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The Lost and the Hidden City	By : pip & BronxWench Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2743 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: We do not own Middle Earth, any of Tolkien's world or characters. We make no money from this work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
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Authors' Note: Well, we hope you all had a great Christmas, and that you're now lost in that oddly pleasant no man's land between Christmas and New Year, permanently tipsy, blissfully unaware of how much you've overindulged, where your only concerns are why there isn't anything good on tv, how long you can realistically keep that leftover turkey/trifle/sprouts in the fridge before throwing it out, and just when exactly you need to hit the shop for more milk and bread.
In the meantime, here is the next chapter for your perusal... enjoy!

Chapter Fifteen
In truth, Gildor began to wonder if the restraints were really necessary. After all, there had only been a couple of dreams, and the marks on him had faded quickly until they were nothing but a memory. He did not say anything, however, and Glorfindel insisted on being tied to the bed each night. It was with a start of happiness that Gildor realised his warrior enjoyed the new format of their mornings too much to let them go, and they both fell deeper into each other.
Then, one morning out of the blue, as Gildor awoke he knew that something was wrong. It was a sense, rather than anything that alerted him. Perhaps he could feel the tension, because as he sat up in bed beside Glorfindel, it was obvious he was dreaming, and had been for some time.
Gildor gasped when he saw that Glorfindel had rubbed his wrists raw on the rope that held him down. He flinched when Glorfindel’s eyes opened and looked upon him without recognition. His lover was still somewhere else entirely. Gildor reached out to touch, and found Glorfindel’s skin clammy and cold, yet he reacted as if he’d been touched by fire, arching up from the bed and screaming so shrilly it sent a shiver up his spine.
Wasting no more time, Gildor got up and pulled on a robe. He went to the door, his eyes on Glorfindel all the while, who appeared to have calmed, though his breathing was still ragged. Gildor called a passing servant.
“Fetch Lord Elrond here,” he said, gravely. “Glorfindel has been taken ill in the night. It is urgent.”
He watched as the young ellon hurried off, and sank down into a chair to watch and wait for Elrond to come and observe this strangeness for himself. It still took too long, and Glorfindel noticed him with his knees drawn up, calling him an ‘imposter’ and a ‘figment’ and swearing so vehemently Gildor wept. He could not help it at all.
Elrond did not bother to knock, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He looked at Glorfindel, trussed to the bed, and then at Gildor, miserable in the chair. “Do I need to ask whose idea this was?”
Gildor swallowed a sob, his cheeks wet. “He thought it was safer if we secured him at night. He was afraid he would hurt me again.” His hand crept up to his throat without any conscious thought. “He taught me the proper knots, because mine unravelled as soon as he tugged.”
He knew he was babbling, and he heard the fear and grief in his own voice as clearly as he knew Elrond would. “He was fine. He has been fine. But he still wouldn’t let us forget to restrain him, and when I woke from my reverie this morning, he was like this.”
He watched Elrond’s expression as the Lord of Imladris took in the sight of the blond warrior, his wrists raw and bleeding where the skin was chafed away entirely. Glorfindel’s complexion was ghastly, and his glorious golden curls were sweat-soaked and dull. It was his eyes, though, which revealed how deeply he was sunk into the dream.
“Do you try to tempt me now with visions of Eärendil grown? Is it not enough you take the shape of the one dearest to me? Will you torment me now with all which is at stake if I fall?” Glorfindel strained anew at his bonds. “I will not fall. I will not surrender. Drop your masks, vile creature, and face me on the field of battle!”
Gildor bit back a fresh sob, but Elrond stood his ground, his voice ringing with power. “Is this what I can expect from the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower? Wake, Glorfindel of Gondolin, now Glorfindel of Rivendell. Wake, and return to us.”
Glorfindel thrashed on the bed, but his eyes closed, his eyes jerking and twitching behind his eyelids. Only mortals slept like this, dreamed like this, and Gildor was so glad he’d called for Elrond. The Lord of Imladris was by the side of the bed kneeling as Glorfindel came around, waking up in truth. He nodded sharply to the ropes, and Gildor hurried to untie them. As soon as Glorfindel’s arms were free, he embraced Elrond, pulling him close while he sobbed.
