Chapter I: Cold morning
Imladris, Third Age.
His green eyes were glazed, fixing blindly the white wall in front of him. His unseeing pupils were dilated and no tension came to disturb the peace on the ageless face. The elf was sound asleep, walking in the far Elven dreamscape, where visions and images were said to be brighter. He did not move, his stretched arm crossing the bed where he was resting, his long-fingered hand closed into a fist on the ivory cover. His other arm was supporting his neck, as he had moved away from his pillow in the passing of the night. The hand clutching the cover seemed to be made of the purest alabaster, paler than the very sheets of the bed until his skin seemed to be opalescent, glowing in the semi-darkness of the room. Such paleness gave to him a deceitful appearance of frailty, which was enhanced by the sleeper's delicate features: a lofty brow emphasized by a spiritual nose; sharp and angular cheekbones; dark eyelashes so long that they seemed brazen; a finely-curved mouth whose full lips were a call to kisses.
Long, wild and slightly tangled raven strands were sprayed on the cover and the mattress, making a dark contrast with the pure whiteness of the fabric and the marble appearance of his skin. The elf's lithe body was hidden beneath the heavy covers, but one could divine the grace of his limbs in the soft languishment of his posture. The emerald eyes were still staring blindly at the wall. The elf might have seemed awake if it was not for the unnatural slow rising of his chest according to his respiration.
The silent shadow that cautiously crossed the room did not rouse him. With careful steps, the golden visitor reached the heavy wooden door and stopped briefly then, a hand resting on the doorknob. He glanced quickly toward the sleeping elf, taking in the peaceful picture. A fickle emotion passed in the beholder's blue eyes, but it soon disappeared. Slowly, he opened the door and slipped outside.
A soft clang was the only sound produced by his departure and yet, it was enough to bring back the sleeping elf to awareness. His pupils focused quickly and he immediately closed his eyelids, trying to protect his sensitive eyes from the vivid morning light. Nevertheless, before he became completely aware of his surroundings, something struck his senses.
Someone had come...
And had left.
He was alone in that bed, nonetheless the well-known scent of another still lingered in the room, tenuous and persistent, a painful reminder of the other's passage in those rooms. And suddenly, he knew what should have awoken him. The light rustling of heavy starched robes, the soft sound of Elven footsteps, or perhaps the door closing behind someone.
With a blind hand, the dark-haired Elf brought back the covers that he had thrown away during the night before snuggling against the comfortable feather pillow. With a deep breathe that looked much like a restrained sigh, he tried to go back to sleep. He had no need to wake up early that day. He could sleep as long as he wished to. Today was a day without duties and chores.
He had asked Elrond for a day of rest and his wish had been granted. He had known that his friend had given him a worried look and that having asked such a favour would have only confirmed some of the Half-Elf's suspicions, but he did not care. Today, it really felt too much to get up and get dressed; too much to go down and meet people; to smile and pretend.He preferred to remain there, in the sanctuary of what he had come to consider as his rooms and not theirs. There, he would not see him.
He closed his eyes again, seeking the deep comfort of sleep, trying strongly not to think. He did not want to think. Nothing appealed to him more than the void and the emptiness of his mind. Not thinking was like a balm on his fevered soul. But sleep kept on eluding him as it had for years now. To obtainest, he had to drink a sleeping draught. He was not proud of himself. For him, seizing the small crystal bottle every night and pouring some drops of the bitter liquid in a glass of water was like a painful admission of his own weakness, of his own failure. But it was better thus. At least he was spared long nights spent waiting for Anor to rise in the sky, chasing the darkness away. Long nights whose only music had been the hypnotic, deep breathe of his sleeping mate lying next to him; of which he had spent thinking of an elusive past, of an inconsistent present and of an uncertain future.
He could not sleep.
With a sigh, he rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes, taking in the sight of the magnificent painting decorating the celiling just above his head. It was an image of Gondolin, but Gondolin as it was before its fall: an image of the hidden city as the raven-haired Elf would have liked to be able to remember it. Great white walls shining in Anor's light; high, proud towers dominating the landscape; huge stairs that seemedto coil up around the heart of the Elven refuge. Gondolin had been a city of light and space, seeming to hang in the air; ethereal and breathtaking.
But whenever he thought of that place, he did not see its golden magnificence that had once mesmerized so many hearts. Instead of those bright images of his childhood, beneath his closed eyelids were displayed images of blood and violence; death and fire. For him, there was no comfort in the past. Gondolin had fallen, he had witnessed its end, and those images would haunt him forever.
Without ceasing his silent contemplation of the beautiful image, he pushed the covers away, revealing thus a slender body concealed beneath large nightclothes, which consisted of a long nightshirt worn on a pair of leggings. He had stopped a while back to sleep naked in that bed. In their bed.
