LOTR FIC: Going Home
Aug. 6th, 2009 01:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fimbrethielTitle: Going Home
Author: Fimbrethiel
LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fimbrethiel/
Email: fimbrethiel @ yahoo.com
Type: FPS
Pairing: Erestor/Gildor
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Don’t own the Elves, they are owned by Tolkien’s estate. Master Tolkien, I mean no harm. No profit has been made.
Beta: Minuial Nuwing
Original date of completion: August 16, 2009
Summary: Recriminations, regrets, and reconciliations between two former lovers after the War of the Ring.
Author’s Note: This story was written for red_lasbelin in the 2009 Ardor in August fiction exchange from Slashy Santa. The request was: black orchid, a conflict resolved, remembrance, dealing with leaving Middle-earth after the War.
* ~ * ~ *
The stars were veiled, the clouds heavy and shrouding the sliver of the moon. The forest too was nearly silent, mists and low-lying fog dampening the usual nocturnal sounds. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, but the scuffle of mice in the underbrush and the rustle of a breeze in the trees was muted.
Yet as Gildor made his way through the forest, his feet practiced in treading silently from years of living in stealth and secrecy, he crested a hill and suddenly there was light down in the valley, a faint shimmer of gold breaking through the mantle of darkness.
That mellow golden glow inspired mixed emotions. Foremost was a great sense of relief. He’d sent the rest of his group on ahead to Imladris a few weeks before, with the excuse that he needed a bit of solitude to reflect on his years in Middle-earth and to say farewell to the hills and dales and forests he’d roamed for millennia.
But in post-War Middle-earth, a lone traveler, even one of Gildor’s skill, had been in a constant state of danger. The journey had been harrowing, with roving packs of Orcs and brigands eking out a bare existence, hunted and desperate to avoid King Elessar’s scouts intent on eradicating the last of Sauron’s evil from the face of the land. Gildor was weary and hungry and heartily tired of traveling.
But relief was only part of it. The rest of the truth was that he was frightened. He was terrified that Erestor hadn’t forgiven him.
* ~ * ~ *
In the Hall of Fire, the rumor of Gildor’s arrival reached Erestor’s ears as he strummed on a borrowed lute. Glorfindel sat at his side, the two crooning a lighthearted, slightly silly ballad that Bilbo Baggins had written shortly after taking up residency in Imladris. Erestor and old Bilbo had formed a curious but firm friendship solidified by a mutual love of poetry, ancient maps, riddles – and ale. Erestor was an oddity among the folk of Imladris for his love of a good, frothy mug of ale.
Halfway through the song, Erestor felt a tingle between his shoulder blades and, by long instinct, realized he was being watched. His back was to the door so he could not turn around, but his eyes met Bilbo’s and his eyebrow rose slightly in a silent question.
The elderly Hobbit glanced toward the door, and his wrinkled brow rose in a look of surprise. He looked back at Erestor and, with a sly smile that lifted a score of years from his aged countenance, mouthed a single word.
“Gildor.”
Erestor’s only acknowledgement was a single missed note, a brief moment of discord in the jaunty verse that Glorfindel was now singing. He had been expecting Gildor’s arrival for weeks now, since the Exiles had straggled in without their leader, but still, his stomach did a little flip-flop.
The next verse was his own; he got through it smoothly, but by the time the song was over and he returned the lute to its rightful owner, Gildor was nowhere to be found.
Amid a flurry of murmured compliments, Erestor made his excuses and bid his companions a good evening. There was no sense in searching for his erstwhile former lover – the gypsy Elf shunned crowds whenever possible, and when Gildor wanted to be invisible, no one alive could find him. Returning to his room, he found that a note had been slipped under his door.
It was from Gildor.
* ~ * ~ *
Gildor slipped out of the Last Homely House unseen and went to the riverside to wait. His stomach churning, he lingered in the gazebo on the riverbank for more hours than he cared to admit to, later when it no longer mattered. He sat, then he paced, then he sat again. For a change of pace, he worried and fretted a little just to keep things interesting.
Was Erestor going to even show up? Gildor was doubtful. When he’d last been in Imladris, the two had not parted on the best of terms.
Gildor’s first visit to Imladris after Erestor's injury had been just a few weeks after the accident. To his pleasure and relief, he found Erestor hobbling around on a pair of forked sticks, his leg heavily wrapped to keep the shattered bones in place while they knit together again. Elrond had done a miraculous job of setting the multiple breaks and stitching the ragged skin back together. Despite the severity of the injury, Erestor was one of the lucky ones to have even survived the mudslide, to have escaped with his life and only a shattered thigh to show for his troubles. Three of their Company had been buried alive, and another had been killed instantly, his spine broken by a falling boulder.
