Golden Vanity ch 1-3
Mar. 22nd, 2005 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyjanelly
Title: Golden Vanity
Series: none
Type: FPS
Chapter: 1/?
Author: LadyJanelly
Email: janellstaylor@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Warnings: Slash, violence, AU
Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.
Beta: Nienna
Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.
Archive: Feel free, just tell me where.
Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.
***********
Author's note: A huge thank-you to Nienna, for making this piece as canon as possible, and for helping me improve the quality of my writing.
*********
He was their golden lord
, a golden lord for the House of the Golden Flower. Beautiful as the dawn he was, and bold as the sunlight glinting off of the keen edge of his sword. Hair the color of autumn wheat spilled down his broad armored shoulders, the warm strands framing a face that none could say was less than fair, and few would say was less than perfect.He was their golden lord, and they loved him, these scattered and frightened refugees of a dying city. They trusted him. With the red glow of Morgoth's forces coming closer, they believed him when he shouted at them to go, to flee. They trusted him, of all elves, to survive whatever would come next around the narrow pass. They trusted him to be victorious.
~~~
Blood seeped down the inside of his armor, wet and hot. The Balrog's sword had not pierced through, but it had mangled the golden protection, and with every move it cut into the flesh of his side. He could feel himself weakening, his sight dimming, the weight of his sword growing, but could not accept that he might not vanquish this creature of darkness.
The great whip cut through the air, pulling back for another strike, trailing black flame in its wake. The smoke and the stench of the creature threatened to choke him, blind him. He could hear no sound save for the roar of the creature, the overwhelming hiss and crackle of its fiery body.
The golden lord's sword flashed up and into the creature's heart. Good steel shattered from the sudden heat, a crack that echoed down the long chasm. The beast staggered, and the whip came down, hotter than campfire or hearth, hotter than the summer sun or the blacksmith's forge. The tip slashed the beautiful face, burning as it passed, so hot that flesh turned to ash at the touch. It burned even into the bone of his cheek and jaw. The flames passed a thumb's length from his right eye.
So sudden was the strike that his mind could not register the pain. As the servant of Morgoth stumbled back, began to tumble from the cliff, all the golden lord knew was that he had been struck, scarred, marred.
The blow to his face was not the worst of his injuries, yet it was the first that he reached to touch. It was the one he was touching when the fiery hand reached out, and as the Balrog fell, it was his last thought before he was pulled over the cliff's edge. And then he was falling, and burning, the creature holding him tight against its chest. He heard his own scream, smelled the burning of his own flesh. The rocks came rushing up at them, and all was blackness, quiet and stillness. There was nothing.
He woke to pain. For long minutes he could only lay there, afraid to even touch his face. He knew not where he was, curled like an infant, naked as the day he was first born. Breath by breath the hurt faded, healing as he lay there. He became aware of the chirping of birds, the cool embrace of the forest.
Trembling fingers reached up, tracing over the scar. It marked him from the outside edge of his right eye, down his cheek and into the muscle and bone of his jaw. This was no shallow wound from a sword point; it was wider than his thumb, slick-feeling and too-smooth. Around that was the burn. Most of that side of his face was dimpled, bubbled, pocked and melted.
The golden lord wept for his loss, curled in upon himself on the forest floor. As he wept, understanding filtered into him, as if in a dream, yet he knew he did not sleep.
The first that he understood was that great time had passed, time in which he should have taken some part, could have accomplished great things. He understood that his vanity, and only that, had been the cause of his fall. Had he reached for the wound at his side, he would have seen the hand that reached for him, the hand that dragged him down.
A sense of duty filled him, and his hand drew away from his scar. He knew without being told where he would be now, at this moment, had he never fallen. He could sense the forces of evil, the weight of it hovering in the air over the horizon, a blight upon his newly reborn spirit. He could feel the pull of his duty, of his oath of service to Turgon, drawing him to that dark place. Without the words to explain his understanding, he knew he would be standing not beside Eärendil, but beside Eärendil's son. At this moment, had he not sacrificed his immortal life for the sake of fleeting vanity, he would be guarding the back of the half-elf as he strode to war against the re-awakened darkness
He fingered the long ugly scar again, and he had no bitterness towards the Valar who had left him with such a mark. It was not a punishment; he understood that, but rather a warning against the re-emergence of his vanity.
"Never again," he vowed to the forest. There was no answer, but he knew he had been heard.
Barefoot, naked and unarmed, he broke into a long loping stride, moving silent through the forest. A vision called to him, a dark-haired elf, with grey eyes and the weight of duty gathered around his shoulders like a cloak. A name whispered into his mind, to call his destination by. That name was Elrond.
For hours he ran, and hours became days. He was an elf in the prime of his conditioning, and the air came easily to his lungs. He came to a place where a path cut the forest, some deer-trail, easy to miss. He followed it for a ways, since it flowed with his own direction. Trampled ground ahead of him slowed his steps for the first time.
Blood splattered the leaves, red and bright. An arrow lay half-covered by dead leaves. The fletching was elven, clean and straight. The tip was broken off, and around the shaft was smeared the black blood of orcs.
