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keilissTitle: To Life
Characters: Erestor, Gildor
Rating: PG-13
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
red_lasbelin
Website: Braided Light
Summery: finding the way home.
Six month old drabble challenge lives. This is forminuial_nuwing, who requested ‘Erestor’. Ficlet. I said drabble and Erestor laughed at me.
Inspired by Min's Old Friends and an RP backstory, though I don’t pretend to even begin to do justice to her wonderful Gildor.
The fires burnt low, their soft sputtering at one with the low murmur of conversation. The quiet was only broken by the occasional crack of a falling log accompanied by showers of sparks, and voices raised in laughter or snatches of song. Around the clearing leaves rustled in a contented manner; elves were always welcomed by the world’s growing things and the trees seemed to be taking pleasure from the unexpected company.
Erestor leaned back against rough bark, an earthenware cup in his hand, and let the ebb and flow of voices wash over him on the cool air. The fires, the people, the clearing itself with leaves and branches sharp-outlined against the sky, seemed like a painting. Only the grass, cold and springy under his hand, felt tangible and real. His body was warm at last for what seemed the first time in years, ages. Gildor had pushed a cup of brandy into his hand as soon as he was seated at the fire, following it with a plate of rich stew which he even enjoyed once the first few spoons had struggled down. Slowly, mouthful by mouthful, the chill had retreated.
Gildor treated Erestor’s sudden appearance at the camp as a normal event, one he was pleased with but not surprised by. Not normally garrulous, he kept up a steady stream of conversation while Erestor ate. Seeming to need no more encouragement than an occasional nod or expression of curiosity, he moved easily from one topic to the next. For the most part he spoke of ordinary things: gossip, political guesswork, rumours, whispers gleaned from men, dwarves, whoever else the wanderers had encountered in the past months.
Only once did he imply he knew this visit was by no means casual. At the end of an unlikely tale involving an inn, the inn-keeper’s daughter and a pail of water, he reached over to close his hand lightly about Erestor’s wrist. The laughter faded from his voice and his eyes were serious as he said, “Too thin, my friend. Never forget that when you need to talk, I will always have time to listen.”
Did he need to talk? Could he? Erestor had no idea. What was there to say? That the days had grown greyer, one blending into another? That purpose had ceased to have meaning, that the healing time he had given himself had turned in on itself, that every night seemed to bring back images of other times and places, of laughter, of love, of what might have been? That living had no point, and that he had recently walked too close to life’s alternative on a dark, drunken night at Eagle’s Point. The memory was hazy, dreamlike now, but before passing out he had determined to wait for the sun, then let air and water take him. End the pain.
Waking in the grey predawn cold, he had taken a brutally honest look at a life spiraling out of control, thrown the almost empty jar of dwarf brew off the cliff and headed back inland, one foot following the other, asking along the road for news of Gildor Inglorion, whose group of wanderers was the closest he now had to home or family.
Looking back, he hardly knew where or when this had become fact. He and Gildor had been friends since the dark days on Balar, dark days that in retrospect had still been infinitely brighter than now. They had faced an unbeatable foe back then, had survived a war that was beyond description to anyone who had not seen mountains thrown down and dragons fighting the ship of light. And then there had been peace, and rebuilding. And love. And then war again. And again. And finally there had been fire and blood and ash on a mountainside, dreams vanished in a flare of shimmering white heat…
Gildor had gone back to his old life after that, following the sun’s seasons, while he had set out to see the world, crossing Eriador and what remained of Eregion, going as far south as the realms along Belfalas and north to where the snow lay close all year round. Sometimes their paths would cross and he would travel with Gildor and his people, sometimes he joined other wanderers who also owed the golden-haired Exile willing, if loose, allegiance.
At times he stopped a while in Imladris and accepted Elrond’s always-generous hospitality, but between them lay the memory of the mountain and the searing light and the fallen star, the mention of whose name twisted his soul. When he could no longer sleep at night, he took to the road again.
The centuries turned, the stars held to their pattern. There were orcs and they had died. There were mercenaries without masters, and they too had died. He was sometimes startled by how adept his sword arm had become. Perhaps that was because it no longer mattered. Maglor had said that once. They had met along the road and walked together for a handful of years, before the south called Fëanor’s surviving son and they had parted ways – whether for a time or forever, neither could say. It still intrigued Erestor that he had shared sleeping space and trapped hares with the man who by blood was rightly his king.
Maglor had asked him very few questions; he understood grief. Gildor asked none at all, Gildor knew. That was why he was here, because Gildor knew and because there was always a space for him at his fire. Whenever he journeyed with them, the wanderers would close around him like family, until he was rested and needed aloneness again, until he remembered he had no family, no place he belonged. Until the shell around his heart thinned to brittleness and he knew he had to go before it shattered and he started to care again, belong again, feel again.