At that time, it was far too soon for Erestor to rejoin the Company, so Gildor left again a few weeks later, promising to return, and fully expecting Erestor to rejoin the Wandering Company as soon as he had made a full recovery.
For a number of reasons (all legitimate and unpremeditated), twenty years passed before Gildor made it back to Imladris. He and Erestor had what he considered a triumphant reunion (meaning that they got out of bed only long enough to eat, bathe, and have an occasional meeting with Elrond), and Gildor fully expected to leave with his chief and lover at his side, ready to resume their adventures.
Except that it didn’t quite work out that way. When it was time for the Company to return to the road, Erestor refused to come. They had a ferocious row, but Erestor would not be swayed. Gildor finally tore off his silver betrothal band and, throwing it at Erestor’s chest, stormed out of the room.
That was thirty years ago.
Gildor also fretted about Erestor’s relationship with Glorfindel. His own damned cousin Glorfindel, too big and blue-eyed and beautiful by half (it entirely escaped Gildor’s notice that he and Glorfindel bore more than a passing resemblance). Were they lovers? Had Erestor gone straight to Glorfindel’s chambers and not even seen Gildor’s note? Maybe Glorfindel had gone to Erestor’s, and the note had been kicked, unseen, under a rug by two passion-drunk lovers in a hurry to fall into bed.
Yet Gildor knew, deep down in his heart, that scenario wasn’t likely. Glorfindel was far too honorable to poach on another’s territory, and Erestor had never been a promiscuous Elf. Yet, as the hours wore on with no sign of Erestor, the scenario became more and more plausible in Gildor’s imagination.
When the clouds finally broke and the moon finally peeked out from behind a bank of clouds, he sighed. Erestor was not coming. Gildor had been judged against the incomparable Glorfindel, and he’d been found lacking.
* ~ * ~ *
Limping around his room, Erestor read the brief note over and over. He’d known Gildor would one day return, of course, and expected that someday they would have the talk Erestor had been dreading. He’d been expecting it, but the anticipation did nothing to dispel the lump in his throat and the way his stomach tightened as it always did at seeing Gildor’s familiar scrawl on that piece of paper.
But the ache in his leg could not be denied. Most of the time it didn’t bother him much, and he walked tall and straight with scarcely a hint of the injury that could easily have left him crippled, if it hadn’t been for Elrond’s skill. But not tonight. Tonight, thanks to a few too many turns around the dance floor, it throbbed dreadfully and made further thinking near impossible.
He drew himself a warm bath and added some of the mineral salts Elrond had given him for times just like these, and soaked for a good long time while he tried to sort it all out in his mind.
In the span of years since Erestor had made the valley his home, he had earned himself a respected position on Elrond’s council and settled into the daily life in Imladris. He had made many friends and knew he was well liked and well respected, quick with a joke and not so quick with advice, unless it was asked for. Imladris had become a haven, not just a place to visit for a week or a month, but a real home.
He had tried, but he’d never quite forgiven Gildor for the way he’d left that time, and for staying away for so long. Many of the Wandering Company stopped in from time to time, bringing news from around the land, but Gildor would not come near.
As the water cooled, Erestor reluctantly climbed out and dressed. His leg felt better, but his thoughts were still a jumble.
Thirty more years had passed since that fight with Gildor, and Erestor still didn’t know what to say. He thought he was over it, but Gildor’s presence brought back those old feelings of resentment in a surge of confusing emotions.
All that time to think about it, and figure out what to say when the inevitable came and they faced one another, but he still had no idea. Reading the note one last time, he put it on his nightstand and climbed into bed.
* ~ * ~ *
In the morning, after a few sleepless hours of lying in a bed that was too soft after years of sleeping on the ground, Gildor borrowed a horse from the stables and rode through the valley for a few hours. Feeling bitter and nursing a sleep deprivation hangover, he had no real destination in mind.
He was not surprised, then, to eventually find himself on a high bluff overlooking the Bruinen. His subconscious must have guided his horse there, because the place was a spot he and Erestor had visited often. It was with even less surprise that he saw Erestor sitting on a rocky outcropping, tossing pebbles down into the river rushing below.
He dismounted and slapped his horse on the rump, sending her to join Erestor’s in grazing in the long grass by the cliff top. All morning he had been angry, but now, seeing Erestor sitting there alone, he felt his anger fading, replaced by a dull sense of resignation. He’d fantasized that, when he returned to Imladris after his ride, there would be a note from Erestor, or better yet, Erestor himself, waiting for him, begging Gildor’s forgiveness for standing him up. Seeing Erestor seated by the river shattered that fantasy.
