Quenya translation first scene:
‘Manen lertan móta núrolyanen, herunya?’ How can I serve you, my lord?
‘Á tulë. Máratulda.’ Come in. Welcome.
‘Máratulda, ná; é máratulda!’ Welcome indeed!
‘Herunya…’ My lord…
‘Ai, le mailëa – ar ta manwa nin?’ Ai, you are wanton – and so ready for me?
‘Á tulë, elyë morna Úsahtië.’ Come here, you dark Seducer.
‘Úsahtienya…’ My seducer…
‘Mótalenya ar alassenya, herunya,’ It is my pleasure to serve you, my lord.
‘Amaptarnya…’ My ravisher…
‘Ai, Erestor – áva quetë! Áva quetë sí…’ Ai, Erestor – hush! Enough of words…
Chapter Ten: Hopes and Plans Imladris 1498 T.A.
Erestor presented himself as he had been taught to his waiting seigneur. “Manen lertan móta núrolyanen, herunya?”
“Á tulë. Máratulda.” The familiar smile offered genuine warmth, while those perceptive eyes spoke of other feelings. Erestor caught his breath. He approached and made his obeisance.
A hand drew him closer. “Máratulda, ná; é máratulda!” A slow inspection benignly approved him.
Erestor’s lungs stuttered, hitching and restarting. “Herunya…”
“Ai, le mailëa – ar ta manwa nin?” The smiling lips curved upward, the hand ran up his arm to cup the back of his head. “Á tulë, elyë morna Úsahtië.” His voice dropped to a husky rasp that bespelled Erestor helplessly. “Úsahtienya…”
“Mótalenya ar alassenya, herunya,” Erestor murmured, sinking to his knees, feeling the warm weight of the hand resting in his hair in benediction. “Amaptarnya…” he added softly, hypnotized into speaking the thought aloud as the languid gaze transfixed him as surely as the hand that held him down.
The hand in his hair tightened its grip. “Ai, Erestor – áva quetë. Áva quetë sí…”
***
Erestor awoke in strange surroundings sweating his way out of nightmare among fine linen sheets to lie in blank distaste, arm across his face. A moment later he swung out of bed, finding his way to the washstand. Water from a large urn filled the wide bowl, falling unevenly from shaking hands. He buried his face with relief and rubbed the back of his neck, then stood cupping water to his face in calming handfuls.
At length, he straightened and dressed, wanting nothing more than to be out, to attempt to drive all thought from his mind, shedding memories in cool night air like leaves sloughed off in a breeze. Meren was willing and the two of them rode beneath the dwindling dark until all Erestor knew was muscles well-used, cold wind on his face and warm flanks moving between his legs. He leaned forward and murmured his thanks and his pleasure in one twitching ear, exorcised of the worst of his disturbance and content for the long-legged stride of the grey beneath him to fall gradually to a walk, taking them back to the great house and oppressive reality under the dawn-hued sky. Impatient with introspection, Erestor planned the day’s work ahead.
***
“Are you ready?”
Erestor looked at the documents he had laid out before him, as if checking all was there that he intended to present to Elrond. He diverted his attention as if it were sight alone that snared him, yet the rolling accents of a voice he listened to night after night at table and never tired of drew him inexorably. The memory of an arm about him and a whispered kiss in his hair betrayed him. He could look away, but still he felt the other’s imposing vitality across the room, still imagined the blue eyes resting on him in compelling enquiry – and invitation. “You’ve come to escort me?”
“He’s expecting me at some point today. I thought we could go together.” The light response gave no hint of Glorfindel’s careful appraisal; the Councillor behind his desk exuded tension – and something else. As Glorfindel pondered what had passed in the last few days, Erestor picked up the collection of notes and letters and skirted Glorfindel, taking care to avoid touching him in the doorway.
“Wait, Erestor.” Erestor slowed his step and looked back. Glorfindel found no further clues in the face turned back to him, upon which light fell aslant on high cheekbones. The slightly hollow cheeks caught shadows which gathered more deeply in the sockets of those black eyes, accentuating his reserved mood. “It concerns you that I will be there? I have plenty of business awaiting me; time enough to attend on Elrond after I’m done. Tell him if he asks I’ll follow later.”
Erestor’s eyes flickered. “As you choose.”
