Immortality

Title: Immortality
Author: destinial
Part: Prologue-1/?
Pairing: Many pairings according to the Ages
Rating: NC17/R
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns these elves, the history, Middle-earth and my soul. No profit is made- even if there is, I’d be spending it on Tolkien.
Warning: Angst (no one can live that long without it), violence in some parts, explicit sexual content/slash- I’ll add the rest as I go along.
Beta: Agie and Athos, thanks tons. Perry did the final go-through.
Summary: Erestor's story through Four Ages of Arda. I am just a tad insane.
Authors Note: I am a historian by profession, which means I love dwelling long and hard into details that make an Age alive. Worse, I am, rather, part of history. For me this is indulgence; for readers, well I guess my plots just don’t move fast enough.

Prologue

Immortality is the curse of my race. Few can understand the pain, the grief and the undying anguish of time and tide, the exhaustion of bearing up against change and evolution. The oak mourns the death of generation after generation of squirrels, who hole up in his trunk and whose ceaseless chatter entertain the unmoving tree and inform him of unknown wonders. His grief weighs heavily on his branches and he droops with each age, finally accepting the gift of painless death. The cliff weeps longingly at the sea with each wave crashing against him, each time a different one, until at last he wears himself into the grave of fathomless water. The elf has no such respite. In death we live still, and the torments and sorrows follow us thence.

Each joy costs us insurmountable sorrows. Happiness is a luxury, which calls for a price not all of us are able to pay. For the elvenkind has one perfect flaw: our hearts - we love deeply, irrevocably and with the greatest of passion given to Eru’s creation. Few elves could have lived on Arda as long as I did, not because of famine and disease, war and strife, or even the dark forsaken evil- few could have suffered the ages of time because of grief, for who could live that long without loss? That is why souls prefer to remain within Mandos’ Halls, where emotions are muted and the heart’s yearnings a distant murmur.

But I digress. Melancholy creeps upon you at the most inopportune of times. I have paid the necessary ransom for my current content and my only pain lies in reminiscence. Yet reminiscence is the reason why I am penning this. I have lived long, long enough to see the history of Elvenkind play out on Arda, long enough to have seen the light of the Two Trees and long enough to have known six generations in Elrond’s family. Even for an elf I am aged, though not quite as old as Mithrandir and Cirdan. My husband, the dearest of my heart, often speculates on when I would actually sprout a beard! He conveniently ignores the fact that he is, in truth, older than I, even if his body has not seen as much weariness.

How did I live on Arda for as long as I did? Did I not love? Of course, I did and still do. I have kept one love all my long years. Did I not lose him then? I did, I loved and I lost, and I survived till I found him again. Not because I was stronger than most elves, but because of a promise. I could not fade, I could not languish into the darkness because of a single promise that bonded me to the fate of Arda, a simple promise that had forced me to wait decades, centuries till he would return to me. A promise that I can still blackmail my husband with.

I am a born loremaster, I am the keeper of scrolls. It seems only fitting that I should write of my own. This is the story of my life, the story of Arda and above all, the story of the love that I, Erestor of the House of the Fountain, advisor and councilor to the elven Kings, share with Glorfindel, famed Lord of the Golden Flower, Balrog Slayer and Seneschal of Imladris. (He insisted on the titles- an epic of a love story requires some touch of formality he says- unfortunately, the only epic here is his ego.)

As my husband said, I am a closet romantic. I’d add that he is the closet dramatist.

Now I would have started in Valinor, in the Age of the Great Journey when both of us were born, but that lovable oaf refuses to admit he is that old. You hear it from me first, he is older than the sun and the moon and much older than even Galadriel. Not that Galadriel would ever admit to her age either.

I could have started at the time of the Crossing, the banishment of the Noldor and the curse of Silmarils, but it would be much too insensitive, now that I am overlooking the once bloodied shores of Alqualonde.

Or I could have started the story at the Battle under the Stars or Feast of the Reuniting, but that would have made the story more tedious than it is going to be. Fingolfin is one of the most long-winded elves ever to grace Eru’s creation, more so than even Elrond, if you can even imagine that.