Dropping down uninvited a few feet away from his former lover, he crossed his legs and stared out over the river while Erestor tossed his pebbles. Plunk, plunk, plunk. After so many years of silence, neither one of them knew how to begin.
Gildor was the first to break. “How is your leg?” he asked in an excruciatingly polite tone.
Erestor tossed another pebble. “It aches from time to time, but usually nothing unbearable.”
Another few minutes of awkward silence passed.
“I waited for you - ” Gildor started.
“I’m glad you found me - ” Erestor said at nearly the same moment.
When Gildor made a sarcastic little ‘go ahead’ gesture, Erestor just shook his head and continued to toss his pebbles. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I just – didn’t know what to say. I should have at least sent a note.”
Gildor shrugged. "It doesn’t matter now.”
Erestor finally turned to look at him for the first time, his eyes wide with disbelief and his mouth agape. “It doesn’t matter? All you can say is, ‘It doesn’t matter?’”
Stunned by the vehemence of Erestor’s tone, Gildor stammered, “I thought you were still angry.”
Once there had been a drought of words, but now they came bursting forth in a flood as Erestor growled and suddenly threw the handful of pebbles over the ground.
“Angry? Angry doesn’t begin to cover it, Gildor. You left. Gone. Goodbye. You walked away from me that day - for thirty bloody years – without a word. Not once did you come back and see me. In all that time you couldn't find even a minute to write and apologize?”
“Apologize?” Gildor barked, like a cornered badger being poked with a stick. “What am I supposed to apologize for? You told me to leave, remember? ‘Get the fuck out of my room and don’t come back,’” he mimicked in a voice that was eerily reminiscent of Erestor’s exact words thirty years ago. “Or have you forgotten that part of it?”
“Because you assumed I was coming with you, you jackass! By Aulë’s sweaty asshole, are you intentionally trying to be stupid, or were you just born that way?” Erestor cried in exasperation. Not shouted – Erestor never shouted. He cursed like a sailor sometimes, but never shouted. “You didn’t ask, you told me we were leaving. Did you think that maybe I didn’t want to go? Did you consider that maybe I was happy doing what I did for Elrond? That maybe I was tired of sleeping on tree roots and rocks every night, and freezing my ass off every winter?" He paused, and then said pointedly, "Did it occur to you that my leg could have put every one of you in danger?”
This accusation, made in the heat of anger, stopped Gildor cold. He thought back to the day he’d left Imladris for the last time, and realized Erestor’s accusations were absolutely right. He had never actually asked Erestor to the return to the Company. He had simply gone about his business as though nothing had changed, assuming all along that Erestor would be returning with him to the wilds and resuming his role at Gildor’s side.
He hadn’t thought, either through simple oversight or by subconscious denial, that Erestor could have been a liability. The Exiles lived a vagrant life, traveling by foot only, and survived on wit and sheer physical hardiness. Erestor had wit aplenty, but that leg, unpredictable in its strength, could have put their entire company at risk. Erestor knew it, and Gildor should have realized it, too.
“I would have stayed.”
Gildor's admission, so softly uttered, was more effective than a shout. Erestor’s mouth, open to utter words that he would probably later regret saying, abruptly closed, and he looked at his former lover.
“I would have stayed,” Gildor repeated, looking down at his hands. “All you had to do was ask, and I would have given it all up and stayed with you. But you never asked.”
Erestor’s head dropped to his hands. “Oh gods. We’re both too stubborn for our own good.”
Gently, tentatively, Gildor reached over and tugged Erestor’s hand away, forcing his lover to look at him. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. A mistake that I will regret for a long time.”
Gildor’s expression was so humble, so reminiscent of a scolded puppy, that Erestor’s heart melted. The past years aside, he had never been able to stay angry at Gildor. He knew now that he had been equally at fault. “You’re forgiven,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, too.”
And just like that, the mistakes of the past thirty years were finally laid to rest, shoved into a corner and left to accumulate dust like the detritus of a forgotten past.
Gildor reached for Erestor’s hand, halfway expecting his touch to be refused, and was relieved when Erestor’s fingers wrapped loosely around his. “I missed you. Talk to me?”
So, Erestor began talking. He told of the passing of the Elves into the West, and the Council of the Ring, and the Ringbearers (of which Gildor already knew part, but not the whole), and many other things besides. He talked of the mundane life of Imladris, and the people Gildor had only known in passing, of children born and old friends passing. He talked for hours, yet Gildor never tired of listening.