He moved away gracefully, hiding his disturbance over yesterday’s indulgence and last night’s dream alike. While he slept his fëa had not minded in the least that hair that should have draped straight and black over pillows had coiled instead golden-braided, curling free to frame soft-curved lips, lips whose smile blurred across time, confusing present friendship with a more intimate, questionable past. Awake, he found himself responding even now with all the old readiness. The Lord of the Vale awaited, for an interview Erestor did not relish and he was loathe to go to him contemplating venal matters, be it his Noldo liege-lord who haunted him, or Imladris’ present Captain. Yet abjure desire though he might, his body refused to forget what it recognized as overture, nor would it give up its clamour of reciprocated interest. He was left to shepherd his unruly thoughts carefully, ignore Glorfindel as best he could, and make his way alone to his conference.
***
When Erestor arrived in the small reception hall, it was to find Elrond looking over documents he had left with him pertaining to trade with Harad. He looked up, surveyed the empty doorway behind him questioningly, and said, “Erestor,” nodding a greeting. “Where is Glorfindel?”
“My lord.” Erestor made his bow. “He had some business at the practice grounds and said he will see you later.”
“I was expecting him. Did he say anything more?”
Erestor hesitated. “I believe he thought he would be extraneous to our meeting. Shall I send a runner for him?”
“Extraneous?” repeated Elrond, drily.
Erestor smiled slightly, quietly enjoying Elrond’s taste in sardonic humour, as was his wont. “That was not the word he used. He indicated he thought we might be better talking without him.”
What Elrond wanted with him this morning was unclear, the question underlined by the choice of chamber, with its rising stone-worked pillars, ivy and oak relief cascading down from their heights, and the tall windows surrounded by complimentary carvings of willow and heartease. Among the grandeur, the fireplace of gracious tile, unused in this clement weather, added a homely touch, decorated with a collection of pinecones, mallow and teasel. Presiding from above were scenes of Aman detailed on the vaulted ceiling by a fine hand: Manwë in a representation popular back in the Second Age, dressed in white, green and gold with unearthly amber eyes; silver Telperion and bright Laurelin, and Mandos’ throne set in slate-purple shadows. Around the edge, the Garden of Lórien bordered the whole in verdant greens.
Elrond’s habit was to honour gatherings of dignitaries in private session in this room, and though Erestor had sat in on such occasions numerous times, Elrond had only once before interviewed him here alone. Erestor vividly remembered his advent in Imladris, being shown into a brief, austere audience with his new lord one morning, and discovering to his relief that Elrond was not inclined to talk in any detail. On this occasion, Erestor was aware that Elrond’s choice of venue implied an entirely different encounter, far longer – and far more weighty – than their usual pragmatism, though Elrond opened with all his usual economy.
“Very well then,” he gave a slight shrug. “We will do without him for the time being. Please, sit down. Are those your plans for Harad?”
“Thank you, my lord. Yes, and I’ve brought my notes on the trading items I think most crucial. I want to know your thoughts on what you want to include and who you particularly want me to speak to. This is a list I have made of traders to approach to make up the caravan, and this, of those who will provide services we will need – muleteers, drovers for the horses, wagon-drivers, a smith – and here, of those elves I think will want to make the trip who would be of especial use.”
Spices and pearls – Elrond wanted a necklace for Celebrían, weavings from Bree (wool, fine western wool, would sell at a high price in the South, especially woven into the coloured rugs certain weavers of Bree produced. The garish depictions favoured by Men were popular with the Haradrim. They might not wear wool in Harad, but for decorative use on floors or walls it was valued as hard-wearing and sound-absorbent in their cool, stone halls.) A discussion of the stablemaster’s choices of the colts that could be spared, a generous load of miruvor to establish their credentials as bona-fide traders of means from Imladris, elven craft-work in filigree of gold and silver, jewels for trade and bribes, and monies for intelligence; they covered divers practicalities and ended by discussing briefly the safety of such wealth.
“Glorfindel should be here to discuss this.”
“Yes. We should wait on him for those decisions.” Elrond set aside his notes from their deliberations and sat back. For a moment he considered Erestor.
Here it comes, thought Erestor, unsurprised to see this signal for a change of tack. He prepared to weather the squall.
“And there is something else that will involve him. Both of you, in fact. I may as well tell you now that if you go at all, you travel by way of Lothlórien, in Glorfindel’s charge, to ask audience of Galadriel. You may make your excursion – should Galadriel consent.”
A heartbeat, and then another. “Yes, my lord.” Erestor’s heart pounded with dread, yet even so a counterpoint of excitement kept pace, for Galadriel would uncover no reason to stop him: his place in the caravan was assured.