“Do you remember your dreams?” Elrond questioned directly, trying to hold Glorfindel at arm’s length. The warrior nodded. “Then tell them to me now, while they are still fresh.”
“I do not have the heart,” Glorfindel said, his voice broken, but Elrond became stern then.
“You will tell me, Glorfindel. Now.”
“I dreamed of the Balrog,” Glorfindel said, looking desperately into Elrond’s eyes, as if he still did not quite believe the Lord of Imladris was before him. “It pulled my hair. That’s how I fell. But it burned, and in the burning it showed me things. Such terrible things!” Now he grasped Elrond’s arms, as if imparting some dreadful truth.
“They burn,” he said. “On the surface, yes, they burn the body. But their real damage is done from the inside out. They burn you from the inside. It showed me so many things. The battle lost, the companions of my house - of all the houses - dead and burnt to cinder by dragons. I saw Gondolin fallen, the refugees pursued and slaughtered. I saw the future where Melkor won his war. Such a darkness.”
Elrond sighed, and rested his forehead against Glorfindel’s in sympathy. “It showed me things I wanted, which I could never have. One of them was being here, with Gildor by my side.” He drew in a great shuddering breath. “Another, was the sight of you. I thought you were your father.”
With a heavy sigh, Elrond backed away and Gildor took his place as he examined the injuries Glorfindel had sustained from the ropes while he slept. “I shall have to study this,” he said, troubled. “I have never seen it's like in elves.” His study over, he seated himself by the bed, watching as Glorfindel held Gildor close, greedily, as if he would never let go. For his part, Gildor felt almost the same. Now that he had Glorfindel back, he never wanted to lose him again, not even for a moment. He kissed his lover’s hair and stroked his back, until Elrond reminded them of his presence.
“In the meantime, if the two of you insist on this binding at night, I have some elven rope which you can use. It will not allow Glorfindel to hurt himself, however he may struggle.”
Gildor felt his eyes open wide, understanding the implication, and he actually turned around to look at Elrond. He could not help imagining the lovely Celebrían bound by such ropes. Elrond stared back at him levelly, deliberately bland. Gildor was amazed. Was everyone up to these games? Had he been the only innocent in Imladris all this time? But then Glorfindel shifted, and his attention was back on his lover in the blink of an eye.
“Meleth nín, your wrists. We need to clean those, and put some ointment on them. Perhaps we should bandage them as well?” He looked over his shoulder at Elrond, the elflord’s expression still inscrutably blank. Elrond gestured at a small basket, and Gildor seized on the change of mental subject eagerly. He simply could not bring himself to think of Elrond, so skilled a healer, as someone who would be trussing his wife to the bedposts.
“Bring me water, and I will see to Glorfindel’s wrists.” Elrond sounded exactly normal. “It does not need to be heated. The herbs I have will work even in cool water.”
He nodded, and hurried to bring over the pitcher of water from the side table, along with the basin it sat in. “Will this do?” he asked.
Elrond had seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Pour a bit of water in the basin, and I will wash the wounds.”
It was only the work of minutes before Elrond had Glorfindel’s wrists cleaned, dressed, and wrapped in immaculate linen. The warrior had been silent throughout, his head bowed to hide his eyes. Gildor’s heart ached when he saw the slump in those strong shoulders. He hurried to climb onto the bed, close to Glorfindel.
“Keep those as dry as you can when you bathe,” Elrond advised. “The ointment will resist water, but if you find the bandages are too wet, replace them. I will leave more ointment and linen, and I will come back later with the elven rope.”
He felt his cheeks warming, but he met Elrond’s eyes. “My thanks, Lord Elrond. It will be appreciated.”
“You are aware you will not be able to use it until Glorfindel’s wrists heal?” It was as much a command as a question, and he gulped and nodded hastily. “Very well.” Elrond left, his step as silent as any ranger.
When they were alone, Gildor sat beside his lover anxiously, at a loss as for what to do. He stroked a hand down Glorfindel’s back, noting the shudder. Any thoughts he might have about lifting the warrior’s spirit were out of the question at the moment. Glorfindel was not even well enough for a trip to the baths, though he must be cold now that he had awoken, the sweat drying on his skin.