In turn, Gildor shared anecdotes from his years on the road. As he talked, the sun reached her high point and had begun to descend again toward the horizon.
Stirred from his reminiscing by a growling stomach, Gildor found himself sprawled on his back, his head resting in Erestor’s lap. Just like the old days.
“Well, I suppose we should get back,” he finally said reluctantly.
Erestor sighed. “I suppose. I’m starving.”
Beginning to push himself to his feet, Gildor was drawn up short by a strand of hair that had become tangled around one of Erestor’s buttons. He hissed in pain and clutched at the top of his head. “Ouch. I’m stuck.”
“Don’t move, let me unsnarl you before you snatch yourself bald,” Erestor said. Bending low to free his lover’s golden mane, he quickly untangled Gildor’s hair. “There you go.”
As Gildor sat up, Erestor’s breath hitched and he reached out to touch Gildor’s hair clip. “What’s this?”
Gildor had almost forgotten about that hair clip. He wore it every day. It was something he’d purchased years ago when he’d been feeling a little lonely and melancholy, thinking of the things he could have done differently if his pride had not got in the way. He quickly unbound his hair, placed the surprisingly heavy piece of metal in Erestor’s palm, and curled his lover’s fingers around it.
“There’s a little town in the south, just at the northern tip of the desert, and they have the most remarkable way of working metals. I had this made for you years ago. I never thought I’d actually have the chance to give it to you, but now I want you to have it.”
Few remembered, or even knew, that the crest of Erestor’s house in Gondolin had been a black orchid against a pale yellow background. The House of the Black Orchid had been a lesser house, relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, destined to be forgotten in the annals of Middle-earth, and of it, Erestor was the last. This gesture touched him beyond anything else Gildor could have done.
Not trusting his voice, Erestor simply ran his finger slowly over the sturdy metal, then gathered up his own hair and fastened the clasp in place. He breached the distance between them and kissed Gildor on the lips, very gently.
Turning away, he whistled between his teeth and their horses came trotting toward them, slow and lazy from grazing all day.
They mounted and were preparing to ride once again, but there was one question that Gildor had yet to ask. He sat astride his horse, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did you sleep with Glorfindel?” he finally blurted.
The question was so unexpected that it caught Erestor off guard. “Glorfindel?”
“You know, my cousin? I saw you last night, looking rather cozy.”
For some reason Erestor was perversely pleased to hear the jealousy in Gildor’s tone. “No. He made a pass once, but he was drunk and I turned him down. It was forgotten the next day. We’re only friends, Gildor. Nothing more,” Erestor said placatingly, and reached over to pat Gildor’s cheek.
Nudging his gelding sharply in the side, he took off down the path, his laughter ringing over the hills like the chiming of a bell.
Gildor made a mental note to throttle his cousin at the next opportunity.
* ~ * ~ *
It had been thousands of years since Gildor had ridden through the mountains and valleys of Valinor, since he and Glorfindel and their assorted friends and cousins had built forts from storm-downed trees and explored caves, but the Blessed Realm was as beautiful as he remembered it.
Stopping in the high grass beside a crystalline blue stream, he jumped down from his horse and landed with a thud and a puff of dust. “This looks like a good spot to spend the night. I think I camped here as a boy. Those rocks over there look familiar – does that look like an upside down turtle to you?”
Erestor slid from his own horse far more smoothly than his mate had and shaded his eyes with one hand as he tilted his head to the side and looked curiously at the formation of rocks. “Gildor, that looks nothing like a turtle.”
When Gildor did not fire back the rejoinder Erestor was expecting, he realized Gildor wasn’t listening. His lover was simply standing in place, one hand thoughtfully rubbing his chin as he gazed out over the meadow cut through by a gleaming ribbon of blue, with purple-gray mountains soaring majestically into the sky.
Erestor came up behind him and slipped his arms around Gildor’s waist. “Why so pensive, sweetheart?”
“This would make a nice place for a house, wouldn’t it?”
Erestor followed Gildor’s gaze, taking in the beauty of the scenery. “Yes, it would. Clean water, fresh air, plenty of space, but close enough to town for convenience’s sake. We could call it the House of the Turtle,” he said teasingly, brushing a kiss to Gildor’s temple.
He felt Gildor’s chuckle vibrate against his own chest, and Gildor turned around in his arms and kissed him. “Actually, I was thinking that the House of the Black Orchid had a nice ring to it.”
Erestor’s delighted smile rivaled the sun in its brightness.
