Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

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Dark Stone

Erestor, left to his own devices

Erestor woke up on fire. He stared at the ceiling, watching the flame lick away at the stone. The stone scorched black, then crumbled, melting onto his face. Still he could not move. His body was a weight in the bed—but the bed was also aflame. The wood breaking as it turned to charcoal, Erestor himself sinking deeper and deeper into the ground. The stone underneath him was melting too. Soon he would be nothing, nothing at all. The balrogs would cut him to pieces with their whips, then march on to Imladris. Elrohir and Elladan—where were they? Galadriel and Mithrandir were alive still, holding onto their rings. Círdan was far off at the coast. Maybe his ships had burned too? Celebrían was across the sea, waiting for her children, her husband. Elrond would come soon. No—wait, he had gone already. His fëa snapped under Vilya's weight. A three-part braid of protection broken by one strand snapped. Imladris was being overrun, Imladris was burning—all those years of history gone and dead. Maglor sung of the First Age on the shore, but never returned to learn of the Second and Third. It mattered little, now. Erestor was dead too. He had been dead.

But no, he was aflame. He was aflame? Erestor found himself standing, no longer sinking into the ground. His limbs felt shaky and uncertain, but he was alive. His hands were limp and unmoving. Perhaps he was Ecthelioni reborn—but this was no Aman, and were things not supposed to be perfect there? Erestor stumbled to the door quickly. Where was his sword? Finrod had killed werewolves with his teeth. Maglor with song. Erestor had none of the courage of old heroes and legends, but he would do what he could. There must be survivors in Imladris; the castle was intact! The stone had been burned so much it turned a different color. It was no matter. Erestor pushed his way into the hall and realized he was wearing something tattered and shapeless. He fastened it around his loose, useless arms. They would not be damaged that way.

The corridor was lit by more flame, this time contained in sconces instead of loose in the tapestries. The entire building seemed to hold a chill—perhaps a new tactic of the Enemy? He was called king of the north in some old poems. Young Thranduil had dealt with the Necromancer in his wood as well. Of course, it was Þaurond as well. Legolas described the way in which the spawn of Ungoliant had been altered by his strange experiments. Perhaps this was an extension of that? Erestor peered down a corner. Deserted.

Someone could have been hiding in the shadows, however. Erestor swiftly checked for signs of life, throwing a small trinket to test if something was in wait. Nothing. He stuck close to the wall and found a window. He was far above the ground—he needed to find a staircase. The fire he thought was behind him was actually approaching swiftly. Erestor grit his teeth. His lack of hands was not helping. If Elrond were here—but he was not. Elrond was dead. Erestor couldn't stop a wounded noise from escaping him, as silent as he had to be. The Enemy was upon him. The stairs were not too far, and Erestor stumbled down them without cracking his head. There were guards in the main courtyard, but he was sneaky. Erestor was always good at hiding. This time it was more serious than a young Arwen roping him into one of her games.

He found himself outside the wall between one blink and the next. There were stables—or, no, wait. It was a few horses tied to a tree. Poor things, they must be cold. But no, they were shaggy. They would come alight easily. Erestor approached one carefully, though he had no treats to ply it with. Suddenly a shadow fell upon him, and he fell back, straining to get away. It was the Rider. He of shadow and darkness who blocked out the stars like a great black moon.

"Bā,"ii he cried, the ancient word coming from his lips so easily. "áva!" He did not know why he spoke it, only that primal fear could tell him. Fear rarely listened. The Rider gave pause and inhaled sharply.

"It is alright, friend, it is only me," it said in that terrible low voice. It crooned like a parent comforting its child, and yet Erestor could practically taste the blood on its hands. Was he shackled? His feet felt heavy. The iron burned. The Rider had liked to keep the chains bitterly cold. "You are safe here. We are in Himring."

Finding his voice, Erestor laughed bitterly. Proper Quenya came to his lips at last. "Begone, deceiver. You shall not have me today, nor ever."

The Rider was speechless. Good.

"I have cut the throat of your worst beasts with the brittle iron you abuse in the mines. You cannot hold me. I would rather die than bend to your whims, Melkor. Begone!"

The Rider found his courage. He dismounted and held his hands out to his side, a motion Elrond had made more than once to those under his care. It was meant to show that he was unarmed. The Rider had a sword strapped to his side—but no. Wait. Melkor had never been that short. He preferred to tower over all others. Certainly this Elda was tall, but he did not tower. And his hair—Melkor's hair was blinding white like bones bleached in the sun. This hair was shorter and darker. Red. Though Erestor conceded it could be red from blood. Perhaps that was why Melkor chose that shade—it was so easily stained. But no, it seemed to be a natural red, as uncommon as the color was. And Erestor was cold, not burning.