“With her sanction you can continue from there.” Elrond paused, looking straitly at Erestor. “Without it you return here under guard – unless she retains you, which I shall ask her to do if she finds you suspect. I will appoint a second for the caravan itself, someone experienced and senior in such matters. Should Galadriel turn you back, the caravan would thus continue under other leadership on trading affairs alone.” It was an opportunity anyone would seize with both hands; there would be no problem filling the position with someone Elrond had full confidence in. “And Erestor,” Elrond frowned, aware of all his doubts, “If she finds you harbour ill-intent of any kind, or any thought of returning to your old haunts, you’d best hope she chooses to keep you with her – you will not want to face me if this is some game you are playing.” He let that sink in and then said more judiciously, “However, pass the Lady’s testing, and you will lead the expedition. Glorfindel will second you in the political business, and you’ll have my appointed assistant as aide for the caravan and trading affairs.”
Erestor answered in terms just as measured. “Lady Galadriel can find no cause to bar me from the venture. These matters concern us all in my opinion, and while Harad and the South stand on the edge she won’t be sorry if we manage to avoid the worst of eventualities there. I have brought you this to read through, and you will see the instabilities have increased dramatically in the fifty years since Gondor’s rule was ousted in Umbar by the White City’s rebels.” He passed the clandestine letter over.
“This is the letter from Sanduistin?” Elrond shot him a look from under his lowered brows. “Did you know of this person before they wrote?”
“No, my lord. Someone close to the Preceptor, I gather. Someone of the royal blood, and someone under threat, professing to amity with our ways, who was told I am here and might listen, presumably hoping I would approach yourself.”
“Told by whom?” said Elrond sharply.
Erestor shrugged slightly. “That there is no telling, though it has to be an elf, and it has to be someone who knows me. So…”
Elrond was frowning. “Any contact with those renegades and Glorfindel will have orders to put a stop to your doings. I *don’t* want you using any of your old compatriots for this work.”
Erestor looked at him expressionlessly. “And how exactly do you suggest I proceed without doing exactly that? Who else could possibly have told this Sanduistin to make such an approach to me, here, soliciting your interest?”
When Elrond made no immediate argument, he went on. “I *do* know that Gondor will suffer if this Haradic regime continues in its present trend… Gondor stands guard in the gateway to the whole of the North, and in the last two hundred years there have been increasing signs of hostile influence in the South – it bore fruit in the Umbar overthrow and grows apace. What news we have from Lothlórien and Gondor offers little reassurance.”
He paused to confirm Elrond was content to go on listening and found him nodding at both the letter and the points Erestor was making. Satisfied with his audience, Erestor tapped a map he had brought that delineated the wide borders of Harad and the Far South. “We need to support those favourable to our interests. While Gondor keeps watch on the black lands, Harad is the key to the rest of the South. Umbar’s downfall left a wide opportunity for expansion that Harad intends to take full advantage of; they are on the rise again.” Lost in thought, he stared at the map. Absently he smoothed a crease from a folded tear in the worn vellum, before setting one forefinger to the royal city. “It’s a bloodbath… purges carried out against any suspected of lack of loyalty to the King. Corruption, rebellion and suppression feeding on each other, voracious, impossible to satisfy…” He had seen it before, and could imagine it now. He glanced up. Elrond was not just bearing with him; he had his rapt attention. “The signs of rising chaos are evident, with more violence to come, and if worse evil is not already at work, it will find the most fertile soil in such a bed. The king’s reign will ultimately fail – it has to, given the current instabilities – and then what will replace it? My guess – my fear – is the most organized of their warlords, better resolved and equipped to quell opposition, and far more of a potential threat to their northern neighbours, with Umbar an easy target and Gondor weakened by civil war.”
“Just what do you propose to do about it?” Neither overtly encouraging nor hostile, Elrond knew he had not yet heard it all.
Slowly Erestor went on with his exposition. “Protect a line of rightful successors, those who would be our allies and Gondor’s, and we have a way toward restoring good order and stable politics in the whole region after a collapse occurs, to Gondor’s great benefit and all our good. Offer trade as a way of supporting the new leadership, and make sure it works in their favour, balancing profit with stability. There may come a time when Southern allies will make all the difference to our fortunes; so I believe. And if such larger plans prove impossible, we should at least take good care to be aware of all that passes from now on, which this journey could be used to accomplish, gone about in just the right way. Any provision we can make for future information will prove an invaluable investment.” There was nothing more for him to add. Elrond’s reaction was all that was left in question.
