Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Mine	By : IdrilsSecret Category: +Third Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3171 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places of Lord of the Rings/Tolkien. No money is being made. This is for personal enjoyment only.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Chapter 11 – All That It Is and All That It Could Be

Erestor awoke slowly, his senses firing up one at a time as he did. The first thing he noticed was the sharp metallic aura of blood, fresh and abundant. He didn’t think it was his own, but he couldn’t be sure just yet.
His eyelids were heavy, but he forced himself to open them. Everything was a blur at first. The room he was in went in and out of focus, and when he tried to concentrate on seeing things clearly, his head began to pound. He realized that he must have hit his head when he fell, but it was difficult to remember exactly what happened earlier. Erestor closed his eyes and put his mind to recollecting the previous events. Slowly it came back to him, Glorfindel finding him, the enslaved elves that they set free, the hidden cells, the mercy killings, and finally … Astarion. They had found him, a shock to both Glorfindel and himself. But how, after all these millennia, had this Gondolin elf survived? What had happened to him during his incarceration? He’d tried to attack Glorfindel. He could not be trusted, for surely he was an enemy now, tortured, changed, twisted to the point of irreversibility, a weapon of the dark ones … the Nazgûl.
And there it was … the nightmare that Erestor hoped to avoid had become reality. He must regain his bearings, find Fin, and get out of this place. He forced himself to open his eyes and focus, and found that he was bound to a chair by shackles and chain, arms and legs secured to the chair.
The room he was in was dark, but he could just make out shapes. One such shape stood before him, but he couldn’t tell who or what it was. Then an orb of some kind started to glow, a swirl of blue light that grew brighter, enough that it gave just the right amount of light to see the object that stood before him. As his eyes adjusted to the pale glow, Erestor was startled and jumped backwards in his chair. Staring at him with fierce red eyes was a beast with white skin, a long serpent-like tongue, and long thin arms, which held the orb above its head. It took a moment for him to realize that the creature was not alive. It was merely an ornate stand for the glowing ball. Now it began to pulse with a brilliant sapphire blue, as though it were a living entity. Erestor could feel the globe radiating some type of energy, almost calling to him to gaze into its depths, and right away he knew what this was.
“One of the Palantíri,” he whispered to himself, one of the seven seeing stones. This must be how the Witch-king was communicating with Sauron, for the dark lord had one of the stones in Mordor.
“Its beauty is mesmerizing, is it not?” asked a deep, thick, oily voice from somewhere in the dark room.
Erestor looked around as best he could, but whoever was in the room remained well hidden. It did not matter. He knew who it was.
“The Black Captain,” Erestor whispered angrily, “The Chief of the Nine.” His ire built rapidly as a feeling of helplessness came upon him. “What have you done with Glorfindel?”
“He is safe… for the moment anyways. Do not worry for him. He is not alone. The tortured one keeps him company,” said the Witch-king.
“Astarion? But he tried to kill Glorfindel. You cannot leave them together,” demanded Erestor, confused by the Ring wraith’s decision to put these two together.
“I had hoped that’s what would happen. Tortured beyond repair, I thought he was,” said the Witch-king, who slowly made his way out of shadow. He did not walk, but seemed to float into Erestor’s line of vision, circling around the glowing globe. The counselor saw that the Nazgûl was draped in black tattered robes that chased behind him eerily. A hood covered his head, and there was only the dark abyss of nothingness where a face should have been.
“You called him by name, so you must know him.”
Erestor shook his head. “I only know of him. I have never met him. He lived before my time.”
“Ah, then you know him through the golden one, Glorfindel,” the Witch-king said. “And I suppose you know they were lovers once upon a time.”
“That was a very long time ago,” Erestor said angrily, uneasy about discussing Glorfindel’s history with his enemy.
“It might have been, Librarian, but memories are everlasting. Does it bother you, knowing your Glorfindel is, at this very moment, comforting another’s tortured soul? He will try to save him, you know. And where will that leave you?”
“My relationship is of no concern to you,” Erestor seethed.
