. The tenor of feeling reflected there would guide them towards the proper manner for his rescue; at least, they prayed that this might be a valuable indicator to them.

Once in position, Elladan could not fail to mark the haunting beauty of the tragic canvass before him, but most affectingly the ethereal desolation of the elf himself. Erestor’s crystalline eyes were rapt on the dawning valley, his skin as pristine as the finest porcelain. The wilding wind flared his luxurious ebony hair into a rather majestic mane. His pale, lithe body cut against the mountain vista like a diamond shard, as if he was bred of snow and ice, a sprite of rock and stone. He was immaculate, elemental, the purest creature Elbereth had ever born. Elladan knew in that precarious instant that he loved him, that his heart’s longing had never been misguided or immature, but the will of the Valar blooming within him. He would not loose his winter flower over the mountainside. He would not let his black swan fly out into the ether. He would seize him back from the precipice by the sheer force of his heart; there was, after all, no other way to save him.

Suddenly, encouragingly, Erestor began to weep.

Great, groaning sobs shook his thin body like a leaf in a gale, so forceful that he could do naught but sink to the ground. Blessedly, he crawled away from the edge, clutching onto a boulder for comfort as his bleats became grieving, gutting wails. So violent did his sorrow become that the twins momentarily wondered if they should, indeed, intervene, as Erestor was as likely to scratch out at them – still a treacherous prospect so close to emptiness – as he was to surrender himself to their succor. Clinging desperately to their last strands of composure in the face of such utter spiritual anguish, they prowled up onto the higher ledge, still maintaining distance enough to spring back should they be sighted.

Spent of his more vociferous sadness, Erestor began to whimper, as if a caged, tortured animal. He pressed his tear-sodden cheek to the flat face of the boulder, his eyelids drooping in the first telltale signs of exhaustion. Elladan and Elrohir were relieved to mark that he probably had not strength enough to accomplish his grave task, even better was the easily discernable, though wretchedly forlorn, plea for them to find him there. They were unsure if Erestor himself was even aware that he had uttered such a summons, however feebly and unintentionally he might have done so. They did not stop to ponder this, but raced to his side, gathering him up before any argument could be broached and transporting him immediately back to their camp. Indeed, Elladan could not by urged to release him for ought but his swift dressing for hours after, if only in tribute to the realization that had flamed his heart effulgent.

The gratitude that shone from Erestor’s tear-streaked face was matched only by the dark shroud of his contrition, though neither lingered long once he’d drunk his fill of hot tea and he drifted into a heavy, remedial sleep. Yet despite his need for rest, neither of the twins thought it best to tarry long on a mountain shelf with Erestor so despairing. Both felt that the valley herself would soothe him best of all. With help from his rather accommodating steed, Elladan was able to mount with his dear one bound tightly to him, neither forgoing his vow to cradle him the day long nor delaying their progress even a minute past conscience. Indeed, as they clopped down to the easier incline of the oft perilous path, Elladan could not help but feel a surge of feeling within.

This was not the previous soulful spark, but a more satisfying sense of peace. The worst was behind them, now. Erestor had faced his sorrow, let himself be overcome, pressed himself to the limits of his capabilities, and found he clung to life. Though there would doubtlessly be incredibly arduous trials ahead for them both, Elladan took a chance to relish his good fortune, to renew his vow of vigilance over his newly beloved. While he would hardly overwhelm him with the force of his affections, neither would the elf-warrior allow his former tutor to glower through his existence isolated, abandoned, or unloved. For the present time, he would dedicate himself to his healing, in body and in spirit.

Yet when the time proved rightful, he would woo him.

*************************************

Twas as if he was trapped in an ever-perpetuating dream, in a never-ending cycle of surreality, of somnolent lucidity. True wakefulness was a questionable state, for even when he was supposedly conscious he felt disconnected, a helpless spectator to the sprawling drama of his former life. The silence, his equally aggravating and anesthetizing nemesis, was an invisible, vacuous barrier he could not breach. The dulcet routine of Imladris rolled ever on behind the spongy glass of his transparent bubble-cage, figures wandering in and out of the Healing Halls, shafts of light slowly creeping up the walls, pools of shadow flooding the tiled floor as night bled into day. That he had once been so swept up in the constant course of the Homely House that he could steer it clear of any shoals or reefs that might impede its path seemed but a distant memory, one unrelated to any tactile sensation that managed to break through the numbing fog that had swallowed him up.

He suspected Elrond kept him on a steady stream of intoxicants, his bitter teas concealing the blighting venom blended within. For one who had watched his beloved ruler and his greatest friend fall to the hounds of war, the Lord of Imladris had been aghast at the sight of him, his healer’s composure absconded entirely. Erestor had been sentient enough in Elladan’s arms to comprehend that, as they stood in the bloom-dappled springtime courtyard, Elrond had blanched at the news of his attempted suicide. He had understood that the race to the Healing Halls had been silent not just for him, but for all, as the Son of Earendil painfully digested the grim reality of the circumstance.