But if he could not care, could not feel, what was the point? The question crept up like something small and fragile that needed to whisper in his ear rather than speak its doubts aloud. If he could not care, could not feel, what kept him from a more successful repeat of the night on Eagle’s Point and oblivion, for oblivion it would be, Lord Námo would countenance no reprieve from so willful an act…
He saw Gildor coming towards him through the dimly lit campsite, soundless as an owl, carrying a bundle under his arm. Someone rose out of shadow and he stopped to exchange a few words which ended in laughter and a quick clasp to a shoulder. Erestor watched him idly, sipping the brandy. He had an idea this was the fourth or fifth cup, more than was wise, and his head would throb come morning. Gildor turned and firelight flared briefly, striking gold from his hair, and the thought that had been growing in Erestor’s mind finally reached its full form.
Reaching him Gildor dropped the bundle on the ground near the fire. “Begged an extra blanket and a fur for you. You’ll not feel the cold at the moment, but you will once the brandy’s worn off.” He was grinning as he said it though. “Speaking of which, ready for another?”
Erestor considered. “You can top it up, yes,” he said holding out his cup. “It’s doing its work.”
Gildor brought the jug over and poured. Before he could move away, Erestor stopped him with a hand to his arm. “A favour?” he asked quietly.
Eyes so blue that even the night could not fully leach their colour looked down at him. “Of course. Name it, it’s yours.”
“Could I stay here a while? Longer than usual, I mean. I – think I might have been too long on my own.” Even now he was not quite ready to admit he was in trouble.
Gildor studied his face and then smiled gravely, looking exactly what he was, the son of a line of princes. “I’ve told you before, you can stay with me – with us – for as long as you need. There is always place for you where I am. Though,” he added, eyes twinkling, “possibly not always quite this much brandy.”
The final knot of tension eased and Erestor raised his cup with the beginnings of a smile. "Then we'd best make the most of this while we can," he said. "To life, I think. And to living it."
Characters: Erestor, Gildor
Rating: PG-13
Beta:
red_lasbelinWebsite: Braided Light
Summery: finding the way home.
Six month old drabble challenge lives. This is for
minuial_nuwing, who requested ‘Erestor’. Ficlet. I said drabble and Erestor laughed at me.Inspired by Min's Old Friends and an RP backstory, though I don’t pretend to even begin to do justice to her wonderful Gildor.
To Life
The fires burnt low, their soft sputtering at one with the low murmur of conversation. The quiet was only broken by the occasional crack of a falling log accompanied by showers of sparks, and voices raised in laughter or snatches of song. Around the clearing leaves rustled in a contented manner; elves were always welcomed by the world’s growing things and the trees seemed to be taking pleasure from the unexpected company.
Erestor leaned back against rough bark, an earthenware cup in his hand, and let the ebb and flow of voices wash over him on the cool air. The fires, the people, the clearing itself with leaves and branches sharp-outlined against the sky, seemed like a painting. Only the grass, cold and springy under his hand, felt tangible and real. His body was warm at last for what seemed the first time in years, ages. Gildor had pushed a cup of brandy into his hand as soon as he was seated at the fire, following it with a plate of rich stew which he even enjoyed once the first few spoons had struggled down. Slowly, mouthful by mouthful, the chill had retreated.
Gildor treated Erestor’s sudden appearance at the camp as a normal event, one he was pleased with but not surprised by. Not normally garrulous, he kept up a steady stream of conversation while Erestor ate. Seeming to need no more encouragement than an occasional nod or expression of curiosity, he moved easily from one topic to the next. For the most part he spoke of ordinary things: gossip, political guesswork, rumours, whispers gleaned from men, dwarves, whoever else the wanderers had encountered in the past months.
Only once did he imply he knew this visit was by no means casual. At the end of an unlikely tale involving an inn, the inn-keeper’s daughter and a pail of water, he reached over to close his hand lightly about Erestor’s wrist. The laughter faded from his voice and his eyes were serious as he said, “Too thin, my friend. Never forget that when you need to talk, I will always have time to listen.”
Did he need to talk? Could he? Erestor had no idea. What was there to say? That the days had grown greyer, one blending into another? That purpose had ceased to have meaning, that the healing time he had given himself had turned in on itself, that every night seemed to bring back images of other times and places, of laughter, of love, of what might have been? That living had no point, and that he had recently walked too close to life’s alternative on a dark, drunken night at Eagle’s Point. The memory was hazy, dreamlike now, but before passing out he had determined to wait for the sun, then let air and water take him. End the pain.
Waking in the grey predawn cold, he had taken a brutally honest look at a life spiraling out of control, thrown the almost empty jar of dwarf brew off the cliff and headed back inland, one foot following the other, asking along the road for news of Gildor Inglorion, whose group of wanderers was the closest he now had to home or family.
