Dinner was laid out in the hall, already cheerful with talk and the clatter of utensils when they took their places. Elrond greeted them, as did the others at table, and Erestor, as he always did, bent his head to spare them the awkwardness of his presence.
Glorfindel alone was easy beside him. Apparently utterly carefree, he promptly started up a spirited debate with Elrond on their current hot topic: how many to send to Thranduil as the princes’ escort.
“So many will burden their host, and be most rude of us.”
“Their safety is more important than such diffidence, Elrond.”
Erestor tuned out their constant bickering, aware that he enjoyed the back and forth argument beside him, left out though he was of such talk. He found it soothing to be around Glorfindel and hear him as he conversed with whomever took his attention. Erestor ate his meal, a little more than he wanted – Elrond had taken him to task about his intake early on, rejecting his notion of sufficient, and had given him strict orders. It had perforce become Erestor’s habit to check his platter, find its sparse contents sufficient, sigh and add more. Elrond, seeing his willingness, had spared him further comments at mealtimes, so long as he did not fall below a certain weight. Erestor did not really understand his concern – he always held his own, whether in training or whether in a real fight, which he had had in plenty, even in Elrond’s service.
Elrond sighed too, in delight, over the sweets spread among the other dishes, now that many had finished with the savouries. Erestor watched him take one of the dark ones, rich and fragrant, and bite into it. His mind wandered to his plans. Which of the horses could he take in addition to Meren? When would he approach Elrond? He froze, suddenly unable to eat the mouthful prepared on his fork. Yes, he had journeyed on Elrond’s behalf before, but would he be allowed to go so far? Would he be granted discretion to deal with his Southron contacts to best advantage? Would he be allowed beyond all Elven writ of authority? He closed his eyes, coward that he was, dismayed by the prospect of refusal and its humiliation. Elrond treated him as a free agent in so very many ways, and he had served here for so long, that he forgot at times the true circumscriptions of his life.
“Erestor?”
That was Glorfindel, his conversation naturally over for the time being by tacit assent of both parties. The two lords knew they would come to some agreement, and that Glorfindel would likely prevail for the most part. He was difficult to refuse, and Elrond held him in such esteem he found it hard to remember it was he who was Lord of Imladris where Glorfindel was involved. His natural inclination to defer to his Captain made him argumentative in trying to counter this weakness: their lively rows were part of life in Imladris. For now, they were apparently content that honour had been maintained on both sides and their concerns sufficiently aired. Erestor admired that in them which meant neither needed to win, nor to bully to get their way; both could leave a thing lie for consideration and come to it fresh with renewed vigour or conciliation depending only on their conviction, not their pride. It was very different than what he had once known.
Erestor himself must defer, when so ordered, which never failed to sting his pride. Even in his youth, he had surprised himself, that he had never lost the urge to maintain his opinions and persuade others to them, no matter the responses he received, tailored to discourage his independent mind. Even in his gratitude that Elrond was sparing with that prerogative, he felt humbled by the necessity of giving way; in this, he envied Glorfindel. He forced himself to turn his thoughts away from that thorny issue. Another reason he tended to keep his head bowed in Elrond’s presence. Obedience came hard to him, and it ever would, he feared, no matter how long he lived. He had learned to his cost it was a trait hard to hide. That too, was a thought he shied from, with all its attendant memories. He made sure to give no cause here for any such accusations.
“Forgive me, my lord, may I be excused?” he murmured to Elrond.
“You have not finished your meal,” observed Elrond narrow-eyed, rather than granting permission.
Erestor looked back at him out of strained features, imagining that face frowning just so, when he proposed his expedition. Damn Elrond, damn them all… He bent his head and answered the faint enquiry. "No, my lord. I find myself a little worried and my appetite has failed me." He made it a point never to lie to Elrond. That had been a decision he had made right from the first. White-faced, cursing that these thoughts must come to him tonight, when usually he was adept at keeping them at bay, he picked up his fork and stubbornly chewed the fine food that stuck like clay and ashes in his throat.
*** Imladris 2243 S.A. : Arrival ***
The night he had arrived, Elrond had ignored him at first, conferring earnestly with Galadriel and Círdan. Erestor sat exhausted with grief on his horse, awaiting orders. Always awaiting orders.
