Fic: "Loving in death - 1 ¤Glorfidel/Erestor, ¤PG-13 ¤Romance. A little sad, if you squint. Poetic?
Title: Loving in death - part 1.
Author: Nemesi.
Genre: Romance.
Couple: Erestor/Glorfindel.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1514.
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, its characters, places and themes do not belong to me, no matter how much I may wish. All the characters here portrayed are creations of J.R.R. Tolkien.
Warning: Un-betaed.
Summary: For him, Death was nothing but the prelude to Love.
Author’s Notes: I started this… so long ago I don’t remember. I dropped it because of too many reasons to count, and then misplaced it during the three (or was it four?) rush-to-get-the-technician-quickly-move-all-files-in-temporary-locations accidents. It was originally meant to be a 4-part story. I’ve written only 2, the first of which I’m posting now. I’ll release the second one next week, and then… I’m not sure. I think I’ll give the story up for adoption. Whoever will tackle the “challenge” and post his or her own ending to the tale, shall get a badge of sorts, to put on their LJ/forums/posts/mails, etc.
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We are - every single one of us - born for a purpose. A destiny, if you will, wrought within the Song; wrought in brilliant Silver and Blood.
Glorfindel, he of the House of the Golden Flower, whose great deeds have been painted, written, made into songs and carved into stone, had a great destiny, indeed. He was, in all truth, born to die. Yet, for him, Death was nothing but the prelude to Love.
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The Elves, when through steel or grief depart this life, go all - the good and bad and in-between - to the Halls of Mandos, where Námo is Lord and Vairë gentle Lady. Their dome, that always grows as the Ages come and go, rests on Valinor’s western shores, staring across the Encircling Sea. There are no windows in that Fortress of gloom save for two, set like eyes of crimson and black high on the tallest tower. No doors exist either, so that no disturbance ever comes from the external space.
And yet - unreasonable as it may sound - the chambers and corridors all are awash with a warm, gentle glow, not unlike that of the moon reflected on a blade, or the glimmer of pearl seen through clear waters. Feeble flames hang mid-air, and like fairies they swirl and dance and all around flow. Golden braziers, censers and elegantly sculpted candelabras abound in the corners, the flames they carry cold, sweet-scented and blue; the eye, however, struggles in vain to see through the deep, restless shadow that form the ceiling, a ever-moving cloud the colour of ash.
From the walls, of unthinkable height, hang phantasmagorical tapestries of deep blue and black and mithril, that depict the events of Arda as they unfold. These tapestries flutter always, as thought moved by the breath of a huge beast; and if one were to lean closer, they would hear dulcet whisper come from within, the muted noise of the scene the tapestry depicts.
In Halls such as these - excessively high, melancholy and filled with a gentle, if not poetic sense of loss and pain- Glorfindel had expect to live - if a life the dead do have- in peace and quiet and endless brooding. But he has found, soon enough and with great delight, that it was not to be so. He has found something, but a fortnight past his ghastly arrival, that has filled his silence with laughter, his soul with light and his days with joy.
You must know now that Glorfindel, adventurous as he was in life, has become even more so in death. Unlike other souls - who rarely leave the rooms in which they dwell - he takes delight in exploring each intricate passage and gloomy room, and in studying whatever item he may come across.
The Halls, I have already said, are dark and light at the same time, and have neither gates to block the way, nor windows to show the outside. So, it was, that in his solitary wanderings, amid bare statues and dark tapestries, up winding staircases and under elaborately chiselled archways, he came to a room that only few knew of, and fewer still dared to come into. It was not an altogether forbidden place to be, but the air streaming from the open door like rare perfume was holy, somehow; holier than the rest of the fortress, and many felt so humbled and deeply moved by it not to dare step inside the room. Yet, it was that very temple-like aura spilling from the arched door, that compelled Glorfindel to enter.
When with trepidation he stepped inside, he found that the room, circular in shape, was very large, and crowned by a huge fountain sprouting not water, but snowflakes and sprinkles of glass. The walls there were not so high, as in the rest of the dome, and met in a delicately carved ceiling. High mirrors hung all around, bearing ever changing scenes from Arda whole, past, present, and yet to come. The air was scented like dew, grass and water-lilies, of all that is fresh and good. In that place, sitting in silence, was a thing of art. Erestor was his name.