The Nazgûl laughed low and deep, the sound reverberating off the stone walls of the dungeon. “Isn’t it though? You think the golden one loves you and no one else, but I’m here to tell you differently. Astarion has given us much in the way of his past, and Glorfindel was very important to him. See for yourself.” The Witch-king pointed a bony finger towards the Palantir.
Erestor’s eyes followed the gesture, and he saw the orb glow brighter, colors swirling, changing like a strange mist. The colors began to take shape, and things became recognizable. The head of long, thick golden hair was unmistakable.
“Glorfindel,” Erestor whispered. He was watching him at this very moment. He sat on the floor of a cell, and in his arms, he cradled Astarion. The tortured elf was curled into himself like a fetus. Glorfindel’s hand soothed the other’s temples as he whispered elvish words of comfort, and then laid gentle kisses on Astarion’s forehead. Erestor wanted to look away, but the power of the Palantir held him to the glowing ball, and he was forced to watch and listen.
“You should have let him take my life,” Astarion said in a whimper. “I am too far gone to be saved.”
Glorfindel shook his head slowly back and forth. “I lost you once. I will not let you go again. The nightmares are over.”
“They will never stop, Glorfindel. I have changed. They have changed me. I will never be the same elf you once knew. They filled my head with delusions for so long that I cannot tell reality from dreams. You saw for yourself. I … I tried to kill you because that is what they told me to do. I fear that I will try it again,” Astarion explained.
Glorfindel huffed a laugh, “I have faced thousands of enemies who all thought they could extinguish my life, but I am still here. I hardly think that you, Astarion, my old friend, will be the one to accomplish what the others could not.”
Astarion seemed irritated by Glorfindel’s light mood. He pushed himself away from the warrior’s hold. “Do not underestimate the power of the Nazgûl. All they need to do is whisper a command, and I am under their control.”
Glorfindel took Astarion’s face into his hands, lifting the other’s white eyes to meet his own. “Listen to me, Astarion. You … will … not … kill me. No matter what they have done to you, I know deep down you still remember.”
Astarion tried to look away, but Glorfindel held him firm. “That night, in the tunnel … remember, Astarion, I know you do. There was something between us. I know you felt it, for it was strong within my own heart.”
Astarion began to shake, “No … I cannot … they will not let me remember. It hurts too much when I try.”
Glorfindel started shaking Astarion’s shoulders. “Remember, damn you. Remember what it felt like. It was not hate, nor was it vengeance or regret. I … I loved you, Astarion. I loved you, and I know in that one instant when we became one, you loved me too. And we can never kill the one we love.”
Astarion remained emotionless, as empty as his white colorless eyes. He was fighting the truth out of fear of the repercussions. Glorfindel could see it too.
“Go on,” Glorfindel yelled, “Go on and deny it, and if you can, then kill me, for in the deepest place within my heart, I know it to be true.”
Astarion’s façade began to break away. His eyes fell from Glorfindel and he began to cry. In between sobs, he spoke. “I tried to deny it. I knew I had to. I was betrothed. I had lived my whole life knowing who I was, and what I was meant to accomplish. I loved her or I would not have asked her to marry me. But that night in the tunnel, when I looked into your eyes, I saw what love really was. My heart leapt out to you in a way it never had with her, and suddenly I knew I had been fooling myself. And then, I gave myself to you, and I’d never felt so alive.”
“I felt it also,” Glorfindel said in a soft sweet voice. “For years I wished you would notice me for more than the friend that I was, but you never saw me that way. So, I kept my feelings to myself, but by the gods, I wanted you, Astarion. And then, in the tunnels, as we escaped our enemies, you revealed your true self to me. Your kiss lit me up like a beacon. I’d dreamt of it for so long, but to actually feel your lips upon mine, to feel you breathe my breath … it was bliss.”
Astarion’s eyes froze on the distant memory as though he were experiencing it all over again. “It was good, Glorfindel, all of it … the kiss, your body pressing against mine, being surrounded by your warmth … all of it.” Slowly, his face turned to meet Glorfindel’s. His lip quivered as he drew the courage to speak again. “Do you … do … you … still love me?” Astarion sounded so fragile that Glorfindel’s answer might make him shatter into a millions shards.
Glorfindel looked at him for what seemed a very long time. His mouth slowly spread into a smile, and a tear threatened the corner of his eye. “I always have, Astarion, and I always will.”