He had obeyed their commands along the way. It had been a long journey, but in Celeborn’s favour, when he had found the guards tormenting their charge, one who was unable to defend himself, he had put a stop to it instantly, not even bothering to let them finish voicing their excuses.
Witheringly he said, “It seems I shall have to be his custodian since you are lost to your own honour and to mine.” With that, he invited Erestor to sit with him for their meal, and from then until now, had kept him by his side, making sure he was provided reasonable comfort and rest.
Erestor watched them talk from atop his horse, bones aching for the relief of dismounting, with Elrond meanwhile no longer ignoring him, but glancing at him repeatedly, shaking his head at times. Blackly, Erestor laughed a little. Their plan – her plan, whatever it was – had just gone awry. Elrond’s consent seemed not to be forthcoming. Tiredly he wondered if she intended he go on, with Círdan and his Mithlond escort, while the Lórien inhabitants turned back. He had spent the journey wondering about his destination. Círdan was no friend of his. He averted his eyes from the cold look even now directed at him, as if Círdan read his thoughts.
“Ask him, Elrond. Ask him yourself. We must not lightly imprison him, nor waste his abilities. He may be one of the accursed by association and guilty by his actions, yet my decision stands. He shall not be consigned alongside the rest sent for safe-keeping. Others witnessed that he was the voice of caution in their councils, urging restraint, careful in the methods of their ventures. And so it proved when I examined him. He was of their number, but he fears the Valar and respects life, Elrond, innocent life he holds sacred… And who among us here has not fought with blade or bow?” Her gaze swept her peers, austerely demanding they acknowledge that in bloodletting, they had all taken a part, one way or another. Sometimes the green of Lórien surprised her, after silvered water displayed the cruelty of what might come to pass.
*** Lórien 2199 S.A. : Facing Galadriel ***
Galadriel had looked into the killer’s mind and found only coldness, no evil. He had killed and would kill again, but only ever with cause, others of his ilk – those whose work it was to fight, to defend, to attack; those trained to such duties as made them targets to kill or be killed in these wretched times of war. Never had he killed for pleasure, for personal gain, for less than imperative reason, and never an innocent. Strangely, she had found him one of the most trustworthy elves with whom she had ever entered into a connection.
He appeared so cold, but was guided by a rational honour in his dealings, confined to a personal code he would never break. In the moment when he had crawled away from her touch, released by the conclusion of her investigation, inevitably in pain and sick from her invasion and his surrender, she had made her decision.
“Celeborn, he is not to be harmed, nor deprived in any way. Let him not be isolated, nor reviled. Care for him. He shall not be abandoned in his guilt.” For guilty he was, there was no denying. Consequently he must now pay and be constrained in the aftermath of disruption, defiance and death. As for his prior service, once his lords had been determined on their course, Erestor had planned their campaigns alongside them, admittedly for the least loss of life, and interjecting his arguments along the way. He had not refused them, and he had helped them. He had pressed repeatedly the advantages of a change of their strategies, but nevertheless he had maintained his loyalties. She also now knew rumour for truth, in the aftermath of her investigation of his past and his heart: he had been their intimate, ever available to their requirements. Those memories she turned from, those she would not demand the full truth of. She knew only that he had lain with them, and had done so without fuss. She could only assume it was willingly.
“Erestor, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Lady.” He had bitten his forearm to help with the pain, lying on the floor on his back, where she had let him retreat into the corner of the room away from her terrible power and person.
“Erestor, you will not go free, but if I find you work, will you carry it out, faithfully?”
“I will do nothing against my own people, Lady,” he said cautiously.
“No, Erestor, that I will never ask, nor bind you to in the future on anyone’s orders. You will of course be required to give your word never to give aid to any acting against the King’s friends.”
“I might agree in that case.” Still so cautious. Her heart surprised her, looking down on him; how many of them were caught up in what were overwhelming trains of events? He was no exception, perhaps, and his quiet dignity impressed her. He seemed resigned, and curiously at peace.
He had no reason to think it would be other than the mines, the dwarf mines where that underground race had agreed to place the worst of the apprehended offenders, keeping them with whatever kindness was compatible with their fate, but using their labour to pay for their keepers’ vigilance. Whether they could live in such conditions and not fade, Galadriel was not quite sure. She had set free all those of the lower echelons of the rebel’s ranks, those who longed only to be allowed a home to work and raise their families. They had found certain safe holds for others, where their presence was known and monitored but where they could live out their lives in reasonable normality so long as they kept bounds set on them by their captors as condition for their release. Only the instigators of vile deeds had gone to the mines, those most notorious in the conflict with Gil-galad’s southern allies, vicious killers: those who, unrepentant and proud, still constituted a threat.