“I am not dreaming,” Glorfindel said, hugging his knees, resting his chin on them. “But I hate for you to see me like this.” To Gildor’s astonishment, Glorfindel sobbed. “The shadow of it remains, like a veil cast over my eyes.”
Gildor thought about what Elrond had said, how Glorfindel’s wrists would need to heal, and they would have to face their nights alone for a while. He knew that, but now? “Would you rather I gave you some peace?” he asked, saddened, but then Glorfindel turned and took hold of his hand.
“No, please,” he said, and the look in his eyes almost broke Gildor’s heart. “If you are here with me, I know your fate. It is the others…” His voice trailed off into nothing, and he stared forward blankly again.
“The others?” Gildor prodded gently.
“Of course,” Glorfindel said, as if it made perfect sense. Gildor frowned, trying to understand. “Some of the visions I received at the time of my demise were true.” He brought Gildor’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “You are here, just as I envisaged you. And Eärendil, he did escape, at least from the city, if not from his fate.”
“I do not know which of the things I saw were real, and which were false. There were others who escaped with you that day. Do you know what became of them?”
Gildor found himself thinking of it. “Some of them I know still. Some have sailed since…” He pondered for a moment, then something clicked in his mind, and he turned Glorfindel’s face to look at him, feeling a little hope.
“You said before that if you knew what the dreams wanted from you… perhaps this is it. Perhaps you are dreaming because you need to know the end of the story from that day.”
At Gildor’s words, Glorfindel seemed to brighten like the morning sun through mist, and he smiled tentatively. His personality was such that hope was woven into his very fëa, and Gildor saw it strengthening now. “Do you truly think so?” he asked, and Gildor smiled.
“I do,” Gildor said firmly. He settled himself more comfortably on the bed, holding Glorfindel’s hands across his folded legs. “Let me tell you what I know, then, of our journey.” He began to recall each elf he had travelled with, naming them for his lover, and recounting what they had done since the escape, and where they were, if he knew.
There were moments of laughter, small things, but each one building on the other to heal them both. There were moments of sorrow, too, for elves who had fallen, and for those who had sailed. Gildor even shared his cherished hope for forgiveness, his dream that he would be allowed to sail West to Aman, to Valinor. When Glorfindel nodded in solemn agreement, he nearly wept with joy.
Even as they talked, Gildor managed to avoid the topic which lay heavy between them. In truth, the very thought of spending a night without the comfort of Glorfindel beside him was wrenching. He sought for another distraction, until he was interrupted by a tapping at the door. He pulled his robe close as he opened it, surprised to find one of the servants with a heavily laden tray full of breakfast.
“My Lord sent this, Master Gildor,” the servant said, and let Gildor take the tray. He closed the door behind himself as he left.
“Look, aníra nín. Do you think you can manage to eat a bit, or have some tea?” He looked at the tray in bemused delight. It appeared the kitchens had sent Glorfindel-worthy portions of everything, and enough tea to float an elfling’s toy ship.
Whatever Glorfindel’s state of mind, his body could not be called into question, and he accepted the tray with a rumble of satisfaction, immediately going about the business of eating. Watching him, Gildor thought it seemed more like refuelling than anything. He took a small plate for himself of warm bread and honey, then poured the tea.
“We should make a list of those who escaped,” Gildor said as he poured the milk. “That way it will be easier to recall anyone we may have missed.” Glorfindel nodded with his mouth full, trying to swallow, and then, uncharacteristically, he paused in demolishing the food on his plate.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said.
Gildor smiled, his hands faltering. “Do what?”
“Raise me up out of the darkness of those dreams.” He lifted his head. “I do not like it when you see me that way, though.”
He’d said the same thing before, earlier, when he’d been much more melancholy, and Gildor did not need Glorfindel’s feelings explained to him.
“You are not diminished by it Glorfindel nín,” he said carefully, stirring Glorfindel’s cup. “After the time we’ve spent together, don’t you know what your strength does to me?”
Glorfindel was silent for a moment, then he chuckled in a decidedly suggestive way. Gildor thrust a full cup into his waiting hands. “Drink your tea,” he said, smiling, before his lover could get any ideas. Because obviously, they should both eat first. Glorfindel especially; to keep up his strength.