His heart pounded wild in his chest at the sight, and he continued down the path, feet moving with swift steps even as bright eyes scanned the floor for tracks. Naked, weaponless, he still could not--would not, allow elves to be attacked without acting on their behalf.
He burst into a clearing, and his heart ached to find that he need not have hurried. Bodies lay scattered around, the fair forms hacked by brutal weapons, their skin torn and bruised. He trembled and covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, then moved to begin tending the bodies of the fallen.
Forgive me, cousin,
he thought as he slipped the armor off of a tall warrior. They were all soldiers, and he imagined they had been quite handsome in their blue and silver livery. He would not leave the valiant fallen naked, but he did find enough clothing in their packs to clothe himself. He took from each a piece of armor for himself to wear, and some small token that their families might use to identify them with. The battle that he saw in his mind would not allow the time to bring the bodies home, so he did the best that he could, for the dead and for the living.With care he arrayed the bodies together atop a mound of dry wood that he gathered, and using the flint and steel of one soldier, he lit their pyre.
They had carried no spare boots, and Glorfindel would not send the dead to Mandos' hall in need of footwear. When he at last departed the scene, dressed, armed, armored, his feet were still bare beneath the edge of his greaves.
Title: Golden Vanity
Series: none
Type: FPS
Chapter: 2/?
Author: LadyJanelly
Email: janellstaylor@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13 (may change in later chapters)
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Warnings: Slash, violence, AU
Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.
Beta: Nienna
Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.
Archive: Please ask
Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.
***********
Author's note: Thanks to Nienna for all the work she has done to keep me as canon as possible. I couldn’t have done it without her. All remaining errors are completely my own.
***********
"To your begetting day," Elrond lifted the tin mug filled with dry white wine towards the roof of the tent in a toast. The words, said for the first time five years ago when young Erestor arrived at Gil-Galad's camp, had become a yearly tradition. Elrond had disbelieved him at first; this too-young elfling with his serious dark eyes. That he had arrived on the very day of his majority to fight against the darkness seemed ridiculous. The youth had brought nothing but a battered old sword, the clothes on his back and a stubbornness that even Elrond found maddening.
"I am needed." The young eyes had been so calm, and determined. "My brother is dead, and my father with him. Their swords have fallen, mine must be taken up."
None of Elrond's arguments had served to sway him, and the young one had insisted that he was no longer a child to be protected, but an adult with a right to defend what he loved.
"If I am turned away from Gil-galad's host, I will find my place among Oropher's, or among the men if I must." And there was no doubt in those words, no sign of an empty boast. He was not threatening, he was only stating the truth of his intentions. In the end Elrond had sent him off to get proper weaponry and armor, a feeling of dread that he was sending an elfling to die or worse against an army without pity or mercy. He had no one to spare for guarding the youth night and day, nor way to send him safely home. At least this way, he knew Erestor was as safe as any other of his warriors, and not less.
Erestor smiled with the lord and returned the gesture. "And to a hasty end to this war, Eru willing." He raised the cup and took a deep sip, coughing at the bite.
Elrond suppressed a chuckle. For all his pride, his maturity and his growing skill on the battlefield, the young one still had difficulty with strong drink and dry wines. He felt an ache of fatherly affection, paired with the regret of not having enough time to watch this one, to help him, to keep him safe and see that he was well. The moments to share a cup of wine each year was all that he could spare.
"You make us all proud, Erestor," Elrond told him. "Go, rejoin your troop. I am sure your fellows will wish to celebrate with you also. I have taken up enough of your special day
Erestor finished his wine and bowed again, then left the half-elf to his piles of papers and maps and plans.
-------------
The elf was sitting on a log in the shadows near Elrond's tent as Erestor was leaving, his face hidden in the hood of his cloak. It struck the young elf as odd, that this one had not chosen the company of his fellows, or the comfort of one of the campfires. He looked closer, puzzled, and disliked what he saw.
Blood spattered the other elf's clothing, and did not look like any effort had been made to clean it. Strands of blonde hair showed at the edges of the hood, marking him as separate from the dark-haired Noldor host.
The warrior sat still, unmoving, his head bowed, fingers laced where they rested at his knees. Erestor's dark eyes followed their course downwards, and blinked when he got to the elf's feet.
Slender feet rested naked against the earth. They were dirty and scratched, and Erestor forgot his plans to celebrate his begetting day with his company-mates in light of this stranger's evident need.
Light footsteps brought him over to the seated elf. "Cousin?" His voice was gentle. The face beneath the hood shifted, but still no light spilled beneath it to show the stranger's face.
"Cousin, where are your boots?" He placed his hand upon the blonde's shoulder.
"Lost." A soft voice replied. "I know not where."
The words had a strange roll to them, an accent that took a moment to place. He frowned, and then realized that it was because the stranger was speaking Sindarin, but as if it was not his first language, as if he had spoken Quenya more often in his life.
How old might one be to speak so?