* ~ * ~ * The End * ~ * ~ *
Author: Fimbrethiel
LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fimbrethiel/
Email: fimbrethiel @ yahoo.com
Type: FPS
Pairing: Erestor/Gildor
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Don’t own the Elves, they are owned by Tolkien’s estate. Master Tolkien, I mean no harm. No profit has been made.
Beta: Minuial Nuwing
Original date of completion: August 16, 2009
Summary: Recriminations, regrets, and reconciliations between two former lovers after the War of the Ring.
Author’s Note: This story was written for red_lasbelin in the 2009 Ardor in August fiction exchange from Slashy Santa. The request was: black orchid, a conflict resolved, remembrance, dealing with leaving Middle-earth after the War.
* ~ * ~ *
The stars were veiled, the clouds heavy and shrouding the sliver of the moon. The forest too was nearly silent, mists and low-lying fog dampening the usual nocturnal sounds. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, but the scuffle of mice in the underbrush and the rustle of a breeze in the trees was muted.
Yet as Gildor made his way through the forest, his feet practiced in treading silently from years of living in stealth and secrecy, he crested a hill and suddenly there was light down in the valley, a faint shimmer of gold breaking through the mantle of darkness.
That mellow golden glow inspired mixed emotions. Foremost was a great sense of relief. He’d sent the rest of his group on ahead to Imladris a few weeks before, with the excuse that he needed a bit of solitude to reflect on his years in Middle-earth and to say farewell to the hills and dales and forests he’d roamed for millennia.
But in post-War Middle-earth, a lone traveler, even one of Gildor’s skill, had been in a constant state of danger. The journey had been harrowing, with roving packs of Orcs and brigands eking out a bare existence, hunted and desperate to avoid King Elessar’s scouts intent on eradicating the last of Sauron’s evil from the face of the land. Gildor was weary and hungry and heartily tired of traveling.
But relief was only part of it. The rest of the truth was that he was frightened. He was terrified that Erestor hadn’t forgiven him.
* ~ * ~ *
In the Hall of Fire, the rumor of Gildor’s arrival reached Erestor’s ears as he strummed on a borrowed lute. Glorfindel sat at his side, the two crooning a lighthearted, slightly silly ballad that Bilbo Baggins had written shortly after taking up residency in Imladris. Erestor and old Bilbo had formed a curious but firm friendship solidified by a mutual love of poetry, ancient maps, riddles – and ale. Erestor was an oddity among the folk of Imladris for his love of a good, frothy mug of ale.
Halfway through the song, Erestor felt a tingle between his shoulder blades and, by long instinct, realized he was being watched. His back was to the door so he could not turn around, but his eyes met Bilbo’s and his eyebrow rose slightly in a silent question.
The elderly Hobbit glanced toward the door, and his wrinkled brow rose in a look of surprise. He looked back at Erestor and, with a sly smile that lifted a score of years from his aged countenance, mouthed a single word.
“Gildor.”
Erestor’s only acknowledgement was a single missed note, a brief moment of discord in the jaunty verse that Glorfindel was now singing. He had been expecting Gildor’s arrival for weeks now, since the Exiles had straggled in without their leader, but still, his stomach did a little flip-flop.
The next verse was his own; he got through it smoothly, but by the time the song was over and he returned the lute to its rightful owner, Gildor was nowhere to be found.
Amid a flurry of murmured compliments, Erestor made his excuses and bid his companions a good evening. There was no sense in searching for his erstwhile former lover – the gypsy Elf shunned crowds whenever possible, and when Gildor wanted to be invisible, no one alive could find him. Returning to his room, he found that a note had been slipped under his door.
It was from Gildor.
* ~ * ~ *
Gildor slipped out of the Last Homely House unseen and went to the riverside to wait. His stomach churning, he lingered in the gazebo on the riverbank for more hours than he cared to admit to, later when it no longer mattered. He sat, then he paced, then he sat again. For a change of pace, he worried and fretted a little just to keep things interesting.
Was Erestor going to even show up? Gildor was doubtful. When he’d last been in Imladris, the two had not parted on the best of terms.
Gildor’s first visit to Imladris after Erestor's injury had been just a few weeks after the accident. To his pleasure and relief, he found Erestor hobbling around on a pair of forked sticks, his leg heavily wrapped to keep the shattered bones in place while they knit together again. Elrond had done a miraculous job of setting the multiple breaks and stitching the ragged skin back together. Despite the severity of the injury, Erestor was one of the lucky ones to have even survived the mudslide, to have escaped with his life and only a shattered thigh to show for his troubles. Three of their Company had been buried alive, and another had been killed instantly, his spine broken by a falling boulder.
