Silent Flight -Complete

Title: Silent Flight: The Wild Swans
Author: destinial
Part: 1/?
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. *shuffles feet* (It is not everyday that an author whose work you so admire edits your work. Thank you!) I claim sole responsibility for mistakes.
Summary: An elvish take of The Wild Swans, a fairy tale that is reminiscent of Celtic lore.
Authors Note: This is my attempt in meeting the Fairytales Challenge and I am probably insane to write something like this as a first fic, but I have never been known for sensibility.

Beneath the white, majestic mountains, where mist clothed all in a mysterious white, lived an elven lord of old, who had ten sons. Born and bred in the forest of Eriador, the brothers- princes among elves- were of glorious build and wondrous strength. They bore majestic arms inherited from the ancient wealth and they were well-accustomed to using their weapons.

All but youngest of them, Erestor was born on a cold winter night, the eve before the flight from Doriath and was thus slighter of build and ill of health. Their mother had passed into Mandos’ Halls that fateful night and Erestor became the joy and love of the family. The brothers guarded him well and his father gave him all the tomes and scrolls of knowledge he had kept with him.

Freed from his bond on his wife’s deathbed, their father had succumbed to the loneliness of immortality and married another elleth, a marriage that was welcomed by the children at first. The elleth Ariendhel was kind and loving, quiet and supportive. Well skilled in the woven arts of healing and magic, she taught the children many wondrous things. Though happiness was scarce, they were at least content.

This was not to last. Unwilling to follow the sons of Feanor and unable to find Turgon, the elven lord had fled into the deepest reaches of Fangorn with his family. He knew safety among the trees and he was a friend to their shepherds- none could harm his family in the shrouded shelter within. But the reaches of evil worked in inexplicable ways and its tendril caught Ariendhel’s mind. She began to resent having to abandon the comforts among her kin and kith, and she could find nothing but acidic jealousy and eventually cold hatred for the children, upon whom the elven lord had heaped every luxury.

The sons remained oblivious to this evil that had insidiously seeped into her heart. Erestor became far more beautiful than was expected of an ellon, his manners silent and elegant, and his hands quick and gentle. Flowers bloomed faster under his care and trees whispered songs and ancient ballads to him. His brothers grew more protective and they each doted on their youngest in their own way. Erestor, in turn, loved his brothers above all else.

Ariendhel saw these changes. Bitterly covetous of Erestor’s beauty and the love showered upon him, her heart could no longer rein in her sinister desires. She went out into the deepest heart of the forest and there she harvested the leaves of stevia, a tiny uninspiring bush, and with it she made a nightly cup of tea for her husband. Sanguine sweet and wonderfully fragrant, the enticingly drink seeped into his mind, its poison taking his memory bit by unsuspecting bit.

Still the brothers remained ignorant. If their father forgot their names now and then, they blamed it on his ardent concentration on his work. Ignorance brought not bliss, and the day came when their foolish content came to an end.
----

“Erestor, come away from the water.” Ecthelion cautioned, as he watched his curious sibling moving closer to look into the creek. “You could slip and the rocky surface would cause most grievous harm.”

Erestor could only roll his eyes. “Gwador, it has been a decade since I was an elfling. Surely I am not as clumsy as you suppose?” His eldest brother had always been the worst of the lot. If he could manage it, Erestor would not even feel a whiff of wind.

“Clumsy? Surely not. But the waters of the mountain flow in mysterious ways. The songs of lore spoke of a nymph, who combed her hair gently amidst the mountains, waiting for her lover thence. When he would not come, she mourned and wept, her hair flowing long and reaching deep through the impervious rocks and it came to be the streams and creeks we now see, whose water, like the nymph, is bitter-sweet. Fileg, with your beauty fair, might bring such cheer that her wondrous silky hair would tempt you into her waiting snare.”

Erestor quirked an eyebrow at Lindir, who was fishing from the rock he sat on. Lindir’s speech had often brought him much amusement, since nothing he spoke was not lore, song, ballad or spoken scenery.

“Just come away. You are making Thel nervous, and when Thel’s nervous the rest of us have to fear for our necks.” Duilin cheekily threw a pebble at Erestor’s feet. Closest to Erestor in age, he was the most sympathetic to Erestor and the smothering blanket of love.

Erestor dutifully stepped away, more to avoid the pebbles aimed at his feet. He laughed as he watched Galdor grasp the mischievous elf by the neck and tickle mercilessly, earning a gratified smirk from Ecthelion.