“You make a cogent case, Erestor, but for sheer gall you should earn a prize! One minute you calmly inform me you will in all probability need to work with your bloody-handed outlaw peers, and the next you claim to care for stability and right order?” There was no amusement now in the pointed tone; the arching brows were scathing with scepticism.
“You are not the only one who has seen two Ages end in bloodshed, Elrond, and you are not the only one who fought against evil.” Too late, Erestor heard the acerbity in his rejoinder. Yet he spoke no less than the truth. They had even fought side by side. Everyone able to fight had joined the muster of Gil-galad that had heralded the end of the Second Age. Elrond had taken time over his decision as to Erestor’s participation, but in the end had taken him along with his staff, so Erestor had stood to arms with the rest of the Imladris contingents, blood-covered and lethal, as were they all in those days among the fields of the dead.
Elrond’s eyes rested on him a moment before he shrugged slightly. “Galadriel, not I, shall vouch for you – and I will ask her to make very certain before she trusts you south of Lórien.” He spoke indifferently, the decision already made, little caring for Erestor’s apprehension, rather contemplating the ramifications of what Erestor had said about Harad, Umbar and Gondor. Disillusioned with Men, he was all too aware of the ill-fated fortunes of Arnor’s outlying provinces and was unwilling to see Gondor reduced to the same degenerate state. He was increasingly concerned over the uncertainties of what was developing east of the Anduin in the vast Greenwood, and the importance of maintaining the watch on Sauron’s erstwhile keep with unbroken vigilance after the enormous cost of taking it; a cost all too easily forgotten by short-lived men, even those of Gondor’s heritage. It made him uneasy to have that undertaking left in fragile men’s hands. “What else have you there that we have not covered?”
Erestor forced a steady answer that gave no hint of anger or trepidation. “These are notes about the relationships within the royal family, between the high officers of court, and speculation on their current fortunes: who we might approach regarding matters of trade, who might be in difficulties and who might need help in the future. Many of these details will have to be confirmed before we could safely act on them.”
They discussed the ramifications of Elven involvement in the South, and Elrond told him to take careful counsel with Celeborn, who would have information sourced from Gondor and beyond to add to their final decision-making. Erestor nodded assuredly, for ironically Celeborn was someone he could work well with and had confidence in. He felt a great easing of concern, hearing that Elrond would not hamper him from taking a leading part in the plans formulated, once more southerly and recent intelligence was at hand from the Lórien Lord.
Elrond sat back, obviously finished with political considerations and Erestor prepared to take his leave. “One moment, Erestor, we are not done here – I have other business with you. Sit you down and attend me.”
The Noldo shot him a quick look, rather regretting his braided hair, missing the concealment a loose style would have afforded. He ceased gathering his maps and notes, and did as he was bid, wondering how much more – and exactly what – Elrond wanted them to discuss. The skirt of his robe billowed out around him as he took his place again, and for the sake of a moment to prepare himself he schooled it flat around his legs. Nothing in Elrond’s manner reassured him, blandly waiting, all diplomat. “My lord?”
“Glorfindel made it plain he found the provision of your rooms inadequate; I agreed with him. Pirrith has rehoused you?”
“Thank you, yes.”
He had not been sure what to think of the upheaval into strange surroundings, elegant, rich and alien. Glorfindel had told him it was arranged, and Pirrith had first consulted him as to what he desired to take with him, and then accomplished the whole without involving Erestor. He had spent the evening after the move on his new balcony watching the sky darken through colours of richest dyed silk while carefully blanking his mind to the sharp hurt the change engendered. Easier to have stayed anonymously quartered than to have had Glorfindel judge his state as unfit, and have these gifted riches – as carelessly bestowed as denied – show him the neglect and indifference of centuries. He had never begrudged his quarters, nor given them thought except to do what pleased him in his rooms. Did Elrond – or Glorfindel for that matter – think he would be pleased to be graced with largesse and grateful, when for millennia Elrond had never cared to make enquiry?
In all that time, Erestor had never known it was not conscious decision on Elrond’s part to relegate him to the back of the house. Yet he had never considered he was owed better, and the precious privacy was a gift he valued above any luxury. In that personal sanctuary he had been at no-one’s beck and call. Elrond, never an arbitrary master, had outlined his duties and responsibilities; those met, his time had been his own. He had found a measure of tranquillity living there, and to find his quiet haven suddenly examined and despised, his state condemned as derelict, was more than pride could swallow without choking him. The utterance of his quiet thanks cost him much. Far easier, never to have learned it had been a piece of casual neglect, such as the more uncouth among Men might mete out to their dogs. He closed his eyes for a moment to set aside the resistance that welled in him against fulfilling what by given word and place he was obliged to offer his lord; courtesy, obedience, deference.