He remembered now—his hands had been burned fighting the Balrog outside of Imladris. He inhaled slowly, tasting the crisp air instead of smoke and blood. The sun was setting. The horses near him stood alert, but calm; the rider in front of him was certainly no Enemy, but instead Lord Maedhros of Himring. With little else to do, Erestor fell back on his manners and bowed.

"Good evening, my Lord. I was..." Erestor looked askance. By the time Elrond was an adult, he had created the vocabulary to describe these sorts of battle-flashes. There were few of his age that had not gone through some horrible experience or another, but not very many had dedicated themselves to the study of it. Erestor did not have them often. He hoped. Elrond would have him name the things he saw in truth, and not in mind. Erestor himself had led the exercise for some of the lighter cases Elrond brought in. If this was truly the First Age, Maedhros would probably think he was mad. Erestor exhaled through his nose instead of sighing like he wished to. "I was indisposed for a moment. I have returned to my senses."

"Does this occur often?" Maedhros said cautiously. Now that Erestor was not lost in his senses, he saw just how tired Maedhros looked. Erestor would have guessed that Maedhros always looked tired.

"You do not have to worry yourself with me, my Lord. I have learned to deal with it in my own way." Well, more of Elrond's way, but Erestor had no idea how to explain the existence of fëa-healing when the person who created it was not yet born. He was loathe to take Elrond's credit in any way, however. "A friend of mine has healed many hurts in this fashion, and though they may not go away, they may be ameliorated."

"Curious," Maedhros said. It was not an idle statement: he truly looked interested. Erestor hoped not interested enough to pursue Elrond. Not that he would find him. Elrond was dead. Elrond had not been born. Erestor closed his eyes and took one slow, complete breath.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord. I shall return to the fortress. I do not wish to interrupt your leisure," Erestor said. Maedhros nodded, so Erestor took his leave with a bow. As he walked he undid however he had tangled up his arms. He huffed in annoyance. Luckily, a guard was watching the whole exchange and let Erestor in without fuss.

Maedhros watched until Erestor was inside before riding off over the snow.

Left to his own devices, Erestor found he hadn't been barred from anywhere in the fortress—or at least he had not asked if he was. Tinwerúmë didn't come looking for him, and the various peoples of the castle didn't blink an eye at his surely terrible manner of dress. Erestor wore the same jewelry he always did in simple silver colors, but the fact that he could not tell what metal it was spoke to just how far he was from most of Noldor culture. The Teleri had their nacre and shells, the Sindar their flowers and fruits, and the Noldor their metals and gems. Erestor had picked up a mixture of fashions over the years, but did not commit to any one group. It was easier to discard the trappings that did not suit the moment, changing with the times and the location to avoid conflict. The eyes of others glazed over what was familiar in any case. On the extremely rare occasion that he met a fellow Avar, it was a descendant, for indeed none of the Avari had ever called themselves that until they met the Laiquendi and Sindar to the west. To those with the light of the trees in their eyes, it was impossible to tell one Moriquendi from another. Erestor did not know if the Úmanyar truly knew an Avar from their own, but he had never been called as one by one who he did not tell himself.iii

The descendants of the Avari had mostly integrated back into the Úmanyar of Beleriand. It was rare anyone would choose to call themselves Avari, especially those who may not agree with their ancestor's choices. Indeed, all was not as it seemed with the Avari. Why should it only be the brave and bold who are rewarded? Should the powerful not protect the weak? And was boldness not yet another form of weakness? Only one of the peoples of the Quendi had a Doom everlasting placed upon them, and it was not the Avari. The fact that they were called Avari in the first place when indeed not all of them had refused—

Erestor's breath hitched. That was not important. Not here, not now. The now was strange as well, Erestor thought. For if he had died, he had not heard Mandos' call. There were theories posited in Imladris that even an Avar could hear the call of Mandos and come to his Halls, but that many had refused it not knowing what it was. Of course, nobody in Imladris had met an Avari who had re-emerged in Aman. When Lord Glorfindel had come back, he had no knowledge of the subject. Glorfindel had very little time from his embodiment to his trip back across the sea. Glorfindel himself did not seem offended by this, but it was one more point that Elrond took umbrage with the Valar over. One of Erestor's greatest pleasures was when Elrond's questioning made people look as though they had swallowed a frog. Erestor would do it himself, but Master Erestor of Imladris was far too respectable. He was also not heir to every noble line the Eldar had.

