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
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Chapter 7 – Dark Dream

The scouting party returned a month later with good news for all. The lands around Rivendell were clear of enemies. It would be safe for the newly formed Fellowship to leave soon. There were many miles and many perils ahead of them, but they had some of the best people anyone could ask for. They would not travel by horse, but had with them one small pony, Bill, packed with as many supplies as he could carry.
And so, at the break of dawn, on a brisk day in late December, nine companions left Rivendell, the fate of Middle-earth carried in the hands of the hobbit, Frodo.
“Do you think they will be back?” asked Erestor as he stood at the edge of one of the many patios that overlooked the valley. Glorfindel was next to him, and they both watched the travelers make their way along the path that led out of the city. With the leaves fallen from the trees, they could see where the path wound its way to the main gate. Gandalf and Frodo led the way, followed by Legolas, Gimli, Merry and Pippin, Boromir, Sam with the pony, and at the end, Aragorn.
“We can only pray they do,” answered Glorfindel, as his hand came to rest on Erestor’s waist.
At least for now, Erestor felt reassured by Fin’s presence, but there was no telling when this contentment might be torn apart.
Over the next few weeks, they spent their time as they normally would, Erestor in the libraries and Glorfindel on the training grounds. War was imminent, but as to where and when, that was still a mystery. Every elf able to fight might be called upon eventually, and they must all be prepared. It was for this reason that a few times a week, Erestor and Glorfindel took to the practice grounds, alone, and worked on their swordplay. Erestor had always maintained a certain amount of practice, but it was more of a hobby. Glorfindel helped him hone in on his skills.
“You do know this means nothing,” commented Glorfindel as they were leaving the training grounds one late afternoon.
“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You heard Lord Elrond. Every elf capable of—”
“Not you,” said Glorfindel sternly.
“Of course me!” Erestor retaliated, “I am an elf, and I am capable. If called upon, I will fight. I do not need your permission.” He rounded on his mate with narrowed eyes, “Do you not think I can fight?”
“You are a worthy opponent, meldanya,” Glorfindel admitted and the corner of Erestor’s mouth twisted with pride. Glorfindel continued, “. . . on the practice field anyways.”
“I resent that statement,” said Erestor angrily. “You know I have fought in wartime.”
“Yes, but many years have passed since then, and your strengths now lie within the libraries.” Glorfindel grabbed Erestor by the wrists and twisted them so that his palms faced upwards. “These are not the hands of a warrior,” said Glorfindel. Then he lifted one to his lips and kissed Erestor’s knuckles, “These are the hands of a scholar, smooth and unmarred. I should never like to see them used in combat.” He then took Erestor’s hand, lowered it, and cupped it to his groin, “Unless it is combat in the bedroom.”
Erestor squeezed tighter than normal, making Glorfindel tense by reflex, “You are a fiend, you know that?” Erestor denoted. He released his lover, and continued walking, leaving the elf lord behind. Glorfindel followed his tread and matched his strides. Once he had caught up, Erestor continued, “Besides, it is not callouses on the hand that makes a warrior. It’s knowing how to wield the blade when it is necessary.”
Glorfindel smiled mischievously, taking the comment as an innuendo. Erestor rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean. Do not try to change the subject.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” mumbled the elf lord.
“Hopeless,” huffed Erestor, but he couldn’t help let a smile escape. Glorfindel always managed to see the humor in a situation.
They walked along the pathways, strolling through the city. Erestor sniffed the air. Snow threatened in the distance. Winter always turned Rivendell into a mystical wonderland with snow blanketing the valley, and ice forming around the edges of the waterfalls frozen in motion. And he would revel in the warmth of his lover beside him on those brisk mornings … their first winter together.
Glorfindel clasped Erestor’s arm, bringing them both to a halt. The counselor looked at Fin to see what made him react so sudden. Glorfindel nodded towards one of the old stone bridges that passed above the river. Standing in the center of the bridge was Arwen. She looked down at her hand, staring meditatively at a ring that she held in her palm … the Ring of Barahir, a gift and a promise from her love. Silver shards of light flashed in the afternoon sun. Sadness had settled on her face ever since the Fellowship left Rivendell, taking with them her betrothed, Aragorn.
“She misses her lover,” Erestor whispered.