“I am granting you a stipend to provide whatever casual wants Imladris does not already encompass. In addition, I have allocated for your use a larger sum, intended as a consideration for the unremunerated time you have spent in my service.” He named a figure that raised Erestor’s brow in surprise. “Such an amount will not be given over to your keeping, but you can draw on it by sending bills to my offices.”
Again a fitting reply took a moment to formulate. Erestor refused to say he was grateful. Honoured, a word tritely in common use, could only be anathema between them in its falsity. “I shall be glad of the money, my lord. Thank you.”
Elrond nodded, seeing no need to answer him. He did not do it to please Erestor, but to satisfy his own sense of what was right, and he was all too aware that he had yet to honour his decision of the day before to make some kind of peace with himself and his feelings regarding the elf now waiting on his pleasure. Black eyes, faintly questioning, met grey. Elrond turned away to a sideboard where drinks were set out in their crystal decanters with glasses and cups to hand. His fingers rested on the engraved surface of precious glaze-frosted glass. “What will you take?”
“Wine, thank you. Red by preference.” Erestor came forward to accept the dark vintage.
Elrond turned from him to pour himself a glass. He did not sit down but stared out of one of the tall, narrow windows that looked down over the sweep of woods from Imladris’ height on the escarpment north of the river bluffs. Erestor stood quietly beside him.
Without heat Elrond voiced as questions the accusations he had carried for so long. “Why did you run from Gil-galad, when he put a stop to the Fëanorian forces after Maedhros died? You and those others? What have you to show for it except dead comrades, old injuries and disgrace? Why did you and the others not trust him and have done? And – why serve Maedhros at all? You were not of the oath-takers. You had no excuse to go down that road, yet you did, and in the end did not hold back. Was what they gave you worth so very much to you?” Quietly voiced, but intensely, his queries hung in the stillness demanding answers.
He asked, not really wanting to hear the reply, not really wanting to change, but this was why he had summoned Erestor: to understand. To understand himself a little better and draw a check-rein on his anger. Only Glorfindel’s disapproval sufficed to force Elrond, so very many years later, to rake over what had passed. Only the memory of Glorfindel’s face, walking out on him, too angry to answer him, was goad enough to stay him on his course of question and answer. He had chosen this room in the hope that its harmony and connotations of high diplomacy would influence him, imbuing calm and reflection.
He schooled himself to listen. He did not want to know.
By the look on Erestor’s face he had no more desire for this harking back than Elrond, but, give him credit, he answered. “Worth it? Yes it was,” he said uncompromisingly and without apology to questions that could not have been more direct nor hard-hitting. “Maedhros took in my amillë and pertoron both, and for that he obtained an undertaking from me that I would join his personal household.” Erestor used his wine cup to disguise the untold truths behind his curt admission. “As to your first questions, I had unfinished business the King would never have sanctioned: my family to find. And it was Maglor who knew where they would be.”
“Maglor? What nonsense is this?”
“Hardly nonsense. I found him…”
Elrond’s eyes narrowed at the fantastic story, opened his mouth to ask more, and thought better of it.
Erestor shrugged. “He told me where they had been taken, along with others, for safety and refuge – but when I got there – I did not find them.”
“And so you embarked on your own pleasure spree in the South, your own campaign of brigandage and petty overlordship.”
Erestor’s eyes sprang to meet his. “Hardly an accurate telling, my lord. I was told where I could find Maglor’s surviving guard-corps, and that some among them knew where my amillë might be. They had no more mind than me to accept Gil-galad’s offer.” His mouth twisted wryly. “With amnesty such a humbling prospect – well, we had no desire to face the King’s mercy, and saw no need to. We agreed I would travel with them, once I had found my family. After I saw them settled and safe, there was all the South to travel in, and work to be done – we thought we could do some good. Few others were trying and it was sorely needed.”
Elrond’s hackles went up at the casual refutation of fault, and the easy rejection of Gil-galad’s honour and Lindon’s law. “Good? You call that good? Taking what you wanted, and fighting those who stopped you?”
Erestor flushed and looked away. “It was not like that.” But among those who had declined the amnesty there had been some whose behaviour had undeniably earned such comments. How not, over such a long span of time, and soldiers with such a history?
“No? Yet you look away.”
Stung, Erestor defended himself. “I never agreed with all that was done.”
“Whether or no, that was the company you kept!”