Looking back, he hardly knew where or when this had become fact. He and Gildor had been friends since the dark days on Balar, dark days that in retrospect had still been infinitely brighter than now. They had faced an unbeatable foe back then, had survived a war that was beyond description to anyone who had not seen mountains thrown down and dragons fighting the ship of light. And then there had been peace, and rebuilding. And love. And then war again. And again. And finally there had been fire and blood and ash on a mountainside, dreams vanished in a flare of shimmering white heat…
Gildor had gone back to his old life after that, following the sun’s seasons, while he had set out to see the world, crossing Eriador and what remained of Eregion, going as far south as the realms along Belfalas and north to where the snow lay close all year round. Sometimes their paths would cross and he would travel with Gildor and his people, sometimes he joined other wanderers who also owed the golden-haired Exile willing, if loose, allegiance.
At times he stopped a while in Imladris and accepted Elrond’s always-generous hospitality, but between them lay the memory of the mountain and the searing light and the fallen star, the mention of whose name twisted his soul. When he could no longer sleep at night, he took to the road again.
The centuries turned, the stars held to their pattern. There were orcs and they had died. There were mercenaries without masters, and they too had died. He was sometimes startled by how adept his sword arm had become. Perhaps that was because it no longer mattered. Maglor had said that once. They had met along the road and walked together for a handful of years, before the south called Fëanor’s surviving son and they had parted ways – whether for a time or forever, neither could say. It still intrigued Erestor that he had shared sleeping space and trapped hares with the man who by blood was rightly his king.
Maglor had asked him very few questions; he understood grief. Gildor asked none at all, Gildor knew. That was why he was here, because Gildor knew and because there was always a space for him at his fire. Whenever he journeyed with them, the wanderers would close around him like family, until he was rested and needed aloneness again, until he remembered he had no family, no place he belonged. Until the shell around his heart thinned to brittleness and he knew he had to go before it shattered and he started to care again, belong again, feel again.
But if he could not care, could not feel, what was the point? The question crept up like something small and fragile that needed to whisper in his ear rather than speak its doubts aloud. If he could not care, could not feel, what kept him from a more successful repeat of the night on Eagle’s Point and oblivion, for oblivion it would be, Lord Námo would countenance no reprieve from so willful an act…
He saw Gildor coming towards him through the dimly lit campsite, soundless as an owl, carrying a bundle under his arm. Someone rose out of shadow and he stopped to exchange a few words which ended in laughter and a quick clasp to a shoulder. Erestor watched him idly, sipping the brandy. He had an idea this was the fourth or fifth cup, more than was wise, and his head would throb come morning. Gildor turned and firelight flared briefly, striking gold from his hair, and the thought that had been growing in Erestor’s mind finally reached its full form.
Reaching him Gildor dropped the bundle on the ground near the fire. “Begged an extra blanket and a fur for you. You’ll not feel the cold at the moment, but you will once the brandy’s worn off.” He was grinning as he said it though. “Speaking of which, ready for another?”
Erestor considered. “You can top it up, yes,” he said holding out his cup. “It’s doing its work.”
Gildor brought the jug over and poured. Before he could move away, Erestor stopped him with a hand to his arm. “A favour?” he asked quietly.
Eyes so blue that even the night could not fully leach their colour looked down at him. “Of course. Name it, it’s yours.”
“Could I stay here a while? Longer than usual, I mean. I – think I might have been too long on my own.” Even now he was not quite ready to admit he was in trouble.
Gildor studied his face and then smiled gravely, looking exactly what he was, the son of a line of princes. “I’ve told you before, you can stay with me – with us – for as long as you need. There is always place for you where I am. Though,” he added, eyes twinkling, “possibly not always quite this much brandy.”
The final knot of tension eased and Erestor raised his cup with the beginnings of a smile. "Then we'd best make the most of this while we can," he said. "To life, I think. And to living it."
no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 21:19 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 21:45 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 23:04 (UTC)I can see that as Finrod, yes. He looks like someone who would be curious about everything and everyone.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 23:46 (UTC)He does resemble my own Findaráto also, who is maybe a little more relaxed than canon Finrod might strike most people.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-25 20:43 (UTC)I'll have to read it a couple hundred times more before I can comment coherently, I'm afraid. Thank you so very, very much.
**loves bunches and bunches**
no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 21:36 (UTC)I admit I was worried about trying to show Gildor, even through Erestor's eyes, and am very relieved you're happy with it. Because I loved Old Friends and because their story is so special, I really wanted to do something that would feel right for you..
*loves*
no subject
Date: 2010-08-26 00:45 (UTC)*hugs*
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Date: 2010-08-27 21:57 (UTC)*hugs you*
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Date: 2010-08-26 02:51 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 22:00 (UTC)*hugs you*
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Date: 2010-08-26 02:56 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 22:02 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-26 03:16 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 22:04 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-26 09:53 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 22:17 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-26 14:21 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 22:36 (UTC)*hugs*
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Date: 2010-08-30 00:50 (UTC)*hugs*
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Date: 2010-08-30 15:35 (UTC)*hugs*
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Date: 2010-10-12 11:54 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-13 02:30 (UTC)*hugs tight*