Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Mine	By : IdrilsSecret Category: +Third Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3170 -:- 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
- 11
- 12
- 13
Chapter 12 – Some Wounds Run Much Deeper

Erestor left the darkness of the castle behind, and looked out at the surrounding area. The battle was over. The area was littered with the dead. Those able to work helped to gather their fallen troops. There were too many to count. They would be buried here. The orcs were burned in a separate area, and the smell of scorched and rotted flesh permeated the senses of everyone around. The air itself had pockets of crispness in it, leaving the men feeling a touch refreshed. The darkness was lifting with the disappearance of the Nazgûl and the victory of battle. But as long as Dol Guldur stood, there would be no peace on this forsaken ground.
Two large tents has been erected side by side, giving the healers one large makeshift healing room. Erestor went there, looking for Glorfindel. The place was busy with never ending movement as elves hurried to and fro. The air took on an aura of unpleasantness, everything from sweat to vomit, from blood to spilled entrails. Erestor, not used to such things, pulled a rag from his pocket and covered his mouth, at least until he became desensitized to the miasma.
One of the elves, an elleth draped in the traditional ecru colored robes of the healers, passed him, and Erestor stopped her with a gentle touch to her shoulder. She looked up at him, clearly irritated, until she recognized him. Then she bowed respectfully.
“Lord Erestor, what can I do for you?” she asked politely.
“Could you direct me to Lord Glorfindel?” he asked.
“Of course. This way,” she said and walked to the other half of the canvas healing room. Erestor followed closely behind.
As they went along, she informed him of Glorfindel’s condition. “He was unconscious when they brought him here, and it was no wonder. By the look of the lacerations on his back, he’d endured quite a horrific whipping. Most others would not have survived such an ordeal.”
“Glorfindel is not ‘most others’,” he said, and she smiled lightly.
“That much is obvious.” Then she went on. “We cleaned the wounds, and we stitched the deeper cuts. I gave him a tonic to help him rest, and he has fallen into a healing sleep for now. He drifts in and out of consciousness from time to time, waking in a cold sweat, panting as though he is reliving the trying experience. I’ve given orders for someone to be with him at all times, to administer more medicine when he wakes in a panic. We don’t want him to reinjure himself.”
“If it is alright, my lady, I will sit with him a while,” Erestor said sweetly.
“That would be a great help. It will free up a healer who is better needed elsewhere. I’m afraid we have our hands full right now.” The elleth led him to the back of the tent where a special area had been curtained off. She pushed the curtain aside and gestured for Erestor to enter. Inside was an elf sitting in a chair next to a cot. Glorfindel lay on his stomach, his long gilded hair matted with dirt and grime, hanging off to one side of the bed. A thin linen sheet was pulled up to his waist, leaving his back exposed.
Erestor was shocked by the sight of raw flesh, and the openness of the wounds. The elleth sensed his discomfort, and laid a hand on his arm. “We must let the wounds breath before covering them, or they’ll fester. Once they stop bleeding and begin to dry up, we’ll bandage him. That is why we have him isolated back here in his own room. We don’t want any contamination while the injuries are open.”
“And here I thought it was because of his widespread notoriety,” said Erestor, finding a bit of humor in all the gloom.
The elleth smiled and patted Erestor’s arm before releasing him. She showed him what to do if Glorfindel awoke disoriented, and told him to call for help if he didn’t go back to sleep right away. “We are giving him a strong dose, but his body will likely build up an immunity to it after continued use. Hopefully, by then, he will be bandaged and less likely to hurt himself.”
With detailed instructions given, the healer on duty left with the elleth. Erestor took up the seat next to the cot. His eyes scanned Glorfindel’s back, and he shook his head. “What did they do to you, Fin?” he asked aloud. The lacerations were long, and they crisscrossed each other in places, the intersections being the deepest wounds. The flesh was actually cut, as though the whip had tiny blades weaved into its leather straps. This was no ordinary flogging tool used on Glorfindel. It was a Flesh-eater knout, and that was its purpose, to strip the body of its flesh, to make the victim lose great amounts of blood quickly. Death should have been swift, but Glorfindel could not be killed so easily. Close to death he might have come, but he still lived, only now Erestor asked himself who he lived for.
