Resurrection 1

Resurrection

Part 1

Posted: September 29, 2006
Title: Resurrection
Author: Larien Elengasse
Type: FCS
Characters: Erestor/Glorfindel, Celebrimbor/Erestor (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate, and I am sure he would be horrified if he read this.
Warning: Violence, graphic depictions of sexual acts between two males, and just a little bit of drama, because this is me, after all.
Beta: Kenaz
Author’s Notes: My Erestor muse insisted that he be given more attention and another shot at Glorfindel. He’s hard to refuse… As usual, I’m not adhering to the rules of Tolkien canon (big surprise, I’m sure), so if that’s your thing, this won’t entertain you. If not, then I hope you enjoy it. Set in the Second Age. My thanks once again to Claudio’s Sindarin Name Generator on Elffetish for Nestagar’s (healing blood) name.

Summary: Ost-in-Edhil falls; Erestor finds a new home and a new friend.

*****

Erestor crouched with his arms wrapped around his chest and his hands gripping his elbows. He had stopped trying to block out the sounds around him, for they were far too loud and too horrible for his hands to blot out. His head ached and he could feel the slow trickle of blood running behind his ear and down his neck, soaking the collar of his tunic, and he was cold despite everything around him being on fire. His fellow prisoners also crouched and cowered in their cage; many of them were younger than he was – they were all male, some were not yet of majority.

He was the eldest prisoner, and he was ashamed to be locked up with the young ones while those his age were fighting and dying in vain to save their doomed city. He had tried. He had held the large hammer in his hand and struck at the orc that burst through the door of his master’s forge. He was lucky the first time; he had struck the beast in the head and killed it. The second time, however, he was not so lucky; the orc wrested the hammer from him and then hit him on the head with the hilt of his scimitar.

When he awoke, he was being jostled. He opened his eyes to see the sky on fire, and he was then thrown into the cage with the rest of the young males and locked in. It had not escaped his notice that the orcs were not taking females or elflings captive; it also occurred to him that perhaps those who were not captured were the lucky ones – better to go to Mandos’ Halls than Sauron’s lair.

The battle din grew much louder, and some of the ellon in the cage with him began to whimper in fear. ‘Oh, you think you are frightened now,’ he thought. ‘I fear the worst is yet to come.

Screams grew louder as the voices of ellon and elleth alike mixed together above the din. Drawn by a force he could not explain, Erestor looked up and his already pale face blanched in horror. His fellow captives screamed and began to cry, but Erestor was beyond tears. Upon a pike hung his master’s broken and mutilated body, carried like some perverted standard before the monster that had betrayed them all. Erestor grabbed the rough iron bars and screamed in rage, shaking the cage and cursing the name of Annatar at the top of his lungs.

The orc driving the cart laughed, it was a sickening, gurgling sound, and then the cart lurched to one side as it began to slowly roll away from the city gates.

What happened next happened very quickly.

Erestor heard the high-pitched whine of an Elven arrow; they made a distinctive, almost musical sound when they flew. The orc driving the cart growled and sputtered, then fell dead next to the wheels. Next to fall were the wargs that pulled it; they howled and yelped before falling still. The dull foot soldiers of Annatar came rushing forward to protect their lord’s prize, but they were overwhelmed by the ranks of Noldor that burst through the line.

Seeing that the battle would end poorly for them, the orcs turned on the cage. Erestor jumped backward as a spear was thrust through the iron bars. Behind him, he heard the dying cry of a young elf as he fell. Quickly, he reached through the bars and grabbed a handful of grimy, coarse hair, and pulled with all his might, bringing the orc’s forehead into rough contact with the bars. The beast grunted and fell unconscious, and Erestor caught the beast’s spear, turning it so the blade faced out, and he tried to fend off their killers.