The princes Erestor had met were odd already. Elrond was a dear friend to him, of course. Legolas was young and brave, open-minded enough to have dwarvish braids in his hair. Thranduil was himself, fair to his own people, but Erestor sensed that some part of Thranduil was stuck always watching dragonfire. In the First Age, he had seen Thingol briefly when he had snuck into a group of refugees begging entry to Doriath. The Second Age brought him to the service of Gil-Galad, and then aide-de-camp to Elrond through some twist of Vairë's thread. Naturally Elrond was his favorite. And now Erestor must deal with Elrond's foster father and his brother.

Elrond had become more and more tight-lipped about the events in his life as he aged. In those younger years, Erestor would catch him telling an occasional anecdote about his younger years. He was defiant in his love for Maglor, the father who chose him. Erestor wondered if the constant scraping of the anger towards all Kinslayers had worn his outspokenness to nothing; or if Elrond had simply become more cunning in the application of his ancestry. Fëanorion stars decorated every part of Imladris for whose who knew what the symbol meant.

Curiously, Himring had relatively few of them. The fortress itself was nearly bare of all decoration, save dark red tapestries and cleverly-wrought sconces. The speckled stone was cut with precision. Some was carved cleverly into subtle designs. None of it contained the star. Maedhros was the one who had this fortress built. Erestor wondered what that said about his pride in his father. The guards and workers of the castle displayed their stars proudly in jewelry and on breastplates and tunics. Indeed it was emblazoned on the spare garment Erestor was given. Maglor wore it in every layer of his clothing when he had come to visit a few days ago.

That visit had been odd in and of itself. Erestor was reminded of the youth of the elves coming back from Aman. It was not in age, for may of them were full grown when they came to Middle Earth; in spirit they were young and untested by the Enemy save the Darkening. Those of Middle Earth had lived in the dark longer than any who had been to Aman. It was a darkness made worse by the Enemy's stirrings, however, and all suffered under his baleful eye. To call any Noldor untested would be untrue. To say they were prepared would be false. The Dagor Bragollach—and Erestor was still not over that—was destructive in mind and spirit. Maglor was testament to that. Erestor had found that it was the winter when Fingolfin died, and nearly spring. A full year since the Bragollach. That Maglor was in the state he was in...

Well. It did not bode well for the rest of the First Age. Not that the First Age went well in any respect.

Erestor could not say whether the rest of the Fëanorions of Himring were faring better or worse. Many of them were as grim and cold as their fortress. Of course, they still were decked in jewelry. They couldn't be Noldor if they weren't. The few jokes Erestor had heard in his wanderings were dark, and had him laughing even when he didn't mean to. Few would talk about any Vala that way, let alone Melkor. If someone noticed his presence, their words dried up like a diverted stream. A shame, really.

The fortress was laid out intelligently and Erestor did not have to ask for directions, even if sometimes he had to wait for someone to come by and open a door. It was frustrating. He was determined not to feel awkward about it, waiting patiently until someone took pity on him. He was sure the staff had plenty of things to do other than hold doors for an invalid. Erestor sighed sharply, staring at a door as if it could receive osanwë. As much as he would like to continue his exploration, the ache in his hands and head was pulsing with every heartbeat. He hadn't eaten yet today either, his body sleeping the day away without his consent. He felt it strongly now, not in his stomach but in the weakness of his limbs. Untethered. he leaned against the wall, instinctively trying to cross his arms but stopping. Even now, nearly a week and a half after his collapse, they were tender and sore. They had healed just enough for him to feel the full breadth of pain. Of course his hands were still numb—the nerves were burned away.

Erestor composed himself as quietly as he could. They would heal. He just needed time. They would heal. Tinwerúmë had said so. Not completely, of course, but one day he may be able to cross his arms again. He pursed his lips. Were his goals truly so shallow now?

He looked up sharply at the sound of someone approaching. He would finally be able to enter the hall to his temporary chambers. The footsteps were weighted with the distinct sound of riding armor. One of the remnants of countless cavalry soldiers. The nís herself had skin darker than night, and her long braided tresses were wound through with white ribbons that caught the firelight as if they were flame themselves. Treelight shone in her brown eyes. She did not precisely freeze when she saw him, but a stillness came over her. A practiced motion that hid her true emotion.