Erestor wondered. His bright mind gripped onto the puzzle, turning it over, trying to see all sides. How far apart must an elf have lived to still keep the older fashions of speech? Has he come from some distant haven, some place far from war and blood to join this fight? He remembered his own first days, the near-overwhelming chaos of it, the noise and confusion. What would have happened to him, if not for Elrond?
Erestor shook his head. This would not do. With a quick glance down to the stranger's feet to estimate the size, he clasped him on the shoulder again. "Wait here, cousin. I will return with boots for you."
Title: Golden Vanity
Series: none
Type: FPS
Chapter: 3/?
Author: LadyJanelly
Email: janellstaylor@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Warnings: Slash, violence, AU
Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.
Beta: Nienna
Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.
Archive: Please ask
Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.
***********
Author's note: Thanks to Nienna for all of her hard work keeping this fic as canon as possible. I claim full responsibility for all remaining errors.
*********
The taste of blood filled Erestor's mouth, though he could not remember taking a wound there. His shield was gone, and the arm that had carried it broken beneath the elbow. An orc came screaming towards Elrond, and Erestor cut it down with his sword. The light misting rain would not stop, and it made the ground underfoot treacherous. Steam rose from the shoulders of the warriors around him, the heat of their bodies contrasting with the cool of the air.
"Are you afraid, young one?" The warrior had asked him the night before, the blonde who gave his name as Varyar,
Protector."Aye," he had replied, passing over the boots he had managed to talk the supplies officer into giving him. There seemed no reason to lie. He would be a fool to be unafraid, and he was no fool, he was a blooded warrior. Five years of fighting had notched his blades and taught him to be strong. He was afraid but he would not fail.
The stranger pulled the boots onto his feet, and began lacing them tight. "I would not be here if the forces of light were not meant to succeed," Varyar told him, not looking up. "Keep close to Elrond, and fight well."
Erestor's boots slipped in the mud and he almost went to the ground, catching his balance at the last moment. His heart beat a frantic rhythm in his chest. If he fell he would be trampled by friend and foe alike.
A warg snarled and snapped at his face. The spearman at his side stabbed at it, and Erestor slashed at it. The beast's massive jaws closed around the blade of his sword as it died, almost bearing him down to the ground again as it fell.
With a controlled panic rising in his chest, Erestor struggled with the pinned weapon, wincing as steel grated against the monster's teeth. An orc cackled with glee as it rushed in on the unarmed elf. Time slowed for him. He could see the rusty axe rise into the air, droplets of rain sliding from the edge. He knew that his life was finished, that there was nothing he could do, no defense he could make.
The orcish ax began its descent. His fear faded in the face of his life's end. He had mattered. He had done his part. He had no regrets.
And then between himself and the orc appeared a shield, the back of a warrior, long golden hair streaming down his shoulders. Varyar, Erestor thought, as he watched with awe as the elf lopped the head off of the orc. The return strike of that bright blade cleaved the warg's head in half and Erestor's sword came free in his hand.
"Keep you close to Elrond!" That strange accented voice commanded him. The blonde spared him a glance over his armored shoulder. The older elf's face was almost hidden behind the steel of his helmet, and yet eyes as blue as the skies in spring met Erestor's own dark ones.
The world shifted around him. For a heartbeat there was no war, there was no threat, there was no fear.
"Go!" Varyar shouted again, pointing towards where Elrond and the High-King fought against the twisted servants of darkness. The warrior turned then, releasing Erestor from his gaze. The younger elf almost cried out in his distress. With that contact gone he felt somehow lessened, diminished. He felt incomplete.
In a rush the world came back to him, the clash of weapons, the misting rain, the screams of dying foes and allies. He put Elrond to his back and strove with all of his strength to make his lord proud, and to obey the words of the blonde warrior.
----------------
The clash of battle was an unbroken din of chaos around Glorfindel. His arms ached from the weight of sword and shield, but the feeling was as familiar to him as sunlight on his face. He felt a comfort in the exertions of battle, the struggle for survival. It was what he had been born for, it seemed, and reborn for too.
He tried to forget the look on the young warrior's face; Erestor, who had gifted him with much-needed boots. Awe had shone in those dark eyes, and it frightened him. Was it vanity that convinced him that he could save more than Elrond, that he should even try? Was it vanity that caused his heart to tremble at the look of adoration in the young Erestor's eyes?
He felt his fighting style changing. It was no less effective, but he chose not to add the artistic flourishes that the Glorfindel who fell at Gondolin would have used. He became sharp, clean. Not a movement wasted, not a gesture added for those who might see him fight.
He closed his mind and his heart to everything except for protecting the son of Eärendil.
He lost himself in the dance of thrust and parry. He would not be known as the hero of this battle. He would not be the shining lord nor the golden flower.Vanity would not be his downfall again.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-03-23 05:08 am (UTC)Btw, I friended you.
Keiliss.
no subject
Date: 2016-11-01 04:57 pm (UTC)In all seriousness, this fic is so nice and I really, really enjoyed it. This is the song I was talking about: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhhZdune_5Q