Chapter IV: Fire & Shadows
Green orbs were gazing at the sensual dance of the flames that burnt fiercely in the dark, crackling and avidly consuming the wood that gave it life. Mesmerized, Erestor sat close to one of the many hearths scattered through the clearing where they had established a camp. Around him, many people were sleeping; some in the trees, others on the ground. Wherever he looked, his gaze fell on the still form of an Elf. Deep yet heavy silence was hovering over the camp, barely disturbed by the cries of nocturnal animals or by the occasional collapse of wood eaten by fire.
Erestor's hand seized a long branch that he easily broke in half before casting it in the fading fire. He had volunteered to guard the fire for the night. Though he could have used some sleep. He felt more tired than he could ever recall. But tension was making sleep impossible.
He toyed absently with a thick piece of wood; rolling it between his palms, uncaring of the scratches his soft skin might sustain if he kept on. He preferred being there - close to the fire - rather than being restless and unable to sleep. He did not avert his gaze from the hypnotic flames, feeling hopelessly attracted to the hidden strength of the calm element. The fire seemed so friendly at that moment, bearing comfort and warmth. Yet, a single gust of wind could awaken its wrath and it would consume everything.
Erestor liked watching the immaterial seduction of the flames. It had always been so since he had been a child, to his parents' greatest fear. He was attracted to fire as moths were to light. He did not understand how one could remain indifferent to it. He found it fascinating how fire would avidly consume the wood that give it strength and life; not caring that it would inevitably die when wood was unavailable. The fire only knew one thing: burning high and strong, displaying its power even if it meant fading quickly. And everyone yielded to it...respected it. Men, Elves, Nature...all submitted to its will, fearing its shapeless might. And, in the end, it was defeated by itself, by its own inability to temper its greed.
He suddenly felt an itch at the nape of his neck and instinctively turned his head toward the place he had set a bedroll for his mother. From where he was sitting, he could only make out her mane that flew freely down her shoulders. She had not moved since the moment he had tucked her beneath the cover. His heart tightened in his chest at the memory of her exhausted features. Even if he tried not to show it, he was worried for her, for her health and her sanity. The strong and determined she-Elf he had known had disappeared with his father, leaving in her place a distressed child that he treated with the utmost care and love. She needed him. She would be completely lost if it were not for his watchful presence. Sometimes, she would drown herself in the past, not always acknowledging those that came across her path; speaking of people that have long departed as if they were still there and not always recognizing him. He hoped that once the baby was born, she would return to her former self, to the mother he loved more than anything on Arda. He hoped that living in Gondolin, the city with seven names, where they had no past and no memories, would ease her burden and give her a new taste in life.
He tried to imagine how their life would be in Turgon's white city. This move from the old city of Nevrast that overlooked the sea had been planned for years. He could recall evenings spent in the company of his father when he spoke of the construction of the Hidden Rock. He had been told they would get a house bordered by high trees close to the heart of the city. His father had spoken of high unending stairs going through the houses, coiling up around the palaces. According to him, Ondolindė was a city of light and air, a place of beauty and peace.
It had seemed so real and so exciting then. For years, he had waited for the moment when they would leave, living on the promise his father had made him. As soon as they were in Gondolin, he would begin his training as a warrior. Not that he had ever touched a weapon. His father was - had been - a renowned guard of the city, one of Turgon's personal messengers, and had introduced him to the art of fighting as soon as he had been old and strong enough to draw a bow. However nothing would compare with the training of novices.
He sighed. His future as a warrior seemed compromised. Not that he had forsaken his dreams but how would he tell his mother? And above this, where would he find the courage to explain to her he had decided to take the same path as his father? A path full of dangers and where his life could be taken from him at any moment. Even if they had never spoken of it, he was aware that his mother wished the life of a craftsman for him, far from battlefields. But he knew within himself that he would never be satisfied with such a life. He wanted danger and battles. He wanted the excitement and freedom that were only to be found in vast spaces.