His face was an impenetrable mask as he straightened himself slowly and sat on the bed; legs dangling from the edge of the large and high piece of furniture; feet barely touching the cold marble flagstones. A shiver ran the length of his spine as he felt the coldness of the room enveloping his frame. He turned his head, his long dark mane making like a heavy curtain around his emaciated face as he stared at the fireplace. The fire he had lit before going to sleep seemed to have died long ago, letting the cold seep inside the room. Without leaving the edge of the bed, his long hands resting in his lap, he let his gaze roam absently through the room.
His emerald orbs did not seem to acknowledge the many pieces of furniture scattered in the large room that was richly decorated. On the walls hung paintings and tapestries woven and embroidered by the skilled hands of the Imladris' crafters. On the ground were lying some thick and warm rugs. The pieces of furniture were all from oak-wood, from the bed where he was sitting to the large shelves in a dark corner where forgotten scrolls and parchments were resting. His thoughtful eyes seemed to linger for a brief moment on a pile of clothes that had been negligently cast close to the door of the bathroom, but he gave no sign of acknowledgement, his features not giving away what he might be feeling. One might have wondered if the dark-haired elf was really aware of his surroundings as he kept on scanning blindly and dreamily at the room, as if trying to reassure himself of his loneliness.
Then, his gaze fell almost casually on the empty, unwrinkled sheets next to where he had been lying. He stared for long, silent seconds at those unwilling testifiers to what he already knew.
He had slept alone that night.
But it did not really matter. It was not the first time this had happened and it was more than likely that it would not be the last. He had, for a while, ceased even to care. That bed that had been once place of much pleasure, joy, and contentment was now no more than a useful and comfortable piece of furniture. But he did not complain. He had learned not to mind.
For long seconds, nothing moved in the room. Nothing could be heard save for the light blowing of the winter wind outside, knocking at the windows and wheezing through the tiny interstices of the joined flaps. The dark-haired elf was still like a perfect marble sculpture; his pupils slightly dilated; his eyes holding an infinite sadness and tiredness. At that moment he was far from any reality, lost in his thoughts; seeing and hearing people and events that he was not sure anymore had really taken place or if they were only mere products of his too vivid imagination.
But the present called him back as a melodious whistle, apparently coming from the balcony, broke the heavy silence of those rooms. A gleam of awareness came back to his dull green eyes and, as he raised his eyes toward the closed window, a light smile ghosted for a brief moment on his full lips. He got up gracefully, displaying his tall, slender frame to the morning light and, with ethereal steps, he approached the window, quickly drawing in a fluid movement the light sheer curtains hanging from the wall before opening the panels, which turned on their hinges with a low grating sound.
There, he was greeted by the cold morning breeze that smelled of cut grass and morning dew. Ignoring the freezing cold that seemed to take hold of his body, he went forward, an enigmatic smile floating on his lips as he stretched his hand in a fluid movement, waiting for his winged visitor to come to him. He did not wait too long as a little bird flew to his hand and stared at him with piercing; round eyes before letting out another whistle. With a tender hand, the ebony-haired Firstborn stroked the soft plumage of his little friend before gently murmuring, his voice low and harmonious, "Aewithen... Have you come to say goodbye?"
As if understanding the question, the little bird let out another short, high-pitched whistle without ceasing to hopon the long fingers of the offered hand. The elf closed briefly his eyes, as if to acknowledge the answer of the small animal, before speaking again, "Then, mellonnen, I wish you a good and uneventful journey..."
He then extended his hand toward the South, waiting for his little companion to take his flight. The small bird turned once more toward him, watching him with those round eyes and, with a last whistle, left the friendly hand, unfolding its wings to journey with its kin to the Southern lands, where the climate would be gentler for the winter.
But the darkling Elf did not watch the slow disappearance of his winged companion as something else in the landscape caught his attention. In the distance, he could see riders leaving the central court of the Imladris' manor. He had no need to look twice to know that it was the morning patrol that went to check on the northern fence, as it was routine. He had no need to look twice to know that riding among them was a golden-haired elf on a powerful white stallion. He felt his heart tightening in his chest and he lowered his emerald gaze. As he did so, his eyes fell on the mithril ring adorning his finger and his nostrils flared as he stared, still and tense, at that deceitful token. Mechanically, he removed the piece of jewellery and read the names engraved in the precious metal. His fingers stroked lightly along the smooth surface before he turned his gaze toward the direction where the riders had disappeared. He knew the golden one wore the same ring on his right hand.
Twin rings for bonded souls.
But those rings carrying their intertwined names were made of the same lies that poisoned their lives.
Emotionlessly, he watched the ring as he caressed the first name engraved on the ring. His name. Written in gracious Tengwar.
Erestor...
He unconsciously raised his gaze toward the top of the northern hill of Imladris as his fingers brushed lightly the name of his mate. Ten letters written in no less graceful letters than his...a name as his nemesis. Ten letters symbolizing his fears and his pains; his mistakes and his shattered illusions.
Glorfindel...
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