“She has nothing to fear. Aragorn is a seasoned soldier. He is a leader among men,” Glorfindel replied.
“She has everything to fear. Aragorn is her heart’s desire. Without him, her life will not go on. What you are witnessing is what you do not see once you leave your loved ones behind. You set your mind on battle when you leave, but you do not know the distraught and worry it causes. Do not belittle her concerns, Glorfindel. Arwen has every right to feel this way.”
Feeling that they were intruding upon a private moment, Glorfindel and Erestor quietly slipped away and went to Erestor’s house. Once there, they freshened up and changed into more casual clothing … Erestor in his robes and Glorfindel in loose-fitting pants and a light gauzy shirt, which he deliberately left part way unbuttoned.
Erestor sat down in front of his mirror and reached for his braids, “Give me a moment, and I will put on some tea.”
Glorfindel came up behind him and smiled into the mirror, “Here, meldanya, let me.”
Glorfindel’s fingers started to loosen Erestor’s sable braids. He had such a gentle touch, Erestor observed, especially for the strong calloused hands of a warrior. His fingers seemed to move effortlessly, as he undid weaving and knots, like the undetected hands of a pickpocket.
Erestor remembered, upon one of his visits to Bree, standing on a corner while a horse and carriage passed. As he waited to cross the muddy street, he had a strange sensation of his robes wriggling at his hip. He looked down to find a young boy smiling up at him, pretending to wait at Erestor’s side. The movement that the elf sensed was the boy’s hand searching for coins or treasure beneath the layered robes. When the boy knew he was caught in the midst of thievery, he started to dash away, but Erestor caught his arm and stopped him. Instead of reprimanding the boy or turning him over to the proper authorities, the counselor released his hold, smiled, and called the young pickpocket to follow him. Curious, the boy followed Erestor to the nearest eatery, where the elf asked a servant to bring food for the child, and not to stop until he’d had his fill.
Bree had fallen on hard times, as did other towns. The darkness was spreading even then, but never more than it had now. The future was unclear, Erestor thought, as he remembered Arwen’s desolate expression.
He pushed these thoughts aside, and allowed Glorfindel’s touch to sooth his worried mind. “You are quite good at this, especially for someone who does not wear braids.” Glorfindel never braided his golden wavy mane. The most care he took was to tie it back with a leather thong whenever he knew he’d be brandishing his sword.
“It’s something that we do for each other when we’re out in the field. It is faster to have someone else do it, since we do not have the convenience of mirrors,” Glorfindel chortled. Finished with the braids, Fin reached for a brush and started stroking Erestor’s long hair. When he was done, he picked up a few strands between his fingers and brought them to his cheek, “Mmm, smooth as the finest silk. I love your hair unbound, Erestor. I wish you would wear it that way more often.” He pulled Erestor’s head back so that it rested against his stomach, and then proceeded to kiss the counselor’s upside-down lips.
Erestor melted into the unusual feel, and he might have succumbed to the elf lords seductions, but after the long training session and hours without food, his stomach rumbled disagreeably. Glorfindel released him with a smile, “Perhaps you should get that tea now.”
While Erestor brewed the tea, he heard Glorfindel come into the kitchen and take a seat at the small round table near the window that looked out over the gardens below. The sun had set long ago, and a full moon was on the rise, illuminating the grounds, and casting shadows over the snow-covered lawn.
“Do you worry for me as Arwen does for Aragorn?” Glorfindel led in without warning.
Erestor turned and carried the ivory teapot to the table. Glorfindel reached for a shelf behind him, and retrieved two matching ivory cups, setting them down lightly. Erestor answered as he poured, “Of course I do.”
“But you hide it,” Fin said.
“It will do no good for Elrond’s chief advisor to walk around in a daze as he conjures up visions of his lover being attacked or hacked to pieces.” As he spoke, Erestor retrieved a plate of biscuits and a jar of honey, setting them on the table.
“Hacked to pieces,” said Glorfindel, surprised, “Is that what you think will happen to me?”
Erestor took a biscuit and split it open, “There are any number of scenarios that run through my head. An orc’s scimitar splitting the back of your skull, a warg mauling your neck and severing important arteries, or even that ill-tempered horse of yours becoming spooked and running you both off a cliff, all these things cross my mind from time to time.” He reached for the jar of honey, but Glorfindel grasped his hand stopping him.