Erestor sat there for a very long time, just watching the sleeping warrior. He loved to watch Fin when he slept. It was the only time the elf lord seemed innocent and at peace. Even in this horrid condition, Glorfindel’s face was relaxed, almost like that of an elfling. Erestor often wondered if this was what he looked like before war had touched his soul, before all the horrors he’d endured … before he fell when he slayed the Balrog. It was a side of Fin he would never know, lost to the sands of time. Astarion would have known that side of Glorfindel, for they had been childhood friends before joining the ranks of the army. Erestor realized that Astarion knew Fin in ways he himself would never know.
His thoughts of this mysterious elf brought him whirling back to the vision within the Palantír, the way Glorfindel cradled Astarion to him, the way he comforted him. The elf lord was overly protective of this ruined elf. Clearly he must know that there could be no way to bring him back to the elf he once was. That part of Astarion was surely gone by now. He’d spent countless years imprisoned by evil, forced to repeatedly do who knew what. Elves usually would not survive the things Astarion had played victim to, and he wondered what the enemy had done to keep the elf from fading. He hardly resembled an elf now. His skin was pale and clung to his bones. His eyes were fogged with a white mist. These things and more must be permanent. And his mind had been altered, pulled out, remolded and shoved back in. There could be no unknotting the tangles left within his head. Erestor had seen with his own eyes that Astarion faded between reality and fantasy, between past and present. It seemed like torture to let him live in this decrepit state, rather than give him the mercy of peace like he asked for. Erestor thought Glorfindel was acting selfishly.
His chest started to burn as the blackness tightened around his heart. “Selfish old fool,” he complained to himself as he watched Glorfindel sleep.
It had been hours, and Glorfindel hadn’t stirred. That was a good sign. He was in a deep healing sleep then. Erestor stood from the chair, needing to stretch his legs. He walked to the bed and played with Fin’s hair. It needed to be washed or at least rinsed with clean water. He stepped out of the makeshift room and found someone to fetch what he needed. Erestor was given a pail of clean warm water and some fresh smelling herbs. It would have to do. He entered the room and got to work, washing Fin’s hair by dipping a rag into the water, and wetting his hair. Most of the dirt and dried blood came out after repeatedly scrubbing it with the cloth. The herbs did nothing more than mask the left over scent of the dungeons beneath Dol Guldur.
“Well, it’s not as thorough as washing his hair in a tub, but at least it has to feel better than before,” Erestor said to himself.
“It’s much better,” Glorfindel said with a rough cracked voice. He lifted his head and turned so he could see Erestor. His eyes were nothing more than slits, and he gave the slightest grin with what strength he had. “Where are we?”
“Just outside of the borders of Dol Guldur, in a temporary healing house,” said Erestor, picking up a dry towel and using it to finish Fin’s hair. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” Glorfindel croaked. “What about you, Meldanya? Are you alright?”
Was he alright? Erestor asked himself. The experience with the Palantír and the Witch-king had left him stretched and exposed as if he would dart off at any moment. “I’m fine,” he answered tersely.
Glorfindel tried to move, but he cried out in pain.
“You shouldn’t,” Erestor warned. “Your wounds have not had time to heal yet. They still have not bandaged you either. Stay still and relax.”
Glorfindel furrowed his brow as he examined Erestor. “You do not seem yourself.”
“Neither do you for that matter.” Erestor moved closer, looking at the lacerations. “Who performed this awful act upon your person?”
Glorfindel remained silent, as though speaking of his ordeal would summon his punisher. He turned his head to the other side, looking away from Erestor.
The counselor saw Fin’s reluctance. “My guess is that it was not the Witch-king.”
“What makes you say that?” The elf lord’s voice was muffled where his arm covered his mouth.
“There would be hatred in your eyes had it been him. Instead, I see remorse. Why would you conjure such an emotion after what has been done to you?”