A commotion on the other side of the camp pulled him from his contemplation. Raising his head, he saw horses entering the large clearing they had stopped in, mounted by riders clad in bright armor. He instinctively got up, placing himself between the approaching riders and his sleeping mother. His hand seized the knife hanging at his waist in a fluid gesture; his body tense and his eyes alert, ready if the need arose to awaken her and to take her to safety.
But the horses stopped their approach at the edge of the clearing. Strangely, only a few people reacted to their arrival and ran toward them, the rest of the camp kept on sleeping peacefully. From where he was, he could hear the soft voices of the riders, who had quickly dismounted. Curiosity pushed the youth to take a few steps toward the small gathering, but he refrained himself and glanced guiltily in the direction of his mother, who had not awakened. His emerald gaze fell once more on the group, sparkling in recollection as he recognized the blazon of Gondolin on the harness of the horses. He frowned slightly as some of those Elves were brought in, visibly injured. They made their way through the camp, supported by their fellows.
Erestor bit his bottom lip, want and duty clearly fighting within him. How he would have liked to help them. He had worked for some time with one of the healers of Nevrast and could be useful. But he finally sat down. He would not have his mother awakening alone in that dark place.
A friendly hand brushed his shoulder but he did not jump. He knew who had approached and laid a comforting caress into the nape of his neck. He turned his head slightly; meeting Ecthelion's grey orbs, reading in the bottomless eyes an echo of his own emotions. Turning completely on his heel till he completely faced the other Elf, he wondered briefly if he looked half as terrible as the mighty Warden of the Gate did. They stood silent for long seconds, neither of them speaking. They were almost of the same height; both bearing the angular and delicate features of the Firstborn, and both equally beautiful and powerful. However, while one was born of the golden radiance of the day, the other seemed to emerge from the ebony mystery of the night.
Glorfindel let his gaze roam quickly over the other warrior's body; instinctively knowing the form of the strong body hidden beneath its cage of mithril. Dark strands had escaped their woven prison of braids and fell unruly in the beautiful face marred by grime and dirt. On one of his cheeks, a cut was still bleeding slightly, probably made by an ill-aimed blade. The once so glittering armor had ceased to shine, the dark essence of Orcs melting with the fresh blood of their wounded Elven fellows. But what had caught his attention and brought his mesmerized gaze to his lover's was the odd sparkle in the expressive eyes- a sparkle that gave his love a feral and frightening expression.
Glorfindel knew that look...the look of a warrior that had tasted the furious euphoria of revenge and the strong accomplishment of violent killing. He himself had experienced that unique feeling of complete power that seized one once the battle was over and the foes defeated. He knew that soon the euphoria would fade; leaving in its place bitterness and disgust; disgust for enjoying the massacre, for not being better than those who had perished beneath their murderous blades.
No word came to shatter the heavy silence hanging over them. They stared calmly at each other; each knowing without having to ask the turmoil the other was in, the contradictory feelings they were both experiencing. In the enveloping darkness they faced each other in a way that could lead the unknowing beholder to believe that the two mighty warriors were threatening each other, unaware of the silent yet strong promises between the two, held within their unreadable eyes.
But then, Glorfindel's expression softened and something like unexpected tenderness shone in his depthless blue eyes. Slowly, as if willing to give his lover the opportunity to avoid his touch, the golden warrior stretched a steady hand to caress his lover's cheek with great care; softly stroking the flesh torn apart by the cruel bite of the Orcish blade. With the tip of a finger, he wiped away some of the blood that kept on dripping from the gash before tracing the path of a dried bloody tear that soiled the alabaster skin. Feeling the golden-haired warrior's caress seemed to appease the burning flame in Ecthelion's heart slightly and he leaned against his lover's hand, an odd smile ghosting his sensual lips. Then, staring seductively at Glorfindel with half-lidded eyes, his long eyelashes making like a bewitching shadow to the shining grey orbs, the dark-haired Elf caught his lover's wrist and brought the long-fingered hand to his mouth, kissing the golden one's knuckles softly, while trailing a path of butterflies caresses with his lips on the strong palm without ever ceasing to stare at him. A shiver ran the length of Glorfindel's spine as a feral gleam passed through his lover's eyes before Ecthelion darted a luscious tongue around his finger, licking at his own blood. He found himself unable to say if it was born of repulsion or of his awakening arousal.