"You are... Erestor?" She asked, recognizing him in some way. The sharp look on her face was softened the moment she opened her mouth. It seemed she had the same problem as Erestor; looking quite angry when they were not. At his nod, she continued. "I am Nieninquë, captain of the guard at Himring."

"Well met, my Lady. Though I know not if you have met me in person or by ear."

At that, Erestor saw the first expression on her face. She smiled in some small amusement at being called 'Lady.' It seemed many Fëanorions cared not for those titles. Nieninquë shook her head freely. "Though there are some rumors of your arrival, I was indeed there when Lord Maedhros brought you in from the cold. I am relieved to see that you have not passed. I am sure our healers have impressed upon you the terrible condition you were in when they saw you."

"Indeed they have, though I have only seen the one since my awakening. Tinwerúmë is a fine young Eldaiv."

"Mm. They're farther along than I thought," she mused, elaborating with a glance. "Tinwerúmë is apprenticed to Master Brógano, who is chief among our physicians. He must be using you as a test." Nieninquë smiled. "I hope I have not revealed any secrets I am not supposed to."

Erestor couldn't help but laugh in that quiet way of his. "I have been used as an experiment for more than one remedy, my Lady. I have spent much time about various healing halls." In truth, it was nearly all Imladris, and more often in the days of the House's youth when they scarcely had extra helping hands. Erestor was forbidden from fighting by Celebrían, who claimed his experience would better serve in building than defending. Thus, he was always present for a practice bandaging or receiving harmless inoculations to give the apprentices practice. It would not do to speak too much of Imladris. It would only serve to raise suspicion, though holding back his words suddenly seemed like holding acid in his mouth.

"I hope you are not injured like this often," Nieninquë said in a tone of careful non-concern.

Realizing how his words could be taken, Erestor backtracked. "Ah, no, it is that I was a helper in some healer's halls. I am not much good for healing itself, but when one is around to take inventory and there are large-eyed apprentices about..." He trailed off, remembering a young Estel begging for extra help with his lessons. "It is hard to say no, even when you lose a hand and must write with the other one."

Nieninquë nodded gravely. "I cannot say myself for I have never been injured in your way, but I imagine it must be difficult to adjust."

"Ah—I—" Erestor began, and quickly found himself speechless. Her sincerity had completely disarmed him. He fell awkwardly silent for a moment, looking at his feet. "Thank you." Nieninquë showed no sign of impatience, a deep well of equanimity. Erestor composed himself quickly. "I do not think it has quite struck me yet."

"It has not been long." said Nieninquë. "It takes time to recover from any injury."

"I know the truth of your words," Erestor said. But he did not know if his fëa knew. "Thank you, truly." A thought struck him. "Has evening meal been called?"

Nieninquë blinked at the non-sequiter. "Yes."

"Would you show me to the dining hall? I am afraid I'm rather famished."

i Ecthelion not only dies by killing a balrog with his helmet and drowning with him, he dies AFTER both of his arms have been cut off :)

ii Erestor here is speaking Primitive Quendian.

iii Hoo boy okay. Quendi refers to every elf. Eldar are elves who followed the call, and they call those who didn't Avari (refusers). Avari do not call themselves this as far as we know. Calaquendi are elves who have seen the trees (and made it to Aman, called Amanyar). Any elf who has not seen Aman is of the Moriquendi (Úmanyar & Avari). Those who BEGAN the Great Journey but didn't make it for one reason or another are called Úmanyar. Úmanyar include the Falmari, Sindar, and Nandor elves. Nandor elves are divided into Laiquendi (of Beleriand) and Tawarwaith (of Middle Earth).

iv I'm sort of dissatisfied calling Tinwerúmë just "elda" when it seems as though there should be some gender-neutral word for an elvish person that isn't just 'elf' (especially when not every elf is Eldar. This is also something I want in English as a nonbinary person because so many of our words are lame AF (nibling :vomit emoji:). If any wonderful Tolkien scholars want to help me out here, sound off in the comments.

Chapter End Notes

So you know how Erestor says he's fine?

Hehe sorry everyone for the delay I was hit with the worst fucking author's curse of all time and I'm still in the middle of my crashout <3. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! We have a little bit of work to get from A to B here but eventually the first 'establishing' arc will be complete :)

The Erestor hunger saga continues. I have no idea how he manages so be hungry every single chapter.

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