Rog, the second brother, was as always strong and silent, removing the scales off the fish with a practised blade. As he hung up the last one, he quietly reminded his brothers. “Come, we must return. The others are still waiting.”

The brothers had divided their chores and their other brothers were gathering the wood and starting the fire to cook their dinner that night. Nodding their assent to Rog’s suggestion, the six brothers gathered their belongings and prepared to return.

Just as they were about to leave, the trees moved as if a gust of wind rushed through them. Erestor looked up and heard the whispers, grave and insistent, ‘Come to us child of song, come to us.’ Worry assailed him- he walked often among the trees, healing little hurts and strange diseases that came over them and the sudden beckon might mean he was desperately needed. He turned to look at Ecthelion. “The trees are calling me. I must hearken to them.”

The eldest brother frowned. “One of us would go with you. Gal-” Erestor interrupted before Ecthelion could finish his sentence. “There is no need, gwador. I am safe among the trees. They are even more protective than you are,” he joked as he rolled his eyes. “Besides, Penlod would be complaining no end if anyone shirked their kitchen duty and he never allows me near the stove anyway.”

Duilin laughed, “That’s true. Come on you big worry wort, the youngling can look after himself just for once. We have to hurry back, before even you have to suffer the ignominy of scrubbing the stove.”

Ecthelion sighed. “Are you sure you will be fine?”

Erestor smiled and waved the concern away. “Of course I will. Nothing is bigger than a tree here.” The whispers became more urgent and louder, causing him to cover a ear in defence. He called out into the woods, “I’m coming now, wooded friends. Be calm now.”

Waving goodbye to his brothers, he turned on his feet and ran into the trees guided by the whispers, whose branches dipped to hurry him along and whose roots hid the tracks. Noticing the movement of the trees, Ecthelion was reassured and beckoned his brothers along.
----
The sight that greeted the brothers at the cottage was strange. Shouts were heard, confused and angry and their belongings were in disarray around the cottage. Worried, the five brothers swung their baskets of fish over a tree branch and drew their swords and knives.

Creeping around the house they heard their brother, Egalmoth, shout, “We lived here! This is our home, Adar!”

Even more anxious now, Ecthelion led the brothers quickly around the corner to where the shout came from and was shocked to find their father brandishing an old sword against his other siblings.

Ariendhel, who stood beside her husband, screeched. “There, my lord, see! There are more of them! Thieves all of them! Thieves!” The elven lord drawing all his strength waved his heavy sword dangerously and furiously, charging at the brothers, who could only push their father back. They were fortunate that the scribe had not been trained with a sword.

Ecthelion lowered his sword and ran to Penlod, “What is going on?”

Penlod spoke anxiously, “Adar does not recognise us. He thinks us thieves and murderers.” Glaring at the elleth who was pretending to restrain and protect her lord, he added. “I do not know what her plans are. She has been poisoning his ears with more lies.”

Looking at both of his parents, Ecthelion stood in front of his brothers and beseeched. “Do you not recognise us, Adar? I am Thel, your eldest son, Thel.”

“Lies all of them, my lord. They seek to enter your house. Remember, you swore to keep these books secret and safe. We must not let them near.”

The father growled. “Begone, knaves. Begone! You will not have what you seek. The fires would burn before you see them, if I do not kill you first. Begone!”

Galdor thundered. “What is your game, Areindhel? Why do you shove a wedge between father and sons?”

Ignoring Galdor’s bellows and the continued pleas from the other sons, Ariendhel whispered into the ear of her husband. “Let me, my lord. Where your sword can’t reach my sorcery can. They will not have your precious trove, I promise you.”

She raised her hand and spoke, “My lord does not know you. You are strangers here. Fly far from here, knaves tenfold. I curse you, once and thrice again, fly like birds robbed of voices and chained by night. Fly!”

Before the brothers could react, her sorcery fell on them. Yet even so, her poison could not seep into their strong and stout hearts and they turned into nine graceful and beautiful swans. Releasing their anguish with a muted cry, they took flight, flying away from the cottage, above the forest and into the skies.

The evil elleth laughed- her husband was her own, hers alone and her heart was loosed of its barbed chains of jealousy. Putting her arm on the lord’s shoulder, she guided him back into the cottage, whispering gentle tales of a city far from the forest, enticing her lord. She would have her way, with the cloying sons now cursed and doomed for immortality.

But in her glee she had been careless. Ten sons had the lord, ten glorious sons who went out that morn; yet nine and only nine swans took flight. Erestor alone wandered in the forest still, free from the curse and ignorant of his brothers’ plight.

Tbc…