Searing pain shot through his back and he cried out in agony, falling to his knees. There was a loud ringing in his ears and his field of vision began to grow white; then the door to the cage opened and he felt warm hands on his face. Struggling to see through the haze of his fading consciousness, he could only make out bright, blue eyes and something that looked like a halo of gold. A diffuse light seemed to shine from behind the elf, and he heard a deep, melodious voice say, “Oh no, my friend, he calls not you. I would hear him if he did.” Then Erestor’s eyes slid closed and the world went dark.

* * * *

“Easy now,” Glorfindel said to the healer. “He has been wounded in the back and his head is bleeding as well.” He turned to Gildor. “How many did we save?”

Gildor turned from the cage and violently kicked a dead orc’s body as he growled. “Murder young ones?” he cried. “They could not even defend themselves! Is there no limit to the depths of their cruelty?”

“How many?” Glorfindel asked again, his voice growing softer and his eyes dimming with sorrow.

“None but the one you pulled out and that youth lying beside him.” Gildor turned south, spying the cloud of dust kicked up by Annatar’s retreat. “Curse you, coward! Next we meet I will wear your black heart on my helm!”

“We will have our revenge, my friend,” Glorfindel said softly as he laid a hand on Gildor’s shoulder. “But now we must care for the young ones.”

Gildor looked at the ground and nodded, then he wiped the tears from his face and took a deep breath before turning and retrieving the first body out of the cage.

* * * *

Elrond smoothed the hair back from the last pale face, and then watched as his healers wrapped the body in linen and placed it upon the unlit pyre. He gained his feet, swallowing a lump in his throat before clasping his hands behind his back and nodding his ascent to the soldiers who held the torches. The warriors under his command stood in silence as the bodies of females, elflings, and warriors alike burned side by side.

A young Noldo, the only other survivor that had been in the cage, hobbled forward, leaning heavily on a crutch. He took a deep breath and lifted his voice in song, singing the departing souls to the Halls of Mandos.

Elrond looked at the youth, so frail and just in the blossom of his time. He was pale and he had a wounded look in his eye, yet his voice was the purest, most beautiful thing the elf lord had ever heard. They stayed until the fire was nothing more than smoldering ash, then Elrond mounted his horse and rode to the head of the line, and lead the refugees from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil.

* * * *

Erestor gasped as he opened his eyes. Everything was white; he blinked and tried to adjust to the light. “I thought it was a cave,” he murmured in a hoarse whisper, “or a fortress of some sort.”

“What is this now?”

He slowly turned his head and groaned, then he saw a young, dark-haired elf standing by his bed. “Where am I?”

“You are in the Hidden Valley, my friend,” the elf replied.

“Where?”

“The Hidden Valley, the land of Elrond. I am Nestagar; I have been attending to you these past days. And what might your name be?”

“Erestor.” He blinked. “Days? How long have I been asleep? Am I not dead?”

“No, Master Erestor, you are not dead. You have been sleeping for these past six days; we gave you something to keep you asleep while your body healed.”

Erestor licked his lips. “I am thirsty.”

“Here,” the healer said as he helped Erestor sit up and propped pillows behind him. “I am not surprised that you are; I have not been able to give you drink while you were asleep. I suppose you are hungry as well?”

Erestor absently scratched at his side. “Aye, I am.”

“Do not scratch that, Erestor,” Nestagar chided. “It is healing, the fact that it itches is a good sign; your body is doing its work.”

Erestor nodded and then rubbed his temples. “Oh,” he groaned, “why does my head ache so?”

“Because you are hungry and need drink, and you took quite a blow there,” the healer answered. “Sip this slowly, if you drink it too quickly, it will come right back up.”

Erestor accepted the cup of water and sipped it. Nothing had ever tasted as good in his life. It was clear, cool, and crisp, as was the air in this place. He peered through the open flaps of the tent and saw green grass and spring flowers, tall trees and a waterfall far off in the distance. He could hear birds singing, and he saw the shadow of a deer cross the tent wall.

“I will fetch you some clear broth; I wager you will feel better once you have something in your stomach. I shall return shortly.”

“Thank you, Nestagar,” Erestor replied quietly, then he set the cup down and leaned his head back against the soft pillows.