Glorfindel, though not one of easily roused passions, or of romantic temper indeed, felt at the same time hot and cold, faint and extremely refreshed; he stared, he trembled, he prayed, he bit his lip, he was made motionless; he felt the prickle of tears in his eyes and laughter trembled across his tongue, as his senses all were overwhelmed. The figure, the swan-like neck, the slender hands and the delicate features, the pearl-shine of the skin, the exquisite perfume of the raven-black hair, the eyes which looked as if they had been stolen from the depthless night sky… every detail, even the smallest, of the beautiful creature sitting before him was instantly and forever burned in his mind and heart. And when the ebony head was lifted, and then sideways tilted, and bud, rose-red lips parted to let a sweet low voice spill forth and enquire:
“Who art thou?”,
Glorfindel of the Golden Flower fell in love.
From that moment forth, it is easy to guess what happened: Glorfindel began to court beautiful Erestor with admirable zeal (it is not easy, you realize, to woo someone in a place where there is no sun, no moon, nor flowers, where it is unthinkable to dine or dance or raise your voice in song), until, shortly and very sweetly, Erestor cleaved to him and became his lover, in every sense of the word but the physical.
In the Halls - the Realm of Quiet and Shadow, where only the soul can dwell and the flesh is but a dream - the two lovers cannot - as much as they may desire to - come together in body. Only ghostly kisses and even ghostlier touches are permitted to their spiritual forms, and even if Erestor yields eagerly to the latter, he is adamant not to let the former ever take place.
Sometimes it happens that, drunk on love, Glorfindel puts his mouth close to that of Erestor, and breathing deeply of his sweet breath, almost leans for a full kiss. But then Erestor’s lips - his beautiful lips - begin to quiver, and then his shoulders, and then his hands, until his slender frame is all set a-quake. The pallor of his countenance tinges with the grey of illness, and a bitter pain tinges his wide pleading eyes. Cool fingers he places upon Glorfindel’s lips to push him afar, and soundlessly he bids him stop.
“Thou hast my heart; but alas! Thy mouth mine own shall never know!” he whispers, pained and low, and Glorfindel cannot find it in himself to protest or fight, and simply bows to his love’s resolve.
How great must then be their grief, I hear you cry. Banned from touching and kissing, not alive, but loving in death! What grief! What grief!
But worry not: their love is great indeed. So great that for the lovers what little they have is an adequate amount. With hands clasped and heads bent close they go about, a most lovely sight for those who dwell in the silent dome. And in their enamoured eyes the Halls are not mournful in either feel or form anymore, but look like a mysterious garden of delight, whose beauty is dark and sombre and yet so bright. The pillars of spectral and awry shapes now look to them lithe and graceful in a fantastic way. The air seems sweeter to their nose, and fresh; and the gloomy flames that swarm to and fro in the chambers all, are by them mistaken with butterflies of rare size.
Have I spoken of the beauty of Erestor? It is that of a clear night reflected with all its stars in a pool of silver- bright and dark, all at once. And while his forms are flawless like those of a statue, his grace is that of the silver lily. Most souls that inhabit the Halls are naked, or sometimes folded in pallid, almost threadbare replica of what they wore when they breathed their last - Glorfindel himself wears a mantle broidered in threads of yellow, and his arms are damasked with pale, pale gold. But Erestor’s robes are rich in colour and flowing; they whisper and murmur as he walks, and wrap and mould around his slender form like gentle foam. A beautiful midnight blue velvet they are made of, these robes, and broidered in moonlight silver; of silver are the wide sleeves, also, and silvery is the exquisite antique lace around the neck. There are no jewels on his figure - bare is the white line of his neck, and so are his wrists and graceful feet. But a star shines white on his brow, blinding to look at.
A creature soft and cold as snow he is, but with immense learning and a gentle soul, and filled with a kindling, if sometimes wistful love for life. He shines, in a place where all shine; and is darkest than the dark, in a place where all is dark.