“Such a conveniently neat summation hardly tells the full tale, though, does it? You saw what it was like in Lindon; the troubles they had down south were no less, and no High King, no Elven Realm, to establish any kind of order. We dealt with evil much the same as Gil-galad did in the north, hunting down what had fled Eriador. And yes, we took a reward for it. Why not? It was a living, and far preferable to being bound in Lindon to Gil-galad, as I have been here to you.”
“How dare you!” Elrond was more angered over the unflattering dismissal of Gil-galad’s amnesty (hotly argued on its conception until the King laid down the law), than he was at Erestor’s sarcasm and the reference to himself.
Erestor caught his breath, knowing he had gone too far. He repeated more calmly, “There was work to do in the South, my lord. Gil-galad held sway from coast to mountain, in the North, and had great responsibilities to care for, and you alongside him. Had I gone to him, he would have permitted me amnesty with the rest, but not I think let me far from his purview. I had no more relish for his apron strings than his mercy, and had my own necessities to pursue. Why should I be sorry we brought a little order to southern chaos in our own way while Gil-galad and Amdir would not look beyond their borders or past their own affairs? Did you – did anyone – of the Elven Realms know or care how many remained bereft of leadership elsewhere? They coped as they could, men short-lived and bewildered, and elves vulnerable too, with little of leadership to set their course, or organize their protection.” He waved one hand, remembering all that he had seen of wasted lands and ruined towns in those days, preyed upon by those servants of Morgoth escaped and fled South, amongst all the uncivilized aftermath of war and ruin.
“Why you should be sorry, Erestor, is because you and your cadre spread havoc even as Maedhros before you, not order! You fought against my brother’s people, *civilised* men, Lindon’s friends and the King’s allies, who could offer real law and proper aid, unlike your petty, haphazard ragtaggle. You arraigned yourselves persistently against Númenórean rule, and made yourselves agents of civil war.”
Erestor breathlessly half-laughed, shaking his head. “They invaded, and conquered, took land and lordship that belonged to others before they came. Why wouldn’t they meet resistance? And we, who had been there all along, should we have changed our allegiance and become the traitors you accuse us of? No, Elrond, we had fought side by side with generations of southern men for long years, running down Morgoth’s remnant pets, and in times of peace lived among them, paid as guards and hunters, helping to fight again when Barad-Dûr’s darkness began and spread beyond those fortressed borders to poison the lands beyond. And then came the Númenóreans… When they settled only empty land, all well and good, but when they started to encroach on what was already inhabited… If that’s your complaint, then I am indeed guilty.”
“You *killed* Erestor. Not just fighting Númenór, but Gil-galad’s appointed agents.” Elrond stared at him inimically, finding no mitigating argument that could excuse Erestor from failing to submit to the King’s edict, faced with elves bearing Royal writ.
Sombrely, Erestor answered that too. “That is the nature of war, Elrond. Should we have abandoned our contract because Gil-galad sent elves against us? Because it was Celeborn who came? I would not do that, and I don’t apologize for it. You did not see what Númenór did with those who opposed their incursions. How they ruled those they deemed lesser men than they, shorter lived and therefore treated more like animals than men by some, who justified it by virtue of their differences. But I was there to see what they did, and I fought against Númenór, and yes, Celeborn too. Does it not content you that we lost?”
That defeat had been inevitable, but still they had fought on. The memory of that decision never faded: looking at each other around the fire, their choices laid out, so limited. Break their word and flee again, and where to this time? Or surrender and face the King’s justice. By now it had been made known that Gil-galad’s proxy would deal with all captured elves – Galadriel it was rumoured, Celeborn’s lover, Royal Noldo of their own ilk. And fey… Her consort hunted them even as they debated, Celeborn, whose family had been murdered at Doriath. No, surrender held no appeal, the amnesty offered so long ago rejected unceremoniously and these fresh deaths between them too – they could hope for little from Celeborn and Galadriel under Gil-galad’s aegis. They went on fighting…
Elrond sourly recalled him to the gracious surroundings of the present. “Ever did trouble attend your like, as flies to rotten meat.”
“My lord, you ask me questions only to accuse me when I have already *been* judged.” He stopped for a moment and then did not back down, not over this, not once challenged. He would not deny the truth of what had been lived out in blood and strife and even hard-won peace, for a while. Those he had fought with deserved no less if he was their only witness. “We countered the ruin the First Age left in its wake. We encouraged what order we could after destruction and terror had run its course, leaving famine and horror and savagery behind. If we went where trouble was, it was not of our making.”
