A Wicked Peace

A Wicked Peace

Posted: May 2005
Title: A Wicked Peace
Series: Innocence Stripped Away
Sequel to: A Reflection
Author: Orchyd Constyne
Type: FCS
Characters: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Beta: Fimbrethiel
Author's Notes: This follows "Something Special, Something Sacred", "The Bridge We Cross", "These Chains" and "A Reflection".

Summary: Glorfindel patches up a wounded Erestor.

*****

It was an unnatural sleep.

That was the first thought Glorfindel had as he rolled over in the bed he shared with his mate. Erestor's midnight eyes were closed, his dark lashes resting on too-pale cheeks. Glorfindel brushed back a lock of raven hair, revealing more alabaster flesh and dark smudges almost hidden under his closed eyes. Erestor was not sleeping well lately, his rest disturbed, restless or elusive, and the Noldo had taken to drinking sleeping draughts Elrond would prepare.

The blond sat up in the bed and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs as he continued to stare down at Erestor's still form. His lover had even stopped coming to their bed nude, choosing to don sleeping trousers. The sheet was tangled around Erestor's ankles, exposing creamy skin, supple muscle, and quiet strength that captivated the Elda. They had been friends for countless years, mates for a century, and still he did not know all that Erestor hid in the depths of his soul. There was always a stab of hurt when he thought about the secrets kept from him, but he never pried. It was up to Erestor to confess his fears and pains, not for him to rip them from his mate unwilling. To do so would only lessen the meaning of such a confession, and so Glorfindel was content to wait.

His eyes traveled lower, over a lightly muscled chest, along a trim and slender waist, to narrow hips encased in scarlet silk. Funny, Glorfindel thought to himself, it looks as if the red of the pants had bled onto the sheets... onto Erestor! Glorfindel frantically looked for the source of the dark, dried vermilion smears, and finally his gaze landed Erestor's hands. Shock drove the breath from Glorfindel's chest, and he gingerly picked up one of his lover's hands. The fingertips were slit, still seeping blood, and the palms still glinted with glass in the light. He whipped his head around toward the vanity where the mirror told the tale of Erestor's wounds.

Glorfindel slid from the bed and entered their bathing chamber, preparing a small bowl of warmed water and cleanser. On his way back into the main bedchamber, he snatched up a roll of bandages. Quietly, carefully and steadily, Glorfindel removed the shards of glass still embedded in Erestor's torn flesh. When the hand was free of all glass, he dipped it into the bowl of water and wiped the blood from the wounds. He then bandaged the hand from wrist to fingertip, making certain each finger was encased securely in cotton.

Then he repeated the process with the other hand.

He placed the bowl in the bathing chamber again, but he did not return to Erestor's side. Glorfindel sat down in front of the shattered mirror and looked down at the scattered slivers of glass. Brownish-red smears were on the mirrored pieces and the pale ivory of the vanity top, and the silver-handled brush he had gifted Erestor with on his last begetting day was lying on the floor, forgotten. Glorfindel closed his eyes against the sight and focused instead on his lover's soft breathing, the gentle rhythm of his heart, and he calmed his own troubled spirit. Glorfindel slowly opened his eyes, calling upon Námo to help him. He had never been close to any of the Valar except Námo, and he needed strength; he needed answers.

You know the answers, child, was the soothing thought that brushed against his mind. Glorfindel stood and went to Erestor, climbing atop their bed and crawled over to his lover. He cupped Erestor's cheek and caressed the soft skin under his thumb as he pondered Erestor, himself, and them. They were a complicated puzzle separately, but together they were a nigh-impossible dilemma to solve.

"I know some of what you hide," Glorfindel whispered to his sleeping spouse. "Darkness you shroud yourself in and a raw, hidden pain so festered that it is slowly devouring your very self." He released a long breath. "I love you, Erestor, and that means I love all of you. I wish you could see that; I wish you could trust me as I deserve to be trusted. Smashing the mirror will not free yourself from your torment, because your torment is inside you -- where you keep it safe."

He bent down and kissed Erestor's brow tenderly. "The voices will not stop until you quiet them. The shadows will not recede until you allow light in. The pain will not end until you mend the wound. And we will never be one so long as you refuse to accept me. Your hurts are mine, as mine are yours." Glorfindel left Erestor, bathed and dressed for his day. He would allow his spouse to rest; Elrond would understand, and whatever respite Erestor found in his drugged sleep was precious to him.

As he left the room, he cast a quick look over his shoulder. "I will always love you, no matter how far away you push me."

The door clicked almost silently, and the echo of Glorfindel's footsteps rang down the hall and through the door, though muffled. Erestor's eyes, open but clouded, stared sightlessly at the closed door.

** He blames you **, the voice whispered as a shadow moved to his right. Erestor whipped his head around, but the creator of the shadow was nowhere in sight. ** He will always blame you for the pain, the sorrow you have brought with your whips and shackles. He pines for the Elvenking; he lusts for freedom from your control. He *lies* to you about trust and love and hon-- **

"Quiet!" Erestor screamed as he covered his ears with his aching hands. "Leave me be! For all that is good, leave me in peace!"

Inside his head came a chuckle that was rich and insidious, and as cold as Erestor remembered it. ** Peace? Oh, no, my dear Elf. There is no rest for the wicked, and you are the most wicked of the lot... **

*****

THE END

Go to the next story in the series: Half the Distance

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Orchyd Constyne