“Ill-tempered horse?” scowled Glorfindel. He released Erestor’s hand as his hazel eyes pierced him. “You’ve never mentioned a dislike for Asfaloth before.”
“I never had a problem until he bit my hand that time I fed him my apple,” complained Erestor, as he drizzled honey over the biscuit. “I can still see a scar.”
“I have never complained about Suldal,” Glorfindel countered. Suldal was Erestor’s horse, a grey gelding with a white mane and wings of white hair flowing from his fetlocks, hence the name Wingfoot.
“Suldal has a very calm nature, and accepts gifts gracefully, whereas Asfaloth seems a bit unruly at times, like his rider,” said Erestor, wiping a drop of spilt honey from the table. He seductively sucked it from his finger.
Glorfindel watched intently, and then forced his attention back to the subject at hand. “These ghastly disillusions you mention, do you actually believe any of these things could happen to me?”
“Well, I hope that they don’t, and most of the time it is just my imagination getting the better of me, but sometimes I have … dreams. Sometimes they seem so absolute that I feel they are really happening,” admitted Erestor.
Glorfindel reached across the table and took Erestor’s hand in his, “None of these things will happen to me, not as long as I know you are here holding out hope for my safe return.” He released his lover’s hand, and Erestor immediately missed the connection. Then Glorfindel regarded him from the opposite side as he leaned back in his chair, “You play the victim very well, Counselor, but you forget the sacrifices that a warrior makes. Days, months, sometimes years away from loved ones takes its toll on a man. Yes, our heads are on our goal, as you mentioned before, but in those quiet moments when the world around seems to stop, we cannot help but visit home, if only in our minds, and we long for flesh that we cannot touch or voices that we cannot hear.”
“You speak as though you already have a mission,” Erestor indicated.
Glorfindel watched Erestor finish his biscuit and touch a linen to the corners of his mouth. Erestor had deliberately left a drop of honey untouched on his bottom lip, and licked it away in invitation. Glorfindel subconsciously licked his own bottom lip and answered, “I might be called upon at some point. Things have been too quiet lately.” His mind was no longer on their conversation. Erestor’s seductions had worked, and so had the subliminal message with the honey. He picked up the crock as he stood from the table, and then took Erestor by the elbow, gesturing for him to stand.
Erestor’s heart was racing, but he held his cool composure, as he was well practiced in doing so, “Whatever are you thinking of doing with that?” he said, mocking surprise.
Glorfindel gave him a devious smile, “As though you don’t already know. Come, my little worker bee. It seems you have stirred the hive.” Glorfindel, Erestor, and the pot of honey disappeared into the bedroom.
* * *
By now, even Erestor began to think that things were too quiet. Winter had passed dark and calm. Elrohir and Elladan, who constantly patrolled the borders, reported no new findings of enemies in the area. There had been no word about the progress of the Fellowship either. Should their mission fail, and the ring fall into enemy hands … Erestor did not want to think about that. It was obvious that Glorfindel did, as he grew restless over the next several weeks. He started coming to the libraries more often, not to see Erestor, but to pour over old maps as he tried to predict the party’s path to Mordor. He knew which way they should have gone, but it did not mean they took that route.
One night, Glorfindel was so absorbed in what he was doing that Erestor went home without him, leaving the elf lord access to any part of the library. Fin had taken to reading ancient maps in hopes of finding long forgotten pathways or tunnels that might be rediscovered. Gandalf would know of these options, if things took a turn for the worse.
Erestor laid in bed, eyes wide as he stared up at the ceiling, missing the warm embrace of his lover. He found it difficult to sleep without a body to curl into. He felt very alone, and the feeling followed him as he drifted into elvish dreams . . .
^    ^   ^   ^
Before him stood an ancient tower once known as Amon Lanc, but it had long since been broken and turned to ruin … Dol Guldur. It was thought to have been abandoned when Sauron was chased out, but recently it was discovered to be reoccupied and under the command of Khamûl, second chief of the Nazgûl. Some even believed that the Witch-king himself ruled there from time to time. Somehow, orcs poured from its weathered gates, though no one was quite sure where they had come from or how they multiplied.
Erestor observed from the safety of his dream, though he felt that any moment some unseen hand might detect him, and pull him into a living nightmare. He wondered if he was watching the past, present or future, and paid close attention to everything around him.
An army of orcs had just left the ruined tower, and there was a lull in the activity. Something pulled at his will, forcing him to leave the safety of his dream-like bubble, and enter the forbidden palace. He had no choice and floated inside.