At that time, it was far too soon for Erestor to rejoin the Company, so Gildor left again a few weeks later, promising to return, and fully expecting Erestor to rejoin the Wandering Company as soon as he had made a full recovery.
For a number of reasons (all legitimate and unpremeditated), twenty years passed before Gildor made it back to Imladris. He and Erestor had what he considered a triumphant reunion (meaning that they got out of bed only long enough to eat, bathe, and have an occasional meeting with Elrond), and Gildor fully expected to leave with his chief and lover at his side, ready to resume their adventures.
Except that it didn’t quite work out that way. When it was time for the Company to return to the road, Erestor refused to come. They had a ferocious row, but Erestor would not be swayed. Gildor finally tore off his silver betrothal band and, throwing it at Erestor’s chest, stormed out of the room.
That was thirty years ago.
Gildor also fretted about Erestor’s relationship with Glorfindel. His own damned cousin Glorfindel, too big and blue-eyed and beautiful by half (it entirely escaped Gildor’s notice that he and Glorfindel bore more than a passing resemblance). Were they lovers? Had Erestor gone straight to Glorfindel’s chambers and not even seen Gildor’s note? Maybe Glorfindel had gone to Erestor’s, and the note had been kicked, unseen, under a rug by two passion-drunk lovers in a hurry to fall into bed.
Yet Gildor knew, deep down in his heart, that scenario wasn’t likely. Glorfindel was far too honorable to poach on another’s territory, and Erestor had never been a promiscuous Elf. Yet, as the hours wore on with no sign of Erestor, the scenario became more and more plausible in Gildor’s imagination.
When the clouds finally broke and the moon finally peeked out from behind a bank of clouds, he sighed. Erestor was not coming. Gildor had been judged against the incomparable Glorfindel, and he’d been found lacking.
* ~ * ~ *
Limping around his room, Erestor read the brief note over and over. He’d known Gildor would one day return, of course, and expected that someday they would have the talk Erestor had been dreading. He’d been expecting it, but the anticipation did nothing to dispel the lump in his throat and the way his stomach tightened as it always did at seeing Gildor’s familiar scrawl on that piece of paper.
But the ache in his leg could not be denied. Most of the time it didn’t bother him much, and he walked tall and straight with scarcely a hint of the injury that could easily have left him crippled, if it hadn’t been for Elrond’s skill. But not tonight. Tonight, thanks to a few too many turns around the dance floor, it throbbed dreadfully and made further thinking near impossible.
He drew himself a warm bath and added some of the mineral salts Elrond had given him for times just like these, and soaked for a good long time while he tried to sort it all out in his mind.
In the span of years since Erestor had made the valley his home, he had earned himself a respected position on Elrond’s council and settled into the daily life in Imladris. He had made many friends and knew he was well liked and well respected, quick with a joke and not so quick with advice, unless it was asked for. Imladris had become a haven, not just a place to visit for a week or a month, but a real home.
He had tried, but he’d never quite forgiven Gildor for the way he’d left that time, and for staying away for so long. Many of the Wandering Company stopped in from time to time, bringing news from around the land, but Gildor would not come near.
As the water cooled, Erestor reluctantly climbed out and dressed. His leg felt better, but his thoughts were still a jumble.
Thirty more years had passed since that fight with Gildor, and Erestor still didn’t know what to say. He thought he was over it, but Gildor’s presence brought back those old feelings of resentment in a surge of confusing emotions.
All that time to think about it, and figure out what to say when the inevitable came and they faced one another, but he still had no idea. Reading the note one last time, he put it on his nightstand and climbed into bed.
* ~ * ~ *
In the morning, after a few sleepless hours of lying in a bed that was too soft after years of sleeping on the ground, Gildor borrowed a horse from the stables and rode through the valley for a few hours. Feeling bitter and nursing a sleep deprivation hangover, he had no real destination in mind.
He was not surprised, then, to eventually find himself on a high bluff overlooking the Bruinen. His subconscious must have guided his horse there, because the place was a spot he and Erestor had visited often. It was with even less surprise that he saw Erestor sitting on a rocky outcropping, tossing pebbles down into the river rushing below.
He dismounted and slapped his horse on the rump, sending her to join Erestor’s in grazing in the long grass by the cliff top. All morning he had been angry, but now, seeing Erestor sitting there alone, he felt his anger fading, replaced by a dull sense of resignation. He’d fantasized that, when he returned to Imladris after his ride, there would be a note from Erestor, or better yet, Erestor himself, waiting for him, begging Gildor’s forgiveness for standing him up. Seeing Erestor seated by the river shattered that fantasy.