Ecthelion seemed to feel the emotions fighting within his lover and his smile widened, making him appear almost predatory, like a lazy feline playing with an unwilling prey. The ebony Elf spoke in a husky demanding voice, his moist breath caressing the skin of the hand he had not yet released, "You should not remain there... I suggest you go and seek a place for us to sleep..." He paused, a sensual smile ghosting his lips before he added while finally letting go of Glorfindel's hand after a last kiss that seemed to bear promises of much more pleasure, "...in peace tonight..."
The golden-haired warrior felt a shudder of anticipation running the length of his spine; knowing well what kind of pleasures were awaiting after the pains and the grief of the fight. It had always been so and he found himself unable to explain why. It was as if their passion were heightened by the past dangers, as if the violence of battle brought the stars and the heaven closer to them. Every time they made love in the aftermath of death and blood, it was as if they were discovering each other again, as if they were making love for the first time again and again. Glorfindel knew that in the enveloping torpor of the night, he would soon melt away in his lover's embrace. He knew that soon their bodies would be joined in a silent celebration... Celebration for having held onto the oath they had once made to come back to each other alive and whole. He could almost feel Ecthelion's body against his own, trembling and shivering while muttering musical nonsense to his ears as they would reach burning completion. Lost in the heat of his thoughts and drowning in the fascinating grey haze of his lover's gaze, he felt himself grow hard.
Moistening his dried lips with a tantalizing tongue, the golden-haired Elf shook himself from his thoughts. Pulling himself out of his reverie, he turned on his heel wordlessly and walked without sparing the ebony-haired warrior another glance as he headed towards the bright fires that burnt strongly through the place, knowing that Ecthelion would join him as soon as his injuries were tended.
The dark-haired youth let out a discreet sigh and brought a hand to his cheek, wiping away the lone tear that had traced its path the length of his soft cheek. He did not want to cry, for he felt that if his tears began to fall, they would never end. He refused to weep for those memories that were following him restlessly as a tormented ghost would, never leaving him nor giving him any respite. Usually he would push them aside, closing the doors of his mind to them or losing himself in the light of the stars, refusing to simply think. If this were not enough, he would think of his mother who needed him so much and who would always need him.
But there was no escape possible. For *there* he was alone with dying warriors that lay a few feet away from him. For *there* neither the light of the stars nor the fascinating dance of the flames nor the image of his peacefully sleeping mother were enough to save him from what he did not wish to face. Restlessly dancing in his mind again and again, twirling in a frightened waltz, the same confusing vision was darkening his sight, bringing unbidden tears to his glazed eyes.
His father... Lying in the dusty mud, suffering as one of those that were whimpering in the night... life leaving him slowly in an excruciating agony...the name of his wife and of his son on his lips...
This was no new vision to him. The question had often come to him as no one had ever chosen to speak to him of his sire's last moments. He could only suppose that his end had not been a merciful one as heavy clouds would appear in the eyes of those he would ask. He only knew that on his last mission as a messenger for Turgon, his father and other guards had been attacked by some wandering Men. At this thought, his lips tightened into a thin line, anger building within him. Men...Not Orcs, that doomed race, creation of the dark will of Melkor, but Men, who were called the Second Born, who had come to Arda for the same reason as the Firstborn before them: to live there and prosper in peace, to rejoice for the gifts that place had to offer. Men had taken his father's life.