As Elladan had bathed and tended him, Elrond had done naught but absently observe them, his gray eyes stuck on the tender pieta before him but the mind behind those sage argent orbs scrounging for some method by which such an atrocity might be fully absorbed. When he had finally deigned to examine him, he had done so timidly, delicately where he was usually much more firm. His diagnosis had been nothing more than a long, warm hug, after which he bade Erestor rest awhile. The Lord had selected several musty volumes from his reference shelf, then slunk off to his study, leaving Elladan to gawk after him. The elf-warrior’s jaw set with an all-too-familiar air of defiance as he struggled to rein in his rumbling temper. By the flush of his face, Erestor could vividly see him reminding himself of the myriad reasons that he should not underestimate his Adar, that the various shades of their millennia-spanning relationship was something he could not justly appraise from a son’s vantage, that this condition was one without precedent.

Twas perhaps then that he had resolved to treat Erestor as he felt his father should be. In the week since, Elladan had been the only one who had broke through the brume that overcast his cloudy head, the only touch that made his skin tickle in recognition, the only arms in which he found true solace. Without the benefit of a single, scrawled word communicated between them, Elladan intuited his every need, interpreted even his groggiest look to those around him. He had the cooks prepare not his favorite dishes, but those he both preferred and that would be gentle to his oft tipsy stomach. From the library, he brought not the volumes he was instructed to bring – a mild irritation at times – but those he felt would be the most evocative to Erestor in such a depressive state. The advisor had had no idea that he even knew their collection so well. While he could not conscionably devote his entire day to sitting at his bedside, he continued to curl up with him every night, as well as discreetly attend to his washing, clothing, and grooming. When Elladan was near, he did not feel as if swathed in a gigantic ball of cotton, but as if floating down a placid river; still ephemeral, but delightfully so.

Though he mourned his lost life as the caretaker of his dear Imladris, he was quietly preparing himself for the tremendous challenge of forging a new life here, if only in tribute to the one who had given so much of himself, and this only to save him.

His resurrection was nearly complete. Just that morn, at Elladan’s insistence, he was allowed to undertake the lengthy stroll from the Healing Halls to his own suite of rooms. Elrond had still not quite cast off his doleful look, but he had ably supported him throughout the journey, prolonged by Erestor’s weighty fatigue. Yet the Lord had quite imperiously stared down any whose appalled eyes lingered a second too long upon them, the pointed eyebrow of their impending doom inciting them to scurry hastily away. They had even shared a smile or two at the retreat of these meek-willed interlopers; by the time they reached the ornate doors to his suite, Elrond was visibly snickering.

Twas then that the most stunning development in his strange and tortured path to wellness occurred, one not entirely unprecedented, but certainly unexpected.

/I’ll leave you now, as your steward awaits, his friend whispered into his mind. If you are able, willing, then on the morrow we will meet to discuss the methods of communication available to you. For there are many, gwador, fear not./

Erestor nearly fainted from sheer astonishment, as these were the first sounds he had heard since that fateful battle. While the shock of this revelation did pique Elrond’s sense of playfulness, he was not so crude as to even chuckle at his friend’s expense.

As he embraced his dear advisor anew, he beamed words of comfort within him.

/I am so very glad to see you home, my great friend. Enjoy the evening, and be kind to your loyal steward. He is terribly anxious to please. Indulge yourself to the fullest, and may the Valar keep you well./

Only once he inched past the entranceway, into the cool, dismal foyer of his long abandoned suite did a tremor of regret seize him. Elrond had spoken of indulgence, of a steward appointed to him, but there was no sign of life amidst the dank air and the dust motes. As he lurched into the center of the room, the shutting of the portal behind closed out the last of the light. Despite all that was meant but minutes before, he felt the sadness well up in his throat. Was this to be his eternal cell? Was he so wretched as to be imprisoned here until doomsday? *Could* he find within himself the wherewithal to be bold, to claim back what was so long entitled to him, to ingratiate himself anew into elven society, or was this stark room all that was left for him?

The spill of soft, amber light across the floor announced the opening of his bedchamber doors. A familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette awaited him there, a veil of shadow obscuring the sweet, welcoming smile that no doubt twined his lips. Elladan must have immediately seen his astonishment, if not his encroaching sorrow, for he swiftly beckoned for him. Once through the looking glass, Erestor was only too heartened to discover a room meticulously prepared for leisurely repose. The crisp, briny sent of ocean wafted from the bathing chamber, where a bath had no doubt been drawn for him. Various massage oils stood guard beside a cushy cot, a banquette was spread with a rich selection of culinary delights, and the bed itself had been primped, plumped into a snug oasis of purest luxury. Best of all, his ‘steward’ was at the ready, at his side, waiting on his order to begin their mutual indulgence.

He glanced over at his former charge, whose twinkling eyes told him that he was only too impishly pleased with himself. He appraised the young elf, though at roughly eight hundred odd years he was nearly above the title, through the guise of his suddenly matured perspective. He had developed into a sterling creature, this little one who had been so relentlessly needful of his attention. Indeed, Erestor searched vainly for any trace of that perspicacious youngling in this able warrior, in this eloquent adult, in the ripened elf who had finally won – through compassion alone – his friendship as a peer. If this harrowing tragedy could be said to have a goodly aspect, then the seasoning of their companionship was certainly one.

As he surrendered himself to sense-rousing indulgence, he knew he was in the safest of hands.


End of Part One