“Does it really matter who? It is over and done with, and I have survived yet again,” Glorfindel said irritated.
“You’re not out of harm’s way just yet. Infection is still a possibility. You’ll not be going anywhere, not until your wounds can be bandaged.” Erestor sat back down in the chair, his hair washing duty accomplished as best as he could manage with what he had to work with. He watched Glorfindel from his seat. The elf lord still would not look at him. “A Flesh-eater knout,” he said, trying to draw Fin’s attention. “A very serious choice of weapon.”
No sound, no movement, not even a flinch came from Glorfindel, and Erestor knew there was something the warrior was not telling him. He had been correct in guessing that it wasn’t the Witch-king who had administered this shockingly cruel punishment. An orc? A goblin? Possibly, but Erestor saw the deep lashes on Fin’s back. He’d been struck out of anger.
“Glorfindel,” he asked quietly. “Was is Astarion?”
The elf lord remained silent for a long while, but Erestor waited patiently for an answer. Just when he began to think he would never learn the truth, Glorfindel nodded.
“That … that monster,” Erestor seethed through clenched teeth. The insult was enough to bring Glorfindel’s attention back to the counselor.
“He was not himself,” Glorfindel defended.
“He has not been himself for a very, very long time, and I’m afraid he’ll never be what he once was,” Erestor fired back.
“You don’t know that,” said Glorfindel, his voice low and dangerous.
“I’ve seen elves who endured much less and were swallowed by the darkness. Whatever Astarion has been through has left him in an abyss so deep, he’ll never find his way out. You should have let me end his–”
“Don’t threaten him! Don’t you EVER … threaten him,” Glorfindel cried out.
“Why do you protect him? He tried to kill you.” Erestor had had enough of this.
“He was being controlled. That’s what the Nazgûl do. That’s what they have done to him for centuries. Besides, you weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t there, but I saw you. I was forced to look into the Palantír, and I watched you as you held him in your arms, and cradled him like he was your lover. Oh, but how soon I forget. He WAS your lover!” Erestor accused.
“The key word being ‘was’. For millennia I thought he was dead.”
“And now that you know he is not, you’re ready to take him back.” The words came out harsh and venomous, and the black serpent within Erestor’s chest squeezed tighter. “Have you looked at him, Glorfindel? Have you really looked at him or do you still see the elf he once was? He’s been transformed into a murderous creature who would kill you at the first chance he gets. Look at you, lying here with your back shredded to the bone. Astarion did this to you, yet you defend him.”
“I have to, Erestor!” Glorfindel shouted, and then calmed. “I have to because … because I should have done so back then … and I didn’t.” He closed his eyes and turned his head away from Erestor again. “Leave me.”
The words cut to Erestor’s soul. Glorfindel never pushed him away. So it was true then. Glorfindel still loved Astarion after all these ages. The counselor would not argue anymore. “As you wish,” he replied, and then he left the room. As he did, the elleth healer entered the room, bringing with her an armful of wrappings. Fin would be busy for a while. Erestor decided to pay a visit to Astarion.
He asked where the elf was being held, and was met with odd looks. “What would you be wanting with him, my lord?” asked one of the guards.
“It was Glorfindel and I who found him. I would like to see what has become of him now that he is out of the dungeons,” Erestor answered.
The guard looked Erestor over carefully, and then he led him to the place where Astarion was being kept. It was nothing more than a shallow cave, two well-armed guards standing at the entrance. Obviously, none of the other elves trusted Astarion either.
The guards were hesitant, but after speaking with Erestor’s escort, they stepped aside and allowed him to enter … with strict warning. They would be watched closely by the guards. Erestor would not be able to ask anything too personal.
It was dark in the cave. Astarion sat on the dirt floor, leaning against the stone wall, his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them. His head rested on his knees, and he raised his head only enough to see over them. The white eyes glowed eerily, cutting through the darkness of the cave. They emitted their light without the help of lantern or flame. Erestor was reminded of the Palantír, and wondered if there was some connection. Could the Nazgûl see through Astarion’s vision? It was a very real possibility, and the reason he was being kept away from everyone, Erestor reconciled with himself.