“And how is our patient today?” Erestor heard a deep voice ask just outside the tent door. The voice sounded familiar, somehow.

“Very well, my lord. He has woken and I am on my way to fetch him some broth.”

“Excellent. Might I visit him?”

“Of course, my lord. Please do.”

Erestor watched the tent opening as a tall, golden haired elf stepped through it. He felt a slight catch in his chest and he realized it was his breath - he was holding it. The elf was passing fair; nay, much more than passing fair, he was radiant. A broad, warm smile curved the elf’s lips as he pulled up a stool and sat down.

“Well now, you are looking much better than last I saw you.”

“Thank you,” Erestor answered softly.

“I told you that Mandos did not call you; I always know when he calls.”

“You . . . you are the one that saved me.”

“I was one of the ones that saved you, yes. Many warriors fought for you and your kinsmen that day.” The elf cocked his head and smiled. “I would know the name of the one we saved, if you would share it.”

“Erestor,” he murmured.

“Erestor. Excellent…”

“You said you know when he calls. How could you know, unless…”

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “Ah, here it comes. I recognize that expression anywhere.”

“You . . . you are the one they talk about. The one who was returned…” Erestor whispered.

Glorfindel placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head. “Aye, I am one in the same. I am…”

“Glorfindel...” Erestor murmured.

“That is correct. Now you know my name and I know yours. See how well this is going? Next we will be fast friends.”

“My lord,” Erestor stammered. “I . . . I owe you my life. I…”

“You owe me nothing, Erestor,” Glorfindel answered. “I was merely doing what I do. It is my purpose here.”

“Did anyone else survive?”

Glorfindel sighed and glanced at the floor before returning his gaze to Erestor. “Only one, a young elf named Lindir. The others that were with you perished, I am afraid.”

Erestor felt his lower lip tremble. “We could not even fight back, we were helpless…”

Glorfindel placed his hand on the Noldo’s arm. “I know. I am sorry, Erestor. I truly am. I know what it feels like to lose kinsmen.”

Erestor sniffled and wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. “I did not know them, any of them. I was thrown in the cart with the elves who served the lady. I was not of that house.”

“Which house are you from?” Glorfindel asked.

“The Mírdain,” Erestor answered.

Glorfindel nodded. “A fair number of them survived, I will see that you are reunited with your friends.”

Erestor shook his head. “They are not my friends, nor my enemies. I doubt they would know me as anything other than servant to Celebrimbor.”

Glorfindel squeezed Erestor’s wrist. “This is a new life here, Erestor. You can be anything you wish to be – carpenter, scribe, smith, soldier . . . anything you like. And, you have already made your first friend.” He smiled.

“The great Glorfindel, my friend?” Erestor asked quietly.

Glorfindel chuckled. “I am not so sure about ‘great’; but aye, I am your friend,” he answered.

“All right, that is enough visiting for one day,” Nestagar announced as he entered the tent carrying a tray with a bowl of broth and a small piece of bread. “We do not wish to overtax him, do we, my lord.”

Glorfindel winked at Erestor then released his hand as he stood. “No, no, of course not. I will be on my way; I must supervise the choosing of the site.”

“The site for what?” Erestor asked.

“The site upon which Lord Elrond will build the great house.” He smiled. “Welcome home, Erestor.”

Erestor smiled. He found he would have smiled even under the direst circumstances – Glorfindel’s cheer was infectious.

Glorfindel began to depart when he paused and turned back to look at Erestor. “I am sorry about Celebrimbor, Erestor. We did everything we could.” He watched Erestor nod. “If it is any consolation, Annatar got nothing from him, nothing at all.” He then turned and departed the tent.

Glorfindel’s last words hung in the air as the healer worked around him, fluffing pillows and placing a small lap tray on the bed, then setting the bowl of soup upon it. “I knew he would never tell,” he murmured.

“Hmm?” Nestagar returned.

“Nothing. Thank you, Nestagar.”

*****

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