No. I shall begin in the city of Gondolin, the city that both Glorfindel and I helped built and protect. Except that in those days, it was called Ondolindë of course. I shall spare you, the reader, the agony of reading my many drafts and many plans in the building of the city and go on straight to the one place that my beloved husband could not survive without… the training fields of the House of the Fountain.

Now that is hardly the most romantic place to start.



Chapter 1

80 years since the rising of the sun

Erestor leaned against the arm of the bench, propping his head with his arm even as he twirled his knife idly in his other hand. Boredom was beginning to get to him- the sparring in the training fields between his cousin and his second captain was hardly any excitement since the eventual victor was beyond a shadow of a doubt. His silky tresses of violet night came perilously close to being cut off by an accidental swipe as he twirled the knife faster in sheer frustration. Oh Valar, will this bout never end?

He was dying to get away from the dusty, noisy, smelly, less than entertaining training fields to his wonderfully quiet and reflective study where his beloved tome on ancient designs was waiting. The House of Fountains was expected to have some decent fountains after all and how could he build what Turgon requested if he did not have time to work on it? Muttering under his breath, Erestor made a soft promise that if Ecthelion didn’t end the spar soon, he would personally end the misery with a well placed blade.

*Swi-ish*

His knife found its home swiftly, before the flying projectile could reach his face. The two halves of the apple fell to the floor and droplets of juice caught on his tunic. Irritated, he glared at the perpetrator who threw the offending object.

Glorfindel grinned, “What a waste of an apple. I thought it would have caught you.” Making a mock toast with the apple in his hand, he bit into the sweet juicy fruit. He was clad in his casual robes, which was meant as his main defence against any ‘invitations’ to spar, especially when he was venturing into Ecthelion’s training fields. Ever since Egalmoth, long may his name be cursed, suggested a bet in a match between Ecthelion and himself, the two of them had not been able to practise in peace. As a consequence, he tried not to show up in mail or armour when he was expecting to see Ecthelion.

“Do you have a death wish, ‘Fin?”

“Can’t squander immortality. I take it that the match is getting too long for your liking?” Joining his friend on the bench, he gestured at Ecthelion, who was working up into another parry with Hathel. Erestor did not reply, but resumed his original posture, playing unthinkingly with his knife.

“Careful with the knife, will you, ‘Tor?” Glorfindel ducked out of reach when the knife came too close for comfort. His comment only earned him a sidelong glare and a more vicious spin of the said blade, which did manage to catch a few strands this time. Glorfindel winced and moved out of reach- Erestor in a bad mood was usually unduly sadistic. “If you really want to, why don’t you just go back to your room now?”

Erestor scowled, “Do you think I would still be here if I could just go back to my room? That blustering elf fooling around with that blundering sword of his has my key in his pocket.” Two more spins, which made Glorfindel wish he had worn his armour after all.

“He does have a point. We haven’t seen you out of your room for ages, gwador. Some fresh air is good for you.”

“Does the air here seem any fresher to you? I stay next to the glade. Birds chirping, nice foliage of green, flowers even and if I was given enough peace in there longer, I would have the water flowing into my room. And this,” Erestor jabbed in the air with exasperation, “is a field of elves, all of whom obviously need the water in their rooms- if only to remind them to bathe.”

Glorfindel cringed, seeing how he was usually one of those said elves on the field.

“My glade. My peace. My room.” Erestor spat, spinning his knife at the poor beleaguered elf’s nose. Watching the golden eyebrow freeze, he rolled his eyes and stood up abruptly. Drawing his other knife, he declared, “This is it. I have had enough.”

Before he could storm off to break the match and hopefully break Ecthelion’s bones while he was at it, Glorfindel grabbed his arm. “Come on, ‘Tor, don’t be rash now. Hathel is rather innocent after all. He isn’t the one with your key.”

Glowering, Erestor moved his arm out of the grip. “I know. That is why I am going to help him end this match.” Doing a quick swipe at Glorfindel’s hand which moved as quickly out of reach, the irate elf moved with a decided purpose and vicious blades towards his target.

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Ecthelion was beginning to enjoy his match. Hathel never failed to put up a decent challenge and more importantly, never failed to be baited. Sparring was just different when spiced with insults and curses. It was pointless otherwise- victory was just too matter of fact if it didn’t go down with distempered grace. Having to sit through all the Council meetings with Turgon meant he was getting increasingly irritated with polite, meaningless diplomatic tongue- which made the string of galling curses sprouting from Hathel quite so welcomed.