It was dark but for a few torches lit here and there. Erestor’s arm brushed against one of the walls, cold with mud and black sludge. The place had a miasma of death, that sweetly putrid stench that one could never forget. Erestor had no choice but to breathe in the foul air, and then exhaled the effluvial mixture so that it seemed to coat the inside of his mouth. His stomach wretched in disgust, but he managed to compose himself, and went deeper into the fortress until he reached an ominous door. At first look, he thought it was made of wood, but the door moved, expanding and contracting as though it breathed. Erestor moved closer and reached out to touch its surface. He immediately withdrew his hand. It was not wood as he had thought, but the skinned flesh of people, alive and warm with tiny bristling hairs that he could still feel on his fingertips. The door quivered from his touch, and then it moaned, but not from pain or torture. It was a salacious pleading cry, and Erestor found his hand reaching out again. This time, it writhed not unlike that of a deprived lover. The moans became more wanton until there was a cacophony of desirous cries, both male and female. Erestor’s body reacted against his will, swelling painfully. The voices extended beyond the door, calling the counselor inside, promising him the relief he now longed for.
Another sound cut through the moaning, this one of a dark hissing laugh. It seemed to come from above at the highest point of the tower. Erestor tore himself away from the door reluctantly and followed the laugh. Half way up a set of stony stairs, he could have sworn he heard horses running, whickering in a panic, but what were horses doing in this confined space?
Now he heard a man’s deep voice calling out in anger and humiliation, swearing vengeance, but somehow, Erestor knew the darkness had swallowed him up and he was never to be seen again. The laugh grew even louder, and the fleshy door that he left behind, pulsed in the distance with new life and ungratified need. The laughed transformed into words, the Black Speech, that which was only spoken by servants of Mordor.
“Fools, they cannot kill me. The prophet spoke of it in Fornost.”
The Witch-king of Angmar, Erestor thought to himself, and the Battle of Fornost. What did this old battle have to do with Dol Guldur?
The Witch-king spoke again, “Mmph, the prophet … now there is one in which I desire to add to my collection. His seed could empower an army, a new breed of orcs stronger than any man. He will come here, and when he does, I will enslave him, bend him to do my will, seduce him, feed off his soul, devour his brilliance, and then send forth his ruined offspring. And when my army is complete, I will use him for my own pleasure.”
Erestor thought quickly. The Battle of Fornost, Glorfindel had commanded an elvish army then. They had fought alongside Gondor, and pursued the Witch-king, who managed to escape. Still, it made no sense to the counselor. Who was this prophet he spoke of?
Suddenly, there was a high pitched screech that was so loud, Erestor had to cover his ears. It became unbearable and he dropped to his knees. He looked up to see where the sound was coming from, and saw a black reptilian-like beast with leathery wings that beat the air. Upon its back sat the shape of a man cloaked in black robes, like an empty shadow against the night sky. The man’s head turned abruptly and now faced Erestor where he hid on the landing of the stairwell. The beast let out another horrid cry and perched itself on the edge of a crumbling spire, ready to burst into flight at the demand of its rider. Erestor forgot where he was and took a step backwards. His foot slipped off the step and he felt himself fall and tumble down the stairs, a tangle of arms and legs. He yelled, but no sound came out, and he continued the dizzy fall into a bottomless abyss.
^    ^    ^    ^
Erestor awoke in a tangle of sweat soaked sheets, and for a moment, he forgot about the dream. Then it all came rushing back to him, the door, the Witch-king, and the claims of a prophet. He sat up and freed himself from the bed linens. He steadied his breathing and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I thought for sure I’d wake up dead if I had reached the bottom of that fall,” he said to himself.
It dawned on him that he was still alone. Glorfindel had never come home. Erestor threw his robes on quickly and marched off to the libraries. He needed to speak to Fin now, while the dream was still fresh in his mind.
When he got there, the lanterns had all been extinguished and the library sat in darkness. He went inside anyways, and stumbled through the dark, calling in a whisper for Glorfindel. He got no results from his search, but found himself near the archive room, a place where important documents and first-hand accounts of major events were stored. The Battle of Fornost would be amongst those things.
Erestor wanted to find Glorfindel, but something pulled at him to search for anything that might help him understand his dream. He picked up a lantern, lit it and entered the room. The section he was looking for was back in a corner of the room, with books dated T.A. 1900’s. Erestor searched through the books until he found the one labeled with the right date. Wiping a thin layer of dust from its cover, he opened it, laid it on a nearby desk, and began pouring through the pages until he found what he was looking for, The Battle of Fornost.
During the time, what was left of the ancient realm of Arnor was under attack. Ravaged by war, the Witch-king threatened a final blow. King Eärnil II sent his son, Eärnur with a fleet of ships to the north, but even after all haste, they were too late. Still, the massive Gondorian army was hailed by the surviving men and elves. Eärnur took his troops and traveled East, cleansing the lands of the enemy, the servants of Angmar. Along with Círdan, the commander of the elves of Lindon, they proved to be successful, until at last, the Witch-king made his appearance near Fornost. Eärnur prepared to face his greatest foe, but the sight of the Witch-king, clad all in black, struck fear into the hearts of the horses, and they fled in terror. Even Eärnur's own steed ran from the danger, and it was some time before the Gondorian prince could regain control.