Erestor, however, was the anomaly. Some of those high in his cadre had died. Others had been killed, or apprehended. His rank, his role, his intelligence, each one alone made him potentially uniquely dangerous as well as accountable compared to others. And then there was the nature of his service in the First Age, the closeness he had maintained with the Fëanorian brothers. He was the prisoner Galadriel had left until last to pronounce upon, the one they had kept waiting in close confinement, until she had investigated the rest and decided their fates.
He lay on the floor turtle-like in a helpless sprawl on his back, tears in his eyes. She had come without ceremony, bidding those with her to remain outside, unafraid of him, though fearful for what his mind would force on her awareness. Instead it was compassion made her shiver, not revulsion, once she made enquiry of his union with Maedhros’ cause. His cold soul had been so loyal to those who failed to grace him with either appreciation or love. He was used, his service theirs to command by right and duty, which he gave without question, his scruples unfailingly voiced however often mocked; his affections starved in the course of that service in the early years of adulthood, withered into a hurt, reserved pocket of his heart, walled away for protection. Even his mother, when she had found it too dangerous to stay, had left without regret, barely saying good-bye, taking his brother with her. From that day to this he had not seen them again, nor heard from them. He was left without the comfort of visiting them, left in Maedhros’ service, serving a lord who grew more tense and more demanding as the years passed. Too strong a character to pine overly, Erestor had been transformed into what she had read in him today, honourable in his way, but closed to others, and ruthlessly hard on himself in carrying out his duties, which was all he knew to do to survive with dignity.
Erestor was alert even in his pain.
“Lady, I would ask a favour of you.”
She narrowed her eyes in the sudden hauteur that came so easily to one of her line.
“Aye, you think me impertinent. Wait only long enough to hear me before you forbid my asking. Have I not earned at least that much mercy?”
She nodded tightly. He had caused no trouble, even today, faced with questioning, and he had known what that meant. He had not even offered them discourtesies, even once, as others of his camp could not refrain from in their pride, shame or fear. She would let him speak, and then, sorry to see him beg, refuse whatever favour he thought he could earn by compliance.
“Punish me, take revenge on me on behalf of your dead, imprison me as you will. I will not revile you for it, but I beg you never pity me, now that you have entered my private thoughts and heart.”
She could not help it. Her eyes swept to his, her heart bleeding for him, and for his little pride that admitted all his hurt in the asking. “I will school my actions to your request, Erestor, and consider it a mercy that is only your due, but my heart must feel what it will. I hope that will suffice.” She bowed gracefully, and withdrew.
He lay there for a time, before crawling to his knees, and then to his feet, looking for the water they always left him plentifully. He drank deep and laughed. They had so often boasted of how they would never crawl to their enemies, yet after an hour with Galadriel he was reduced to his knees before her, sweating in pain and fear as she touched him relentlessly in communion with all his past, not sparing his least thought or feeling if it caught her attention. He thought she had trod lightly, despite the pain, for she had hesitated repeatedly, as if pausing to let him know her next intent of enquiry, and he had managed to grant wordless assent, opening his thoughts before she had to wrench them wide for inspection. He could not imagine what he would be feeling had he resisted her.
He drank some more, and then threw up. He rested his head on the rim of the bucket that afforded him the use of a privy when he needed between the outings they allowed him to wash and use facilities more sophisticated twice daily. It was empty, thank the Valar. He lasted until they let him out most days. Today, it meant he could throw up without an added stench or vile splash upwards, for which he was wearily grateful, while the metal rim cut into his forehead, since he was too tired to lift his head right then. After a few moments he forced himself to rinse out his mouth, to sip a little more water cautiously, and retreat to his blankets to rest in greater comfort than the hard floor. Gradually he let himself relax, relishing the peace that surrounded him. He eased his position, and slid into reverie.
End of Chapter Two
Tbc
Vocab - Sindarin
Meren Joyous
Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Erestor is not sure how Elrond will receive his suggestions; uncomfortably he remembers how he came to Imladris.
Vocab - Sindarin
Meren Joyous