“Stop!” Erestor screamed, unable to watch anymore. “Enough!”
The glowing Palantir went cold as shapes and colors disappeared, and it turned back into an obsidian stone. The Witch-king came out of the shadows, a low deep laugh rumbling through the chamber. “Pity,” he finally said. “And you thought you were his only. Such devastating news.”
Erestor said nothing, the vision of Glorfindel cradling Astarion still fresh in his mind, the admission of love still ringing in his ears. He wished he could get away, that he could erase his mind of the things he’d just witnessed. All he found was the loathsome creature who mocked him while he was so vulnerable, and it made hatred grow in his heart.
“Ah, good. Let your hate reign true, Master of Knowledge. Feel its power. Learn from it, harness it, and you could become a king,” the Nazgûl encouraged.
Erestor laid a murderous stare upon the Witch-king. “I know what you would have of me, and I know you use Glorfindel’s actions against me. I also know that one cannot trust what he sees within a seeing stone.”
“Then you must also know that the stone shows what you most want to know. You said yourself that you were worried for him, and the stone gave you a glimpse into the present.” The Witch-king floated closer to where Erestor sat tied to the chair. He stared at the counselor from within the black emptiness of his hood. “I merely wanted you to know that you have been misguided by the golden elf. And while you have been pining over him, you have missed all the signs. He doesn’t love just you, Erestor. He’s been wasting your talents. You are happy to hole yourself up in that library, but your full power has been tamed for too long. Unleash yourself, Counselor, and join our cause. We, the Nine, will give you your rightful place among us.”
The seeing stone came to life again, this time showing images of the future. The Nazgûl were gathered around Erestor, listening to the information he gave them. The result was the destruction of Gondor, overrun with orcs. Rohan had been reduced to nothing more than a burning field. Mirkwood was encased in webs as crebain and vultures circled above in a sunless sky. Lothlórien was barren, striped of its brilliance. The mallorn trees were leafless and dead. And finally, a glimpse of Rivendell, the valley turned to char and ash. Rivers were dammed, and the empty beds glowed red with molten rock. Statues had been desecrated, transformed into hideous creatures, or destroyed completely into piles of stone. And Elrond’s house had been destroyed, remade into a blackened throne room where a solitary figure sat, surrounded by books, maps, and rolls of bloodied parchments. The Palantir focused and closed in on the figure sitting on a throne made of skulls, black sludge dripping from their empty eye sockets.
Erestor saw himself on that throne, his ashen face emotionless; his eyes dead and black like the cold Palantir. He seemed to stare off into nothingness, looking out over a ruined country now ruled by evil, ruled by him. Orcs and goblins gathered in what used to be the courtyard, all bowing their heads in respect to their new leader. Then, Erestor rose from the throne, black tattered robes waving in a hot breeze, and his followers got down on one knee. The Erestor of present could feel the power emanating from the stone. They would do anything asked of them. Erestor was their king.
For a moment, looking into the Palantir, Erestor wondered if he could ever hold such a title. To rule over the evil filth seemed like a gift, at first. The orcs would do his bidding. He could tell them to kill, to pillage, or perhaps he’d order them to their deaths. But that would be a misuse of power, he told himself.
“Would you like to see more?” the Witch-king said, interrupting Erestor’s dark thoughts. Then he waved a hand over the seeing stone. Erestor watched with anticipation, and let his conscious glide into the glass orb.
Erestor, in the vision, called to his orc captain, and whispered a command. The heavily armored, crookedly bent orc trotted off to a side room, and exited with someone wearing a burlap sack over his head. There was a rope tied around this prisoner’s neck, assuring that the sack would not accidentally fall off.
The prisoner stumbled as the orc captain dragged him to the dais. The orc kicked the figure until he was on his feet again, and then he pushed him forward with the point of his black blade dagger. The hooded prisoner fell onto his knees at the foot of the dais, directly in front of where Erestor stood.
“Who is this?” Erestor demanded of the captain.
“This is the filth we found spying at the borders,” the orc responded. “We questioned him, but he tells us nothing of any use. Says he was lost when we found him, but he was carrying this.” The orc handed a silver spyglass to Erestor.