“How is he?” Astarion asked, his voice not more than a faint whisper.
“You are in no position to ask about him. It was by your own hand that he is in this condition,” Erestor said sternly.
“You should have taken my life when I asked it of you, or Glorfindel would be well.”
“Do not lay blame upon me,” Erestor said agitated. “I saw the wounds. They were delivered by the hand of someone scorned. It was more than mind control of the Nazgûl. You were conscious. You were aware of what you were doing, and you executed the punishment with passion.”
“I’ll never be able to explain to you the power they have over me. I see things and I hear things, and I cannot decipher what is real and what is not,” Astarion defended himself.
“But you knew Glorfindel was in front of you. You knew that with every swing of the whip you were slicing his flesh apart. You meant to hurt him. You wanted him to feel the pain because you blame him for the torture bestowed upon you all these centuries.”
Astarion raised his head all the way, his white eyes turned to slits. “You know nothing of it, Counselor.”
“I know enough,” Erestor said calmly. “I don’t know what will happen to you, but if you should live, stay away from Glorfindel or I’ll deliver you a swift death.”
Astarion smiled sickly. “Seems I have no choice there,” he said, and raised his wrists to show the chains. “Maybe it is Glorfindel you should be scolding. After all, it was he who came to me in the castle.”
Erestor turned his back on the ruined elf and left the cave. He flew from the area with hurried tread, not sure where to go, as long as it was far away from Astarion. As much as he wanted to hate him, Erestor felt a kind of connection with him. They had both been touched by the black magic of the Wraiths, and once their darkness coiled its way in, it could not be disposed of easily. Erestor had only endured the pain of looking into the Palantír. Astarion had been transformed physically and mentally after millennia of torture, but they both knew what it felt like to have their minds taken over.
“Erestor?” someone said, bringing the counselor out of his transfixed state. He stopped and found Lastar standing before him. “Are you well?”
“I didn’t know I looked ill,” he said annoyed.
“You don’t seem yourself,” Lastar observed.
“You’re not the first one to say that either.” Erestor wondered what was wrong that it looked so noticeable. He brought his hands to his face and laid the palm of his right hand to his forehead, and then down to his cheek.
Lastar captured Erestor’s wrists, drawing his hands away from his face. “You seem worn, but then it has been a very trying time. You should take some rest. Come, sit by the fire.”
Erestor, unable to argue, merely nodded and followed Lastar to a nearby campfire. They sat on a vacant throw left by its owner. Erestor’s spine was stiff. He could not seem to relax, not after the exchange of words with Astarion. Lastar remained silent and stared into the dancing flames. Neither elf knew what to say. Finally, Lastar broke the silence.
“Is Glorfindel going to be alright?” he asked timidly. After his last exchange with Erestor, he sounded uncomfortable asking.
“His wounds will heal,” Erestor answered, unsure if Glorfindel would ever be alright completely. As he spoke, something caught his eye, and he looked over his shoulder. Glorfindel had just emerged from the healer’s tent, a new set of bandages wrapped around his torso. He was hunched slightly, and walked slowly. Erestor knew the healers would not have permitted him to do anything strenuous, even walking. Glorfindel was obviously ignoring their orders.
Erestor watched as Glorfindel’s eyes scanned the campground. They caught sight of him sitting by the fire, and Erestor’s heart leapt in eagerness. Just as quickly it sank, as the elf lord turned his sight away, and focused on the set of guards standing by the cave entrance. The warrior’s blue eyes settled once more on Erestor, as though he was weighing the outcome of his choice. The decision was disheartening when he looked to the cave once more and set off in that direction.
“Go to him then,” Erestor said softly, making Lastar look back to see what he was talking about.
“I’ve never seen such a wretched creature as that,” Lastar commented. “Who is he?”
“His name is Astarion,” Erestor answered, his mind still rummaging through the recent events.