Dropping down uninvited a few feet away from his former lover, he crossed his legs and stared out over the river while Erestor tossed his pebbles. Plunk, plunk, plunk. After so many years of silence, neither one of them knew how to begin.
Gildor was the first to break. “How is your leg?” he asked in an excruciatingly polite tone.
Erestor tossed another pebble. “It aches from time to time, but usually nothing unbearable.”
Another few minutes of awkward silence passed.
“I waited for you - ” Gildor started.
“I’m glad you found me - ” Erestor said at nearly the same moment.
When Gildor made a sarcastic little ‘go ahead’ gesture, Erestor just shook his head and continued to toss his pebbles. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I just – didn’t know what to say. I should have at least sent a note.”
Gildor shrugged. "It doesn’t matter now.”
Erestor finally turned to look at him for the first time, his eyes wide with disbelief and his mouth agape. “It doesn’t matter? All you can say is, ‘It doesn’t matter?’”
Stunned by the vehemence of Erestor’s tone, Gildor stammered, “I thought you were still angry.”
Once there had been a drought of words, but now they came bursting forth in a flood as Erestor growled and suddenly threw the handful of pebbles over the ground.
“Angry? Angry doesn’t begin to cover it, Gildor. You left. Gone. Goodbye. You walked away from me that day - for thirty bloody years – without a word. Not once did you come back and see me. In all that time you couldn't find even a minute to write and apologize?”
“Apologize?” Gildor barked, like a cornered badger being poked with a stick. “What am I supposed to apologize for? You told me to leave, remember? ‘Get the fuck out of my room and don’t come back,’” he mimicked in a voice that was eerily reminiscent of Erestor’s exact words thirty years ago. “Or have you forgotten that part of it?”
“Because you assumed I was coming with you, you jackass! By Aulë’s sweaty asshole, are you intentionally trying to be stupid, or were you just born that way?” Erestor cried in exasperation. Not shouted – Erestor never shouted. He cursed like a sailor sometimes, but never shouted. “You didn’t ask, you told me we were leaving. Did you think that maybe I didn’t want to go? Did you consider that maybe I was happy doing what I did for Elrond? That maybe I was tired of sleeping on tree roots and rocks every night, and freezing my ass off every winter?" He paused, and then said pointedly, "Did it occur to you that my leg could have put every one of you in danger?”
This accusation, made in the heat of anger, stopped Gildor cold. He thought back to the day he’d left Imladris for the last time, and realized Erestor’s accusations were absolutely right. He had never actually asked Erestor to the return to the Company. He had simply gone about his business as though nothing had changed, assuming all along that Erestor would be returning with him to the wilds and resuming his role at Gildor’s side.
He hadn’t thought, either through simple oversight or by subconscious denial, that Erestor could have been a liability. The Exiles lived a vagrant life, traveling by foot only, and survived on wit and sheer physical hardiness. Erestor had wit aplenty, but that leg, unpredictable in its strength, could have put their entire company at risk. Erestor knew it, and Gildor should have realized it, too.
“I would have stayed.”
Gildor's admission, so softly uttered, was more effective than a shout. Erestor’s mouth, open to utter words that he would probably later regret saying, abruptly closed, and he looked at his former lover.
“I would have stayed,” Gildor repeated, looking down at his hands. “All you had to do was ask, and I would have given it all up and stayed with you. But you never asked.”
Erestor’s head dropped to his hands. “Oh gods. We’re both too stubborn for our own good.”
Gently, tentatively, Gildor reached over and tugged Erestor’s hand away, forcing his lover to look at him. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. A mistake that I will regret for a long time.”
Gildor’s expression was so humble, so reminiscent of a scolded puppy, that Erestor’s heart melted. The past years aside, he had never been able to stay angry at Gildor. He knew now that he had been equally at fault. “You’re forgiven,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, too.”
And just like that, the mistakes of the past thirty years were finally laid to rest, shoved into a corner and left to accumulate dust like the detritus of a forgotten past.
Gildor reached for Erestor’s hand, halfway expecting his touch to be refused, and was relieved when Erestor’s fingers wrapped loosely around his. “I missed you. Talk to me?”
So, Erestor began talking. He told of the passing of the Elves into the West, and the Council of the Ring, and the Ringbearers (of which Gildor already knew part, but not the whole), and many other things besides. He talked of the mundane life of Imladris, and the people Gildor had only known in passing, of children born and old friends passing. He talked for hours, yet Gildor never tired of listening.