But he knew little else and that lack of knowledge would haunt him forever. He could not help but wonder if his father had suffered, if he who had been so proud and strong in life had cried and screamed when he had seen the gates of Mandos' Halls opening before him. He knew that those questions would never leave him. He dreamt of it at night when his grasp on his mind relaxed as he would walk the Elven dreamscape. Every night, he would see his father fall from his loyal steed, an arrow protubering from his back, his pupils dilated by suffering and his lips parted to let out a pained surprised cry. He would see him pierced by a vile human sword wielded by a worthless hand before the blade would be retrieved from his sire's flesh and sever the beloved head from the shoulders he had so often sat on as a child. Every night, he would awaken, in a cold sweat and shivering in spite of the warmth of his room, a cry smothered in his throat and his father's name muffled on his lips. Every night, he would wish to cry himself to sleep but only sometimes did he allow himself to do it, cursing in his sobs those who had shattered his life and his hopes. But most of nights, he would satisfy himself by laying on his back, staring at the white ceiling of his room, his heart filled with mingling anger and impotence.
Every night, he would feel like letting the hatred in his heart overwhelm all his being and he would feel resentment for all. For the men who had taken his father's life; for his sire who had not known to protect himself; for his mother who left him struggling with the aftermath of his father's absence. But above all else, he hated himself for being so weak, for not being able to manage, for feeling as if everything was out of control.
A shadow fell on him as someone walked to the high fire. Startled by the silent interruption, he raised his eyes, trying to see who was standing still in front of the incandescent flames and he found himself looking at the impassive features of a golden warrior he had never seen before. Averting his gaze as he did not wish to be caught staring, the force of habit made him glance in the direction of his sleeping mother.
Yet his eyes seemed to stray of their own volition towards the proud frame of the unknown Elf. The youth noticed behind his long dark lashes the delicate face and the graceful body hidden beneath dark armor. This Elf was beautiful. Never had Erestor beheld such an image of complete ethereal strength. He wondered briefly how one could appear so terrible and magnificent at the same time.
He would have liked to find some words but he could not urge himself to interrupt the warrior's dreaming state, preferring for a reason unknown to him to stare at the highlights playing in the blond strands, at the flickering of the fire on the pale skin. Suddenly, breaking the perfect harmony of the moment, the flaxen-haired Elf seemed to acknowledge his presence and their eyes met. The dark-haired youth felt his breath catch in his throat as they stared wordlessly at each other for the briefest moment. The warrior's eyes were of the deepest blue but not the blue of a peaceful lipid river. His were like the light curtain of mist on the large surface of the ocean when he would awaken in his room in Nevrast, watching from his window the cliffs where the sea came to crash.
The tall warrior kept on staring at him with those hazy eyes of his and Erestor could not help blushing. He did not avert his gaze, mesmerized by the moving shadows of those orbs as he was by the tantalizing dance of the flames. He was not so lost that he could not wonder why the golden Elf was looking at him so, wondering if he was really seeing him... Yet he never got an answer to those questions as the rustling of bushes sounded close to them, breaking the spell silence had woven around them. They both turned in time to see a dark-haired Elf emerge from the surrounding forest, his lithe slender frame still blending with the cloud of the deep night. Stopping a few feet away from them, he gracefully stretched his right hand in their direction and murmured softly, "Meleth..."
There was so much passion in that single word that Erestor felt an unbidden shiver running the length of his spine. He might be young and still untouched but he was not completely ignorant of the pleasure of the flesh. He watched how the flaxen-haired warrior turned away from him without another glance and joined his lover in a few steps, twining their fingers together. The possessiveness in that simple display of affection made his stomach tighten and, as he watched them walk away, an alien feeling took hold of him, leaving him hungry for something he was quite unable to define . As the night's arms swallowed both Elves, he resumed his silent watch over the fire, trying to chase away the memory of blue clouded eyes.
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