Dodging a swing to his left, Ecthelion did a quick step forward and tapped Hathel on his ribs with his blade before moving swiftly out of the way again. “You know, peniaur, I could have killed you several times over by now.”

Another string of curses came tumbling. Biting on his words, Hathel did another lunge at the smiling Ecthelion, “Why. Don’t. You?”

“Why, because it would be rather mean of me to end this too early wouldn’t it? Bullying the old and all.” Ecthelion deftly dodged the lunge and swung his shield down on the blade. He would have followed up with his blade, if he hadn’t noticed his doom marching towards him.

Moving his shield to deflect the two knives bearing on him, he grimaced inwardly. This match was about to get a lot nastier. “Mae govannen ‘Tor. Glad you could join us.” Ecthelion practically ran from the ceaseless kicks from his cousin.

Erestor lunged low, his knives aiming at Ecthelion’s calves, exposed from the shield. Growling in his throat, he attempted to trip the other elf, who quickly side stepped. Glorfindel ran up to join Hathel, realizing rather belatedly that he couldn’t well intervene when he was in casual garb and more importantly, weaponless. Placing a hand on Hathel’s shoulder, he commented, “He got a little impatient.”

Hathel grumbled, “He didn’t have to spoil a perfectly decent match. Though I wouldn’t mind overly much if he mince that dastardly elf.”

By this time the other sparring partners had dropped their practice, watching the deadly duet between the two cousins with immense interest. A whirl of raven black braids flew in beautiful accompaniment to silver mail and tunic and the music of well-met metal. Ecthelion was of a stronger build, glorious in all his height- his eyes gleaming with a wild pleasure, his shield glistening from the sun and his sword a whirling vision. “He could have blinded with the brilliancy he shone”, Glorfindel mused to himself, “and they say the sun blessed me. Nay, silver is the colour of sunbeams”.

Erestor had none of the strength that his cousin portrayed. One could not see the wind after all, only the strength of its effect- he dazzled with his speed, his blades twinkling and contact could only be heard. He could have been dancing and no one would be any wiser. The trainees, many unused to the sight of Turgon’s adviser in such magnificent fury, had their eyes trained on the dancing figure. Glorfindel, who had often been on the receiving end of Erestor’s blades for helping to plead Ecthelion’s case, was more amused than entranced. “He’s going to have another legion of fans and before we know it, there’ll be more innocent fools who’ll disturb his peace no end.”

Forcing Ecthelion into a constant retreat, Erestor left his opponent no room to breathe.

“Never thought…” –huff, dodge- “…you’d join me.”
“My key.”
“I can’t reach for it…” –huff, dodge, dodge-“… if I have to use my sword arm, can I?”
“Mine.”
“Sure,” dodge, sidestep “…yours,” –dodge-“… I’ll gladly get it for you. Now if you’ll just let me get it.”
“I’ll get it myself.’
“I don’t doubt, but those knives of yours are rather..” –dodge- “nasty.”
*Growl*
“I’m really sorry…”-dodge- “…I kept you waiting…”-dodge- “…really” -dodge-

Taking a broad step, Erestor moved beyond the shield, and raising his knee to Ecthelion’s groin, he bore the larger elf to the ground, ending with his blade to bear on his prey’s throat. Close enough to break skin, he snarled, “My. Key.”

Ecthelion replied between laboured breaths, “Right” and released a light groan when Erestor finally eased his knee off the more than sensitive area of his body. Knife still poised at his cousin’s throat, Erestor reached for the right pocket woven into the undertunic and retrieved his key. Giving one last snarl, he got off his cousin and marched off, muttering about showers.

Glorfindel came up to the sorry sight sprawled on the ground and grimaced in sympathy when he noticed the nick on the elf’s throat, “Hurt you, didn’t he?” He got only a groan for an answer. He extended a hand to help the poor elf up.

“That. Was.” –huff-“below the belt.” Ecthelion grabbed the offered hand and stood up against the pain.

“You should have known better than to drag him out off his precious room when he is in the middle of work. He hates interruptions.” Glorfindel shook his head and made a mental note again to wear nothing short of mithril armour around Erestor for the next few days.