“Lost, you say?” Erestor questioned the prisoner. Then he pulled the sack from the man’s head.
The man was scraggly looking, dirty and unkempt, malnourished, typical of the humans in these dark days. He also had the mark of a slave branded on the side of his neck, an eye wreathed in flame.
“Who owns you?” Erestor asked.
The man remained silent as he knelt, and looked at the marble step in front of him.
Erestor asked again, “Where did you come from, and who gave you this trinket?” He held the spyglass out for the man to see, but there was still no response.
Erestor turned away from the man, and walked back to his throne. He sat down with glorious grace, an arrogant king who prided himself by the amount of fear he felt from his loyal subjects. Everyone waited to see what he would do.
After a time, Erestor raised his hand, and made a shooing gesture. “He clearly has nothing to say. He is no use to me. Take him out and burn him.”
The audience of orcs grunted their approval of their king’s decision, hungry for the entertainment of a fresh kill. The orc captain stepped forward and took the man by the arm, lifting him to his feet. “Come on then, scum. We’ve got a nice pyre waiting for you, and something tells me you’re the twitchy type when set alight.” He laughed at his own wittiness.

The man suddenly seemed to awake from his half-conscious state, and tried to pull away from the orc. But his captor fought back, and ordered one of his assistants to help with the unruly prisoner.
“Wait! Wait!” the man yelled, and he struggled to turn around and look at Erestor.
Erestor held up a hand, signaling to the orc to stop, and he did. The dark elf’s black eyes fixed on the man. “Ah, you have had a change of heart. Now … answer my questions quickly, or it is the fire pit for you.”
The man swallowed hard. “I … I am a spy, and an escaped slave. I was sent here by the rebel forces to watch and report my findings.”
Erestor narrowed his eyes and stared through the man’s soul. After a long silence, he made his ruling. “Burn him.”
The orcs went into a frenzy at the sound of the command, cheering, but the man cried out over their vile enthusiasm. “You are making a mistake, my lord. I was sent here because I am the best. Give me a chance, and I will show you what I can do.”
Erestor let the crowd cheer a moment longer. Then he lifted his hand to them, and they silenced immediately. He stood from his throne and stepped carefully to the man, looking him over as if examining him. “What exactly are you offering me?”
“I’ll willfully give you my services. It will be easy for me to blend in with the rebels. Besides, they do not know I’ve been captured. I can be your eyes and ears. I … I already know much about their forces and where they’re stationed. I have quite a bit of knowledge. Let me live, and I will tell you everything I know.”
Erestor walked around the man in a tight circle. “How do I know you will not divulge information to the rebels about Rivendell once I release you?”
“Y … you have my word, Sire. A … and I may already be of use to you,” said the man, stumbling over his own words as he tried to bargain for his life. “I … I heard things in … in the rebel camps. They are preparing an ambush.”
Erestor searched the man’s eyes for indications of falsehood. He had become an expert at recognizing the signs, but this man was speaking the truth. Perhaps he would be of use after all. “Anyone who thinks they can befall me or any of my brethren is a fool. The Nazgûl and I see well beyond our borders. Who are these rebel troops? Tell me now and tell the truth, and I just might let you live.”
“They are a merging of elves and men who have joined forces to set upon the ruined kingdoms, and they will start with Imladris. Yours is the smallest of the realms,” the man claimed. As he divulged his information, his voice became stronger, and he seemed to stand a little straighter. Erestor noticed the man gain his confidence, as he seemed to think he was now an asset of the dark king’s court. Maybe Erestor would have him killed anyways, for his premature presumption of asylum.
“Who is their chieftain?” Erestor demanded.
The man swallowed hard, and Erestor could tell this next bit of information might change things drastically. “He … he is someone well known throughout the lands, Sire. Someone you know quite well. He … he is … his name is–”
“Glorfindel,” Erestor enunciated slowly, tasting each syllable as it rolled from his tongue.
