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They are attacked in the early morning hours, before the sun has fully risen over the horizon. Even from their vantage point high up in the mountains only the first of the golden rays twinkle over the edge of the world far in the east. They are attacked with hardly any warning even though they have been careful, even though they have set up sentries, even though they have with them some of the most experienced warriors of two realms. But they also travel with a high price – the daughter of an Elven-lord – and while they travel in numbers, their attackers have come prepared, their greater numbers crushing down the mountain slope and struggling towards them from in front and behind: a tidal wave of dark bodies, hoarse cries, and foul smell.
There is a way of escape but it can only be taken by few, horses going down the mountain in single file and neck-breaking pace. They go down the path at a cried command ringing clearly over the ruckus of battle, demanding attention and allowing no contradiction.
Racing towards their home on horses that find the way on their own, it is that voice, its command to flee, and the corresponding picture of blue eyes locking with his, ensuring he obeys, ensuring they will be save, that accompanies him. He feels as desperate as the wide eyed woman riding at his side looks. Their horses, the best breeds Elvish stock can offer, leave their small company behind, only one of the guards able to keep up. They are not held back. And when he shares a cursory glance with Arwen before returning his attention to the road ahead, they also share the same need for speed.
“I cannot reach Ada!” The shout is repeated once in a while, when her eyes snap open from concentration as deep as sitting on a galloping horse allows. Each time she grows more frustrated and he with her. They do not slow, they do not stop. They may kill their steeds with their pace, but what drives them on also keeps the horses going. They must reach home. They must send help. They must make sure, everyone returns in safety.
They do not kill their horses. But they fail in their most important task.
Erestor finds himself unable to measure time for the first time in his life as seconds drag to hours without minutes in between. He can only say that a new day rises after the company that set out upon their call in shining armour and on swift horses, returns, many but not all sharing a horse. They bring with them the remains of the travelling company that mere days ago set out in a golden wood to return to a hidden vale, spurned to haste by Elrond’s sudden request for the return of his daughter. They bring many, but they bring not all, and not all of those they bring sit on the horses in their own right. Some do not sit.
“Not all have come!” Arwen has joined him on the stairs, watching over who has returned, keeping tally.
“El and El are not there,” she observes the absence of her brothers who have ridden out with the rescuers. Someone else is missing, too, but he cannot bring himself to say so. A warm hand slips into his and squeezes, seeking support more than giving it.
“Neither is Glorfindel.”
The blue eyes are back, forcing him to go, asking him to take care of their charge, saying good bye… He stops himself short. There was no goodbye!
“Erestor?”
He squeezes back and looks at his companion, forcing a smile.
“Are you not with your mother?”
“I was. There is no difference I can see. She speaks not, but she spoke not when we left. Nothing has changed but Ada’s perception.”
There are words left unsaid between them, but they share them looking at each other in silence. There had been no rush. They could have taken the longer route. They could have taken the safer route.
The sound of feet in stiff riding boots approaches, demanding their attention.
“The Lords Elladan and Elrohir have gone on,” the rider informs, recognising them as the ones in command, since the one higher dignitary of the Last Homely House has not come out with the wave of healers and helping hands that spilled down the stairs. Erestor cannot place him. He has seen him with their missing captain, but knows no name. Thus he nods. “They have taken two scouts with them and five of our party. There are still four of your company missing, my Lady, Councillor.”
Four, but only one with golden hair, blue eyes, and a voice that allows no objection.
They thank the ellon, then return to the house where they part. They will wait. And while they wait Arwen will help the healers and he will … Not sure what he will do, his feet carry him to his preferred refuge. Though he has long handed over the responsibility for the library when his responsibilities as counsellor took over his time, no one questions Erestor’s right to be here. He wanders through the racks upon racks of books, a hand trailing mindlessly over their neatly shelved backs, taking in the reassuring smell of leather and parchment. He does this for hours until it is no longer enough and he chooses to work, head bowed over unbound parchment, over treaties that hold no meaning, until it droops and reverie takes him, his mind more exhausted than his body.
----
They bring him in in the early morning hours, before the sun has fully risen over the horizon. The moon was full that night, so they must have pressed on. They bring him in, and only him, a mess of golden hair, ripped clothes, and red stains upon them. He does not sit on the horse on his own, but he sits, held tight in front of Elladan, Elrohir leading his horse as spare. Three are still missing, he is informed by someone he does not consciously perceive when he hastens by, alerted by the clapper of hooves and frantic shouts outside his office window. The search is still up, but Glorfindel could not wait.