In turn, Gildor shared anecdotes from his years on the road. As he talked, the sun reached her high point and had begun to descend again toward the horizon.
Stirred from his reminiscing by a growling stomach, Gildor found himself sprawled on his back, his head resting in Erestor’s lap. Just like the old days.
“Well, I suppose we should get back,” he finally said reluctantly.
Erestor sighed. “I suppose. I’m starving.”
Beginning to push himself to his feet, Gildor was drawn up short by a strand of hair that had become tangled around one of Erestor’s buttons. He hissed in pain and clutched at the top of his head. “Ouch. I’m stuck.”
“Don’t move, let me unsnarl you before you snatch yourself bald,” Erestor said. Bending low to free his lover’s golden mane, he quickly untangled Gildor’s hair. “There you go.”
As Gildor sat up, Erestor’s breath hitched and he reached out to touch Gildor’s hair clip. “What’s this?”
Gildor had almost forgotten about that hair clip. He wore it every day. It was something he’d purchased years ago when he’d been feeling a little lonely and melancholy, thinking of the things he could have done differently if his pride had not got in the way. He quickly unbound his hair, placed the surprisingly heavy piece of metal in Erestor’s palm, and curled his lover’s fingers around it.
“There’s a little town in the south, just at the northern tip of the desert, and they have the most remarkable way of working metals. I had this made for you years ago. I never thought I’d actually have the chance to give it to you, but now I want you to have it.”
Few remembered, or even knew, that the crest of Erestor’s house in Gondolin had been a black orchid against a pale yellow background. The House of the Black Orchid had been a lesser house, relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, destined to be forgotten in the annals of Middle-earth, and of it, Erestor was the last. This gesture touched him beyond anything else Gildor could have done.
Not trusting his voice, Erestor simply ran his finger slowly over the sturdy metal, then gathered up his own hair and fastened the clasp in place. He breached the distance between them and kissed Gildor on the lips, very gently.
Turning away, he whistled between his teeth and their horses came trotting toward them, slow and lazy from grazing all day.
They mounted and were preparing to ride once again, but there was one question that Gildor had yet to ask. He sat astride his horse, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did you sleep with Glorfindel?” he finally blurted.
The question was so unexpected that it caught Erestor off guard. “Glorfindel?”
“You know, my cousin? I saw you last night, looking rather cozy.”
For some reason Erestor was perversely pleased to hear the jealousy in Gildor’s tone. “No. He made a pass once, but he was drunk and I turned him down. It was forgotten the next day. We’re only friends, Gildor. Nothing more,” Erestor said placatingly, and reached over to pat Gildor’s cheek.
Nudging his gelding sharply in the side, he took off down the path, his laughter ringing over the hills like the chiming of a bell.
Gildor made a mental note to throttle his cousin at the next opportunity.
* ~ * ~ *
It had been thousands of years since Gildor had ridden through the mountains and valleys of Valinor, since he and Glorfindel and their assorted friends and cousins had built forts from storm-downed trees and explored caves, but the Blessed Realm was as beautiful as he remembered it.
Stopping in the high grass beside a crystalline blue stream, he jumped down from his horse and landed with a thud and a puff of dust. “This looks like a good spot to spend the night. I think I camped here as a boy. Those rocks over there look familiar – does that look like an upside down turtle to you?”
Erestor slid from his own horse far more smoothly than his mate had and shaded his eyes with one hand as he tilted his head to the side and looked curiously at the formation of rocks. “Gildor, that looks nothing like a turtle.”
When Gildor did not fire back the rejoinder Erestor was expecting, he realized Gildor wasn’t listening. His lover was simply standing in place, one hand thoughtfully rubbing his chin as he gazed out over the meadow cut through by a gleaming ribbon of blue, with purple-gray mountains soaring majestically into the sky.
Erestor came up behind him and slipped his arms around Gildor’s waist. “Why so pensive, sweetheart?”
“This would make a nice place for a house, wouldn’t it?”
Erestor followed Gildor’s gaze, taking in the beauty of the scenery. “Yes, it would. Clean water, fresh air, plenty of space, but close enough to town for convenience’s sake. We could call it the House of the Turtle,” he said teasingly, brushing a kiss to Gildor’s temple.
He felt Gildor’s chuckle vibrate against his own chest, and Gildor turned around in his arms and kissed him. “Actually, I was thinking that the House of the Black Orchid had a nice ring to it.”
Erestor’s delighted smile rivaled the sun in its brightness.
* ~ * ~ * The End * ~ * ~ *