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“Oh confound it. Where on earth is that salve? See it when I don’t need it, miss it when I do.” Lindir muttered to himself as he busied around the healing room. He had injured his finger restringing his harp and needed the salve to hasten the healing. Feeling irritated with himself –a healer who did not even know where his medication was, hah- the silver-haired elf started singing a ditty of unpredictable charm. “Elbereth Lady of Stars be kind, guide me please to what is mine. For a thing I lost and is somewhere around, please tell me where it can be found; Elbereth sweet Lady you ah Found you. Always knew you were dependable, Lady.”

Lindir poured some of the salve onto his fingers, blowing gently on them. The long slender fingers were not only talented on the strings but also extremely gentle with his patients, making him one of the most popular healers around. His soft and demure looks probably did not help his workload either. Silver white hair so rare among the elves framed his heart shaped face, and long white lashes misted over his doe-like blue eyes. A chain of crystals dangled from one ear drawing attention to his slender neck and his dark navy tunic clung to his petite form. It is no wonder elves streamed into his healing rooms in hope of more than bedside manners.

He was just about to keep the bottle away, when two huge forms came blundering into healing room.

“Tinu, help!” Ecthelion sprawled across one of the beds, groaning in mock agony. Lindir stared open-mouthed at the sight of the great Lord, protector of the gates, captain of the king’s guards valiantly playing dead and turned accusingly at Glorfindel.

Putting his hands up in denial, Glorfindel fended off the glare, “Not me, I didn’t do anything. Not I at all. I have been the poor beleaguered bystander in all this. First ‘Tor glared at me and now you too. Elbereth, why me?”

Lindir raised a sardonic eyebrow at the moaning mess. “I take it that you went against the healer’s advice. What did he do to you?”

Ecthelion whined pitifully, “He tried to kill me. See?” He pointed to the nick on his throat which was still bleeding. Lindir’s eyes widened at the sight and he approached the bed to have a closer look. Tilting Ecthelion’s chin, which caused another exaggerated moan, he fingered the area around the throat gingerly. Standing up he took a basin of water from the little fountain, which incidentally was built by Erestor himself, and a cloth from the cupboard and proceeded to gently clean the wound.

“But that’s not where it hurts most.” Glorfindel cheekily added. He never could figure why these elves were so dense when the whole world could see the fog of attraction between the Lord and the healer. It was obvious enough for the book keeper at the Heavenly Arch to withdraw the betting pool- but no, these two elves continued their innocent belief that it was entirely their shared love for music. Two hundred years since the Crossing and they still believed it was music.

“Die, Glorfindel.” “Where else are you hurt?” The two elves replied simultaneously.

“Why, ‘Tor’s very well placed knee made the cruelest injury that could be done on an ellon” Glorfindel grinned. “Maybe you should check if the *cough* injury is serious. He does seem to be in a great deal of pain.”

Lindir blushed to his roots and glared at Glorfindel, before scuttling to his table to retrieve the bottle of salve he was using earlier. “I did tell you not to disturb his peace, didn’t I?” Still blushing he began to dab the salve on the neck’s wound, ignoring Glorfindel’s chuckle.

Ecthelion was tempted to swing his sword at the blooming idiot, but he doubted that Lindir would approve of the violence. Hitching his breath as the healer came close enough for him to feel his breath, he strained a reply, “He cannot be stuck in there all day.”

“You know as well as I that he would have returned to the world once he figured out his latest puzzle, and you did hear our lady’s joy when she learnt about the newest project.” Lindir moved in a little closer to ensure greatest caution in applying the salve.

Ecthelion felt strangely breathless but reckoned that any elf with a hole in his neck would find it hard to breathe. “The fountain that Turgon wants will take him decades to build! Besides once he builds this one, Turgon will find another project for him to work on. I haven’t seen much of him ever since he started building this White -ouch-” he winced from a particular sting.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. Did it hurt overly much? Are you alright?” Lindir looked up with concern and was relieved only by the twinkle in the other’s eyes.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes at the duo and inched towards the door, just about to make himself scarce and disappear into the kitchens to see what bribes he could cajole out of the cook to placate a certain irate elf.
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Not really heeding Glorfindel’s departure, Ecthelion and Lindir held each other’s eyes and chuckled.

TBC...