It did Gildor good to see Glorfindel’s mood lighten, and he watched the warrior tuck in with renewed appetite. He was quite content with his light fare, and his tea, but then again, he did not exert himself in quite the same manner as Glorfindel.
“So, after we have eaten, perhaps we should retire to the baths,” he said. “And then maybe a nice constitutional through the gardens? Or perhaps we could go to the river, and pretend to fish?” He snuck a look at Glorfindel from under his lashes as he made a show of spreading his bread with more honey.
It was hard not to dwell on the fact of night time, though. As much as he wanted to spend the night with Glorfindel, he knew his lover would object, and use fear for his safety as the reason. It was an argument hard to refute, but he was sure there would be no new dreams for a night or two. There had been longer gaps than that between dreams as it was, and he was willing to take the chance.
He knew he was being selfish, but he could not seem to stop. If he was not there, his fear was that Glorfindel would harm himself, in an effort to thwart whatever enemy coloured his dreams. He knew Glorfindel was capable of self sacrifice. Had he not faced a balrog to protect the rest of them, to save Lord Elrond’s family? How much more would he dare to protect Gildor, if he felt Gildor was threatened?
But these thoughts were dark, and he wanted to lift Glorfindel’s gloom, so he teased, and hoped it would make his lover laugh, or tease him in return.
To his surprise, Glorfindel gave him a frank look, up and down, making Gildor fear he had got honey on his nose. “What is it?” he asked.
“Would you indulge me?” Glorfindel asked, quite serious, and Gildor nodded.
“Of course!” he said brightly, and waited. And waited. Glorfindel sighed, as if he was reluctant to ask for it, whatever it was.
“I miss my work,” he said at last, “and if you can indeed ‘hold your own’ as you told me once, I’d love to duel with you.”
Oh-oh. Gildor gulped the hot tea he was sipping, imagining it. In truth it had been a while since his skills in that direction had been required, and if he was completely honest he hadn’t been practising - at all. But then, maybe one of the weapons masters had a light blade he could use, or knives. He’d always done better with those.
“I was thinking we could take a couple of horses,” Glorfindel continued, completely oblivious to Gildor’s reaction. “Ride some distance, then fight. I might even let you win one,” he teased, turning to give Gildor a happy smile. He faltered then. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing! You go on,” Gildor said, waving his hand about in near panic. “Leave me to think about duelling with the greatest warrior in Imladris, possibly in our age!” At his words, Glorfindel’s face fell, and Gildor sighed, then smiled.
“Of course I will,” he reassured Glorfindel. “Just… go easy on me?” he pleaded.
Glorfindel brightened at once. “Of course I will go easy on you, mîr nín. I don’t expect you to be battle hardened. But it would be nice to spar a little. We can go and find a weapon you are comfortable using.”
“After our bath, of course,” Gildor said hastily, taking another scalding sip and blinking away tears. “But you finish eating, and I’ll get your robe, and find us clothing for after the bath. I do think I have something suitable for fighting.”
“Wonderful,” Glorfindel said. “But I think I’m quite full, so perhaps we’ll sort out clothing after the bath.” He grimaced at his wrists. “You might need to wash my hair as well as your own, though. I should try to keep these dry, as Elrond said.”
The reminder of Glorfindel’s injury made Gildor swallow hard. “I do have more dry linen, so don’t worry,” he said. “And I don’t mind washing your hair. I enjoy it, actually.”
There were only a few elves in the baths, and Glorfindel did his best to cooperate, although he managed to bump into Gildor once or twice in a most suggestive way. Gildor managed not to squeak, and he was washing Glorfindel’s golden curls when he remembered what Glorfindel had told Elrond. The balrog had pulled him to his death by those bright tresses. His fingers faltered for a moment in their work, but he collected himself and began to massage Glorfindel’s scalp firmly, to wash away the sweat of the nightmare. He rinsed the warrior’s hair thoroughly, trying not to play too much or tug, but he was acutely aware of Glorfindel’s gaze as he washed his own hair.

To be continued...

Authors' Note: Thank you for reading, we hope you enjoyed it, and this time allow us to wish you a happy new year! See you next week. Why not leave us a comment?
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The Lost and the Hidden City