The man quaked in front of Erestor, and verified the information by nodding nervously. Erestor smiled slowly. Long had it been since anyone had sighted the ancient elf lord. Most thought him dead, but not Erestor. There was still a connection between them, though it was barely there. It was no longer love as it had once been, but rather a seething determination to strike vengeance against his cheating heart. The day Erestor would be rid of Glorfindel would be the day they brought him his cold dead body. It was because of Glorfindel that Erestor was persuaded to cross over to the undead world of the Wraiths. So destroyed he was, his heart shattered into a million shards, that in his blind fury, he gave his soul to the Witch-king and joined the brethren of the Nine. He’d shared with them every last bit of knowledge he’d had of Middle-earth, of the kingdoms and their weaknesses, and of the weakness of their rulers. The Nazgûl used the information and gathered orc troops, invading, killing, overthrowing their sovereigns, and setting up new governments whose overseeing lord was Sauron. In exchange for all of this, Erestor was gifted with Rivendell, now dark and desolate. He was allowed to keep his precious books, and the Nazgûl gave him his own army. The only thing left unsettled was the whereabouts of Glorfindel, and now Erestor knew where to find him.
He looked out over the rotted sea of his subjects. “Gather your troops,” he said calmly to his orc captain. Then he projected his voice for all to hear. “Tonight you will have a feast of flesh. March to the rebel camps. Leave none alive. And whoever brings me the body of Glorfindel will become my new captain.”
As the crowd of orc soldiers roared with enthusiasm, the current captain looked at Erestor with concern about his ranking. “M … my lord?” he asked sheepishly.
Erestor laughed, “You have nothing to worry about. I am promoting you to Commander of the Dark Army of Rivendell.”
The orc captain’s black jagged teeth showed as he smiled. “Thank you, my lord. I will not let you down.” Then he jumped down from the dais and started barking orders to his men, already organizing troops for the attack that was soon to follow.
Erestor put a pointy finger beneath the chin of the man, still standing next to him on the dais. He tilted his head until their eyes met. The man dared not look away. “So far you have shown yourself worthy. Today, you live, but should I find that you have lied to me, I will cut out your heart.”
“Y … yes, my lord,” the man said shuddering with fear.
Meanwhile, the present day Erestor broke out in a cold sweat as he watched the scene unfold within the Palantir. He hated the fact that he could not turn away from the glow of the orb as it showed his future, should he accept the Witch-king’s proposal. But what he focused on most was the hatred he felt as he watched his alter-ego call for Glorfindel’s death. Erestor had felt jealousy in his heart long before he was captured. As a matter of fact, he’d felt it at the very moment Glorfindel uttered the name Astarion, when they’d found him in the cells. There was no denying that a part of him wished he had given the ruined elf the mercy kill he’d begged for. Anger sparked ever so slightly when Glorfindel refused to let him do this.
“Yes, hang on to that feeling,” the Witch-king encouraged. “Let it grow, Erestor. Know that he did not love only you. Had he not been taken, Astarion would be Glorfindel’s lover, not you. He would never have known you existed. He says he loves you, but it has been nothing but a lie. You can see that for yourself, now that they are in each other’s company again. You will be forgotten, Erestor, but not if you join us. We will make you a king.”
Erestor could feel a part of himself giving in to the Nazgûl’s words. He’d always held a jealous resentment against Glorfindel’s memory of Astarion, but it was miniscule, for he knew this ancient lover was long gone. Now, knowing that he was very much alive, envy, hate, and wrath was forming within his consciousness. It took hold of Erestor like a black fog clutching his heart, squeezing out that which made Erestor the kind soul he was. He knew it would change him, reshape him internally, until he forgot his true self. Vengeance would rule him eternal unless he could force these wicked thoughts from his mind.
“The Palantir feeds on our deepest darkest thoughts and shows us an alternate path,” Erestor whispered. Then he turned his head to meet the emptiness of the Nazgûl’s robe. “It is only what could happen should I choose it, but I do not. I will never join you. I would die first.”
“Such a shame,” the Witch-king said easily. “Then we’ll have to do this the hard way.” He brought his arm up, and a Nazgûl blade emerged from the wide sleeve of his tattered black robe. The sword had an ethereal glow about it, the edges jagged, and part of the hilt broken. The Lord of the Nazgûl, brought the blade to Erestor’s side. He would stab him where the poison would make Erestor succumb to the Black Breath quickly. Once dead, Erestor would become a Wraith like the others, and he would have no choice but join their legion. At least Erestor would die knowing it was not his choice to become like them.