“You fought for your own gain and when you could have helped a new civilisation rise, a true society where wisdom could flower, you wanted none of it. Númenór had great gifts to offer, and all you did was oppose them, and when Gil-galad called a halt, you would not listen. Hard to believe you sit there, telling me that you are proud of what you did.”
Erestor broke the short ensuing silence to say, “I wanted to go after Maglor. I wanted to find my family. I am not ashamed of that. Gil-galad would never have let me go. The South was leaderless. That too was needful work for someone to do, and we did it.”
“Yet you rode with the same killers who came in the night at Sirion. The same who saw Doriath put to flight. Those were your chosen friends. Don’t ask me to understand that, nor think of them as a benign influence!”
“Who else would have helped me search?” Erestor shot back. “You? The King? They helped me, and in return I went with them, as they asked.” Yet he had found neither amillë nor pertoren in the end, only news of them. The irony of it had never faded, that it was Galadriel who had told him his mother was gone to Aman, and his brother, his joyous brother, gone with her. Grief found him that day. He had not minded the solitude of his time in Lothlórien. He had spent it mourning, remembering what he could, feeling, for the first time in his life, free.
He felt the same weary futility now, and a sense of suffocation in the face of righteousness. “I do not blame you, I suppose – as you say, our adversaries had been your brother’s people, though you know as well as I what they came to in the Dark years at the end. We had not come tame to Gil-galad’s hand which offended you and after what had gone before, you could not abide us, which I make no complaint over. You have asked me your questions, Elrond, and I have answered. What more is there to say?” He shrugged, quieter now, everything said that could be.
Elrond inhaled the heady aroma of the wine in his cup and drank, before he looked back at Erestor again. “Glorfindel is right in one thing at least. I cannot go on with you like this. I met you amidst the direst of circumstances, the worst moment of my life, save one other. When Galadriel brought you here and I was faced with you again the memories were – most vivid. They have not faded. The feelings of that day stayed with me, and your chosen path spoke little in your favour when I saw you around that camp afterwards. When I learned of your service in Maedhros’ cause, and later when your independent doings came to Lindon’s attention, I never had reason to think better of you.” He sighed, and almost gently, trying to understand something – anything – beyond his own abhorrence, asked, “Your mother and brother – what happened?”
Erestor told the bare bones of the story again. “They disappeared. Maglor told me they were moved somewhere safer. He wouldn’t tell me where, though I asked. I didn’t hear from them after that. Maedhros promised he would tell me, but events overtook us, and we were parted. After I finally caught up with Maglor, he told me where to look, but when I managed to get there they were gone. So I kept searching, as best I could. Asking for news.”
“That’s why you travelled around so much?”
“When I could, yes.” They both fell quiet again, remembering the days of the Second Age; Gil-galad’s efforts, Lindon’s glory, the Númenórean occupation and eventual corruption in the South, each looking back upon events from two very different vantages until the day Galadriel saw the disparate pair reluctantly united as partners in their awkward dance.
Elrond considered the years of Erestor’s service; he would think on what Erestor had said, but he was not quite done yet. There was another matter before he made an end. He asked a question first. “You say Maedhros took you all in? How old were you and your brother?”
The silence this time lasted far longer. Elrond sharpened his attention and reluctantly Erestor said, “Thirty-eight, and three.”
“And when was that?”
“Forty four years before we met.”
Elrond felt it as an almost physical shock. When he himself had been six years old and first laid eyes on the Noldo conqueror, Erestor had appeared untouched by time. No wonder… “And Maglor? When did he…”
“On my majority. It was – arranged.”
“But you lived with your mother until then?” The slow headshake answered questions Elrond had never before wondered. From the beginning, Erestor’s road had been one of alliance, compliance and partnership with those who had murdered Elrond’s kin, to the point of bearing arms alongside the Fëanorians, yet Elrond could not help reflecting that though Erestor’s early years had been spared the violent disruptions and bloody losses he and Elros had so traumatically endured, surely his history had proved far more sordid.
Conscious of Erestor’s discomfort no matter how composedly he took up his wine and sipped, Elrond contemplated those days from Erestor’s point of view. Elrond had never thought what it must be to belong in the enemy’s camp. He had never considered the choices a potential deserter would have to face, sacrifices of loyalty, of family, even the risk to life and liberty. Choices of where to go and the suspicion that would meet them. The danger to any close who were left behind, the likelihood that they would be questioned, accused, and penalized. An infant brother, and a mother dependent… The consequences if caught. Elrond frowned, remembering what Maedhros had been like.