"That would explain the panicked cries of horses in my dream," Erestor said to himself. He read on.

The Witch-King laughed at the situation, finding his defeat much too easy, but his victory was short lived. Charging in from the west came the elves of Rivendell, led by their commander, Glorfindel. The Witch-king, sensing the might of the elf lord, fled in haste. Eärnur had seen him go, and desperately wanted to pursue his enemy, seeking vengeance against the wraith that disgraced him, but Glorfindel stopped him with a warning.

Written in a different hand, was the exact quote from Glorfindel. Erestor did not recognize the penmanship. It might have been written by Eärnur himself, or by his scribe, but the words had been spoken by the elf lord.

"Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."*

Erestor read the rest only to find out that his dream was correct, that Eärnur was eventually lost. When his father, the King, passed on, Eärnur took up the crown of Gondor, but he never forgot about the Witch-king. Twice, the wraith had challenged him. Only once did Eärnur ignore him. The second time, he took the Witch-king up on his offer. Before Eärnur went, though, he left his crown upon the lap of the statue that was the likeness of his father. Eärnur, the childless king, disappeared and was never seen again. The throne of Gondor went to the care of the line of Stewards, and it remained that way even now, waiting for the return on its rightful King.

Erestor gave a quick thought to Aragorn, and the broken sword of his kin. Perhaps soon, the throne would be occupied. Then his attention turned back to Glorfindel as he reread the quote about the Witch-king’s doom. "I hadn't known about Glorfindel's involvement, besides commanding the army from Rivendell. But this,” he said as he ran his finger over the ancient lettering, “It was merely a warning, was it not? Could it have been a prediction as the wraith in my dream had claimed? I've known Glorfindel to be called many things, but never a prophet," Erestor whispered to the emptiness of the library. “Yet, the Witch-king still exists, and all attempts to rid the world of his malice have failed.”
Erestor felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he focused on the words, ‘not by the hand of man will he fall.’ No man had ever been able to extinguish the wraith, and Glorfindel was no man. Was this the mission he had been sent back to Middle-earth to complete? Was Glorfindel the one who would destroy the Witch-king? Perhaps so, or perhaps it was a trap to lure him to the evil black rider’s lair. Erestor’s dream was very vivid, the voice resonated through his mind still.
“With Glorfindel, he can breed an army of orcs stronger than any man,” Erestor recalled. “Dol Guldur … that is where the Witch-king resides. He is going to try to lure Glorfindel to him, capture him, and … and—” Erestor could not finish the sentence. All he wanted to do was to find Fin and warn him. Whatever happened, the elf lord could not go to Dol Guldur.”
Erestor flew from the library in search of Glorfindel. It was late in the night, but he noticed a flicker of light coming from Lord Elrond’s house. The counselor gathered his robes in his hand and ran towards Elrond’s home, hoping that he would find Fin there.

*Lord of the Rings; Appendix A; (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion
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