The point of the sword sliced through Erestor’s robe, and touched his skin. It felt cold like death, and seemed to spread outward. The counselor closed his eyes, and began whispering an elvish prayer to the Valar, to forgive him for his weaknesses, and to let death come quickly.
The words seemed to disturb the Witch-king, and he stopped advancing his sword. “Stay quiet!” he shouted, but Erestor kept speaking his Quenya prayer. This angered the Nazgûl, who withdrew the sword and took a step away from Erestor. The counselor spoke louder, feeling the strength of the Valar descend upon him. Perhaps his prayer was working.
“I said be quiet!” the Witch-king yelled again. When Erestor refused, the Nazgûl roared in anger and lifted the sword above his head. He charged towards Erestor, who was still tied to the chair.
Suddenly, there came a crashing and the door to the dungeon flew from its hinges. Wood splintered and flew everywhere. The dust in the room was disturbed by the rush of air that burst in with the invaders. Erestor opened his eyes, expecting to see Glorfindel standing in the threshold, brilliantly glowing in golden hues. Somehow, Erestor thought, Fin had managed to escape, and had come to rescue him from certain death. But as the dust thinned in the air, Erestor was shocked to find, not Glorfindel, but Lastar with the two brothers that had scouted the castle earlier. They were all armed with swords and bows at the ready.
Lastar charged at the Witch-king, who was just as confused as Erestor from the unexpected interruption. As he ran, the brothers fired arrows at the Wraith, but their feathered shafts hit no target, for the Nazgûl was nothing but a dangerous apparition. Lastar jumped, bringing his sword down onto the Witch-king, who successfully blocked the downward thrust with his Morgul sword. He threw Lastar backwards with the force of his parry, and the elf went flying through the air, crashing into a table. The brothers abandoned their bows and took up their swords, attacking simultaneously. The Witch-king held them off easily.
Erestor looked to Lastar, who was slowly getting to his feet. “Are you alright?” he called from across the room.
Lastar’s lip was bleeding, and he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Fine, for the moment,” he said, and he rose from the debris, readying his sword once more.
“Lastar,” Erestor warned, “You are not a soldier.”
“I’m all you’ve got at the moment,” Lastar replied, as he watched the two brothers get thrown across the room, slamming into the wall.
“Your weapon is no use against a Nazgûl,” Erestor called, but Lastar ignored him. Erestor struggled against his bindings, trying to free himself from the chair, but it was futile. The ropes only tightened as he moved.
Lastar was halfway across the room now, when suddenly the ground trembled. A deep dark voice started speaking in the black tongue of Mordor, getting louder with every word. Lastar stopped where he was, dropped his sword and covered his ears, crying out in pain. The scout brothers curled onto their sides and did the same. Meanwhile, the Witch-king got down on one knee and bowed his head. Erestor was the only elf not affected by the Black Speech. While it could fill a man with horrible fear, and it was painful to an elf’s ears, cutting through his head like a knife of fire, it did nothing to Erestor. Perhaps it was because he could understand the language, but whatever the reason, Erestor remained untouched by fear or agony. Instead, he listened and translated the dark words. It wasn’t until he realized whose voice it was that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a chill ran through his blood. It was none other than the Dark Lord himself, Sauron.
He was calling the Nazgûl to Gondor, where he was sure they would find his secret weapon. He told the Witch-king that he had a special mission for him, upon the fields of Pelennor. Once he had his instructions, the Nazgûl floated in a hurry from the room.
The black doom of Sauron faded along with the Witch-king, and everything returned to normal … all but Erestor. As he listened and understood the words of the Dark Lord, he couldn’t help but feel an odd connection, as if he’d been touched by their black magic, and it was forever a part of him. It coiled around his heart, its teeth latching on where it would remain forever. Erestor remembered a conversation he had with Frodo, as the Hobbit recovered from an injury inflicted by the Witch-king, and possibly with the same weapon that almost cost Erestor a never ending death. Frodo had described a similar link he felt between him and the Nazgûl. He had been told that he would carry it with him for the rest of his days, and on the anniversary of his injury, it would come back to haunt him the most.