“Astarion,” Lastar repeated. “I have seen that name. I believe he was a soldier in Gondolin, a member of the House of the Golden Flower, and second in command to–” He hesitated as he solved his own puzzle, and slowly cocked his head to the side to look at Erestor.
“Glorfindel,” Erestor finished. Then under the softness of his breath, he added, “The bastard.”
Lastar knew not what to say or how to respond. He gazed back into the fire, letting the information slowly seep into his thoughts. Erestor completed the details of Astarion’s military background, and the fact the he and Glorfindel had been childhood friends, but nothing more. However, Lastar was a very perceptive elf, and not much got past his inquisitive mind.
“Glorfindel must have thought he was dead after all these long centuries,” Lastar mentioned, solving the mystery aloud. “But to know he yet lives, and the desolate condition he is in now . . .” His words trailed off. “I was right, wasn’t I? The Nazgûl used Glorfindel to draw you into their lair, and they used the prisoner to lure Glorfindel in, hoping you would follow.”
Erestor said nothing. He barely heard Lastar speaking. All he heard was the deafening laugh of the Witch-king and Glorfindel’s last words … leave me.
Lastar saw that Erestor was not listening, and laid his hand upon Erestor’s knee. “When we found you, we also found a Seeing Stone.”
The counselor did not answer right away. The mention of the stone sent his mind reeling back to the dungeon, back into the visions within the Palantír. He spoke his thoughts into the open, and Lastar listened carefully.
“The bastard lied to me. He said I was the first to make him feel this way, but he never told me about … him.” The final word came out in a vehement hiss.
“They were lovers then, Glorfindel and Astarion?” Lastar asked, but Erestor did not respond. Instead, the counselor’s face contorted and his eyes glazed over as though in a trance. Lastar began to worry. “Erestor, did you look into the Palantír?” he asked carefully.
Erestor started rocking forward and backward. His hands came up and clenched the braids at the sides of his head. “I didn’t want to,” he whimpered. “I tried not to, but the will to look was too strong. I had to know, Lastar. I had to know about them. Glorfindel had mentioned Astarion to me before, but I think I had always known he wasn’t telling me the entire story.”
Lastar moved closer to Erestor and wrapped his arm around him, trying to calm him, to still him. “You know about the Seeing Stone, I know you do. It does not always present the truth. It can misguide and show you fraudulent insights.”
Erestor stopped fidgeting and regarded Lastar dangerously. “You saw Glorfindel. Where do you think he went just now? You saw with your own eyes, how he easily made his decision. I hate him. I hate them both. Fin would rather comfort the one who whipped him than come to me. That just proves how right I’ve always been about him. I’ve always had my doubts, and this just establishes the truth. Let him rot then. Let him rot away with that creature. They deserve each other.”
Lastar worried for Erestor, who was anything but himself. He’d never heard such venom in the counselor’s voice, not even when he sent Lastar away for lying to him and following him. Something was not right. Something evil had latched on to his mentor.
“Erestor,” Lastar said calmly, “You need to listen to me. Something has happened to you, probably as you looked into the stone. Perhaps it was the Witch-king trying to control your mind, or the Palantír, but you are not yourself.” Lastar turned his body so that he was facing Erestor, both elves still sitting on the ground by the fire. There were flames within Erestor’s eyes, but not a reflection from the campfire. He looked through Lastar, seeing only what the Palantír had showed him, feeding off anger and resentment as some evil darkness tried to take over Erestor’s mind.
Lastar cupped his hands to the sides of Erestor’s face. “Look at me,” he said, but Erestor was not focused. “Look at me, Counselor,” Lastar said with more authority. It changed nothing. “Damn it, Erestor, look at me!” he yelled, earning him Erestor’s attention. “Look straight into my eyes. Fight it off. Fight the hatred and anger. It is not you who is making you feel this way. You are being controlled.”
Erestor’s eyes blackened as his pupils swallowed the hazel of his irises. He managed a deviant smile and laughed. “You think you are smarter? You think you can outwit it? It’s in here,” Erestor said pointing to his head. “And it’s in here.” He pointed to his chest, “Wrapped around my heart, squeezing harder and harder. There is no love, only hate.”