----
“I am sorry, Councillor, but you will be in their way!” an aide in the healing wing stops him in his track. The elleth’ hand glides over his arm, then grips his elbow firmly, and he is led to a bench and pressed down to sit.
“You may wait, but it will be a while.”
He bores into her with a dark glance, but she does not relent.
“I will send someone for tea,” she says, then leaves, her help needed elsewhere more.
She must have forgotten about the tea, because when someone approaches and he looks up it is Arwen and she has come empty handed. She sits next to him, wringing them, both of them restless in their waiting.
“Is your father...?” He nods towards the door behind which he would only be in the way.
“No,” she answers almost quietly and he shakes from the sudden wrath erupting within him. “Nana does not speak and Ada does not move. I was told to get him, should it become necessary.”
The necessity arises shortly after and when the Lord of the house has hurried past, his gaze avoiding that of his First Councillor, Erestor gets up and retraces Elrond’s steps. There are guards stationed in front of the door leading to the Lord’s and Lady’s repast, but he is almost family and they let him pass.
Twilight dominates the room even in the middle of the day, floating curtains withholding the sunshine but not the gentle breeze. An empty chair stands facing the bed but pushed back to the far wall – a sign for a need for intimacy that is not cherished. He is alone with the bed’s occupant, but no indication is given that he has been noticed, so he breaches the silence first.
„Sail!” His anger forms the single word into a command, not shouted, but sharp.
„Sail,” he repeats and this time he excites movement: A silver head turns towards him, dark rimmed eyes look at him from within a hollow face. She speaks not, because she has long stopped speaking, but she waits for him to break the silence again.
“Please, my Lady, please Rían!” Hoping to reach her, he addresses her with reverence and familiarity alike. “Sail and let them breath. Let them mourn you, let them miss you, and let them get on with their lives.”
He does not expect an answer and receives none, but her question, after months of silence, shocks him.
“Glorfindel?”
He stares at her, then reaches for the door knob. - They could have taken the safer route.
“Sail!” he orders and leaves.
----
There is no change in the patient’s condition for days, but the nature of Erestor’s waiting changes. He has his work moved to the healing wing alongside a desk, and now he works, watches, and waits in the intimacy he needs more than the still form in the bed. He waits in silence until his Lord bursts in, fury written on his face, checks on Glorfindel, and declares he will expect Erestor’s resignation within the day. He is writing it in silence, when the twins burst in, check on Glorfindel and glower at Erestor, before they leave without a word. He is signing it, when Arwen enters, checks on Glorfindel, and does not turn to face him.
“His breathing is even,” she states and Erestor agrees with the relief in her voice. “As is his pulse,” she trails on with her back to him.
“I cannot help but hating you,” she finally confesses. „I am confused and angry and I want to hate someone.“
Erestor folds his resignation.
“I will forgive you in a while and I might even thank you then, but for the moment, I hate you.”
He seals the document and hands it to her.
“I know. Will you give this to your father?”
She takes it and leaves, and he sits back and watches, since he no longer has work to do.
----
He has the desk removed and an armchair brought and he brings books with him as others bring flowers. He talks, reads aloud, and waits, no longer working, but no less occupied.
He sits with his fingers stroking over cold ones, until the warmth of his hand permeates the skin beneath his palm.
He watches as bandages are changed and notes how the fluids they hold change colour from sickly green to bright red, until they come up almost clean.
He feels the pulse even and strengthen, and beneath his touch, the skin changes from icy, to burning, to cool.
While he reads, colour returns to the still face before him, the bronze slowly regaining almost its full beauty.
When one day he kisses them, the lips beneath his are warm and no longer cracked, and he can almost imagine them to have moved.
“If this were a story, you would wake up now,” he says, rising. But this is not one of the stories he reads, and so his waiting continues.
He waits in silence but for his own voice, as few ever speak to him beyond necessities and those who did, keep angry silence. They come regularly, check on Glorfindel, and leave without a word.
They stay when blue eyes finally lock with theirs and a clear voice commands them to stay. They speak, because the voice allows for no objection, not even from its Lord.
Erestor is not forgiven easily, but when the family returns from the western shores one member short, he watches as his resignation is burned over a candle and the ashes are dispersed in the wind. He watches, his cool fingers entwined with warm ones, until their warmth permeates his skin.
They may live now.