“The Palantir and the vision,” Erestor wondered. Something had transpired during his trance. That must have been it, for the vision struck at his heart as the blade had struck Frodo through flesh. Either way, it was there, that feeling of disgust, of hatred and vengeance, and it would sleep until it was roused once more.
Lastar and the elf brothers had regained their strength, and came to Erestor, cutting his binds with their blades. They were asking him questions. Was he alright? Was he injured? But there was only one thing on Erestor’s mind.
“Glorfindel, where is he?” he asked desperately.
“We found him chained in one of the cells. We sent him off with the other two of our company, to the healers,” said one of the brothers.
“The healers?” said Erestor, concerned. “What happened? Is he alright?”
The other brother came forward and continued. “He had multiple lacerations across his back. He’s been whipped with some nasty device, the cuts were deep and some still bled after we found him.”
“Who else was in the cell with him?” Erestor inquired, remembering the Nazgûl telling him that he imprisoned Glorfindel with Astarion. The thought brought back images of them together, but that had been a forced image from the Palantir. It might not have happened.
“He was alone, but he told us of another elf locked away. We found him also.” The first brother took up the conversation again, and shook his head at the memory of the ruined elf. “I’ve never seen the like. We could hardly believe it was an elf, for he looked more like some wretched creature.”
The second brother spoke now, “His eyes … they were lifeless like his soul. We have heard stories of captured elves, ravaged individuals, irretrievable, beyond rehabilitation. They are neutralized, put to death mercifully. We were prepared to do it with this one, but . . .” the elf trailed off.
“But what?” Erestor asked, looking from one brother to the other.
“Glorfindel would not let them,” Lastar said from behind. His voice was cold, as though it angered him to think of it.
Erestor remained silent. Glorfindel hadn’t let him do this duty either. For some reason, the elf lord would not let Astarion find the peace he’d asked for. Could it be true then, the conversation he witnessed between Fin and Astarion? Had the Palantir showed him the truth? The black serpent sunk its teeth deeper into his heart, trying to force up the hate, but Erestor tamed the soul-sucking leech.
With the help of the others, Erestor got up and regained his balance. He hadn’t known how long he’d been strapped to the chair, but he knew it was quite a while. “Take me to Glorfindel,” he demanded.
“But my lord–” started one of the brothers.
“Take me to him now,” Erestor commanded.
“You should get to a healer yourself,” Lastar advised.
“And you should not be here at all.” Erestor turned on Lastar, daggers shooting from his hazel eyes. “I gave orders to have you removed from the area and escorted home.”
“I slipped from their guard,” Lastar admitted, “and a good thing I did, or you might not be here right now. I came back and found the scouts. I knew they could help me find my way through the castle halls.”
They all started walking, leaving the dungeon behind. Erestor and Lastar followed the scout brothers, who knew the way back to the outside world. Erestor made Lastar walk in front of him. He found that he didn’t want the young elf’s eyes on him right now. Too many emotions were swirling through his head, and he was still angry at Lastar. More so, Erestor was angry with himself for not heeding Lastar’s warnings. It was true, all of it. Lastar had figured out the riddle of the Nazgûl, of Erestor’s dreams and the reason he’d been called to Dol Guldur. It had been Erestor they were after, not Glorfindel, but the counselor was blinded by love and desperation, and he would not listen to his apprentice. That was the reason Erestor chose Lastar to be his understudy, after all. The young elf was inquisitive, determined, a quick learner and a good listener. Lastar had read all the signs that Erestor had chosen to ignore.
“You were right,” Erestor said softly from behind.
Lastar stopped and let Erestor catch up to him. Then they walked side by side. “It was only a guess,” said Lastar, timidly.
“It was more than a guess, Lastar. It was intuition. You knew what would happen, and I ignored your findings.” Erestor walked the rest of the way without another comment until they finally stood at the exit. Then, he stopped Lastar, grasping his shoulder, placed his free hand over his heart and bowed. “Thank you,” Erestor said, and without waiting for a response, without looking at Lastar again, he left the castle and stepped into the daylight, breathing in the free air.
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