“That’s not true,” Lastar said, his soft voice surprising him. “There is always love, you have just been looking for it in the wrong place. Please, Erestor, fight through this. Fight for yourself and your soul, and know that there is at least one ellon who loves you, no matter the outcome.”
Lastar would not let go of Erestor. He made the counselor look into his eyes as love for his mentor reflected back. Erestor began to tremble, as he internally struggled for his freedom. He closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists, and hit himself in the chest. Erestor cried out, his body going rigid.
“Leave him!” Lastar shouted passionately, and Erestor’s cry turned into the horrid screech of the Witch-king just before he fell silent and limp onto Lastar’s lap. Lastar’s mouth hung agape as he gazed with terror into the fire. Whatever had leeched on to Erestor’s soul was gone now, but the shrillness of the Nazgûl’s howl still pierced Lastar’s head like an icy rod. He found that he’d been holding his breath, and he let it out, rapidly breathing as he recovered. Only then did Lastar look down and notice Erestor lying unconscious in his lap. With his hands still trembling, Lastar grabbed Erestor’s shoulder and forcibly shook him, trying to wake him. “Erestor, are you alright? Erestor! Erestor, awake!”
The counselor’s eyes fluttered and finally opened, focusing on Lastar hovering above him. “It … it’s gone,” he whispered. “I can breathe again, and my chest doesn’t feel tight anymore.”
Lastar smiled down at him, his hand brushing the hair from Erestor’s face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he seemed alright. “I knew there was something wrong. You’ve never spoken like that before, least of all about Lord Glorfindel.”
Erestor slowly sat up. “I’m afraid not all of it was a lie though. He went to Astarion even when I asked him not to. That’s what the darkness latched onto. It tried to twist my will.”
“It has left you for good,” Lastar informed.
“So it has,” Erestor said, and he looked at Lastar. “Thank you. I am grateful for all that you’ve done. You saved me in there.” He gestured to the destroyed palace.
“I am sorry that I disobeyed your orders, but I couldn’t just leave. Something did not feel right,” Lastar admitted.
Erestor huffed out a laugh and smiled. “For once, I’m glad you did not listen.”
They sat by the fire and discussed the recent events, trying to make sense of it all. Despite Lastar’s feelings for him, Erestor regretted dismissing him from his employment. In a lighthearted way, Erestor told him he could come back to the library. “When we get back to Imladris, we will have quite a load of work to get through.”
Lastar smiled, but it seemed forced. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to continue my internship.”
“What?! Why?” Erestor asked, stunned that he would refuse.
“Erestor, you know of my feelings for you, and try as I might, I cannot contain them sometimes. I want so much more, and I realize now that you cannot return any of it. And it tears at my heart. So, I am officially resigning as your apprentice, but not as your friend, for if that is all you can be, then I must accept it and move on. I cannot compete with Glorfindel, and you have made it very clear.”
It saddened Erestor that Lastar would not help him anymore. “You are very good at what you do. I strongly advise that you continue your apprenticeship with another counselor, if it cannot be with me, but I do understand. Thank you, Lastar. It has been difficult for me too, for I want to be your friend. I feel very comfortable with you in that way.”
“If ever you need an ear to bend, do not hesitate,” Lastar smiled.
Erestor laughed and nodded. It finally felt right between him and Lastar. The pressure of seeing him every day was gone.
Lastar stood, helping Erestor up also, and glanced over his shoulder towards the makeshift prison. “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know … give him some space, I suppose. The Nazgûl was right about one thing. Glorfindel will try to help Astarion, and until he discovers that it is folly, there is nothing I can say to change his mind.” Erestor looked towards the cave, sadness filling his eyes. “I have to hope that he will still love me when it is all said and done.”
“And if not?” Lastar asked, a hint of hopefulness in his tone.
“Then I’ll have new demons to chase away, won’t I?” Erestor said regretfully.
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