Other memories intervened, bringing pity, contempt, disgust… Images that had played in Elrond’s mind since seeing Glorfindel entwined with Erestor in the meadow. Erestor on his knees, proffering wine, laughing up at some joke, rising into arms casually beckoning. Erestor willingly settling across Curufin’s knee, sharing the cup… Elrond could still remember the fall of silk, the blue-black of shadowed folds that fell to the ground about him, settling along lines of thigh and calf, reaching so decorously to his neck, where Curufin bent to kiss him. He had looked over his shoulder at the sight, with Saco pulling him away to return to their own quarters, fascinated by his own disgust and some other nebulous awareness that one day, he too might like to be kissed, just so.
And young as Erestor had been when his path was set for him, it did not obviate the potential pitfalls if trusted beyond his worth. In fact, if anything, the opposite was the case. Elrond had one last avenue to explore before he desisted.
“There is one other matter,” he said casually.
Erestor, undeceived, was aware that Elrond, far from satisfied after this round of question and answer, was regarding him with a most acute scrutiny.
“Glorfindel likes you.”
“Apparently,” Erestor acknowledged, cautiously.
“Have you been encouraging him? He is a most influential friend to be fighting your battles for you.” Elrond paused, taking in Erestor’s shock; seeing him wordless, he continued in a voice the more deadly for its calm, “Betray him, Erestor, use him or hurt him, and I will set the shackles on you myself and deliver you by my own hand to the mines, paying the sons of Aulë to take you. Am I sufficiently clear?”
Erestor stood up, whitely angered at this ambush of stilletto-point finesse applied to something intensely private and sensitive – precious, was his thought, as Glorfindel’s slow, lingering smile came forcibly to mind.
Elrond tilted his head, brows raised.
The insufferable arrogance was the last straw. He resented intensely the minute inspection, knowing just how good Elrond’s perceptions could be and just how deep they could reach, if Elrond willed. Elrond’s words scalded him with their implications, closely following as they did the reference to his service with Maglor. Already rendered off-balance by the Elda’s increasingly obvious interest in him, and the sick distaste of his dream’s confusion, control eluded Erestor utterly, perhaps for the first time since childhood. His low voice rounded into its full vibrancy as he answered with equal precision, “Discuss me as you choose with whomsoever it please you. And you are manifestly free to speak to me as you wish on any matter. You own my service, even my respect, Elrond, though I doubt you believe that or could value it, and will certainly never thank me for it, as I know to my cost. But when you raise my relationships with me in terms of such threats as these you only demean yourself and insult me. Forbid *him* if you can, instruct me as you please – make your decisions and make them known – yet I have done *nothing* to earn such a crass warning from you. You would do far better to take him to task for his poor taste, and put your tongue to use by dissuading him from his fantasies.” The words flowed with damning sincerity, and would not be stopped for any gesture or speech of Elrond’s, even after the lord rose forbiddingly to his feet.
Thus, the Noldo broke his pact with himself and his duty to Elrond without compunction. Deference fled, his will once more his own, he walked out.
End of Favourite Addiction Part One Chapter 10/12
Tbc
Vocabulary lists:
Sindarin - English:
Meren - Joyous
Quenya – English translations (lit. meanings below):
‘Manen lertan móta núrolyanen, herunya?’ How can I serve you, my lord?
‘Á tulë. Máratulda.’ Come in. Welcome.
‘Máratulda, ná; é máratulda!’ Welcome indeed!
‘Herunya…’ My lord…
‘Ai, le mailëa – ar ta manwa nin?’ Ai, you are wanton – and so ready for me?
‘Á tulë, elyë morna Úsahtië.’ Come here, you dark Seducer.
‘Úsahtienya…’ My seducer…
‘Mótalenya ar alassenya, herunya,’ It is my pleasure to serve you, my lord.
‘Amaptarnya…’ My ravisher…
‘Ai, Erestor – áva quetë! Áva quetë sí…’ Ai, Erestor – hush! Enough of words…
Literal Quenya translations:
How may I work as your servant, my lord?
Come. Welcome.
Welcome, yes; indeed welcome!
My lord…
Ai, you are wanton – and so ready for me?
Come, you dark Seducer.
My seducer.
My duty and my joy, my lord.
My ravisher…
Ai, Erestor – don’t speak! Don’t speak now…
amillë - mother
pertoron – half-brother
fëa – element of elven life made of spirit
*** vocab ends ***
End of post
Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Elrond summons Erestor to a meeting of plans and policy, in the course of which he puts questions political and highly personal, which involve not only the past but the future, too.