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Erestor opened his eyes and the ceiling stayed in place. That was nice. He didn't like it when the ceiling broke and the blood poured down. Those were never good days.
“Easy, lad.”
Erestor blinked up at the talking ceiling. That had never happened before.
“Over here, lad,” the gruff voice said. Erestor let his head loll to one side, seeing a...
“Dwarrow?” Erestor squinted at him.
The dwarf – or dwarrow, depending on who one spoke to – blinked back at him. “You are a polite one, then.”
“I used to be,” Erestor told him. “But it's been a rather long time since I've had to be. I'll apologize ahead of time for well. Everything else, I suppose.” The bed he was on – he was on a bed – was soft and warm and rather lovely. Erestor couldn't remember the last time he had a bed. It was a very long time ago.
The dwarf – dwarrow – dwarf – made a sad face and Erestor felt bad. He didn't mean to make him sad. “You're quite injured,” he said. “Can you tell me how you got these wounds, laddie?”
“I haven't been a lad in a very long time,” Erestor whispered to him. “You shouldn't say that. It got –,” then he had to stop and blink quick as his eyes began to burn. Bilbo would be so cross with him if he cried. Not now. Not when they were finally free.
Which. Wait.
“Where is Bilbo?” Erestor sat up – or tried to. The dwarf – dwarrow – dwarf hovered over him as Erestor's arms gave out and landed him back onto the soft bed. “I need – I need to...” Erestor squeezed his eyes shut. “Elrond. I need Elrond. And Bilbo. Is. There. I cannot. I cannot see.”
“Easy, laddie, easy. Some help here!” Erestor flinched at the dwarf's raised voice but he kept his eyes closed as he heard running steps out in the hall. Too heavy to be elves, had to be dwarves. But why would there be dwarves coming? Erebor was gone, Moria was gone, it was all gone –
“Easy, lad,” a different dwarven voice said.
Cool hands laid something wet over his forehead and eyes and Erestor let out a relieved sound. It was easier when he did not have to keep his own eyes shut. “Don't stitch them closed,” he managed to slur out. He didn't like it when they did that. He liked the wet cloth. He liked the cool darkness. The stitches hurt too much.
“...We won't, lad. Just the cloth for now. Try to lie still. All will be well.”
Erestor felt the air shift by his face and got his hand around the dwarf's wrist. “Elrond,” he repeated. “I need to talk...to Elrond. To Celebrimbor. To – to –,” golden hair filled his memory. “Glorfindel. They need to know. You all need to know.”
“We'll get them, we will.”
“Don't believe him,” the air felt...strange. It was clean and clear yet all he could remember was the filthy stench of the hole they'd kept him in and the hot rain of ash as everything burned around him. “You cannot believe him. It's not to be taken. The gifts. The gifts. They're lies. You have to...you have to listen...”
The door opened and Erestor felt the dwarf pull at his hold but they needed to listen. “Laddie...”
“Annatar ,” Erestor let his rage fill the word. He did not see the way the room shuddered around him. “He is not to be trusted! He is a liar! A thief! A thief!”
But then he was no longer on the bed but on the board and Sauron's vile lieutenants were coming with their knives and their needles and all the other instruments to make him sing and Erestor couldn't he couldn't not anymore, not when Bilbo – when Bilbo –
Darkness took him just as he began to weep.
“Alright there, Oni?” Glorfindel set a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, hating to see how the old fellow was trembling. None of them had expected their strange visitor to try and shake down Ost-in-Edhil with the power of his voice alone. Not even Fëanor in Glorfindel's memories had such power in the days of old.
“No,” the dwarf said with a sigh. He rubbed a rough hand over his face and beard. “This elf is the most injured creature I have ever seen.”
Glorfindel paused, glancing over at Ecthelion. His lover's mouth thinned down into a flat line. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, laddie, that I've seen dwarven warriors with axes in their heads who are in better shape than this fellow.”
Glorfindel took a seat on the edge of the bed next to the elf they had found in the wilds the day before. He had not thought that he would be seeing him again so soon. Not with the healers going into a frenzy when they'd first got their hands on him, or with the way that Lord Celebrimbor's council had taken an interest in him. There was already a messenger on the road to Mithlond to retrieve Elrond from Gil-galad's court. Lord Celebrimbor wanted to speak to this elf as soon as possible.
All because of one word the elf spoke. Annatar. How did he know?
Annatar had been a visitor to Ost-in-Edhil in the spring. Lord Celebrimbor and his guild of smiths had welcomed this emissary from the Valar with open arms, glad to see such a messenger on their far eastern shores of the world. But as quick as that welcome had gone out it had soured, with Narvi, Lord Celebrimbor's husband, growing cold to this spirit as they found this Annatar trying to get Lord Celebrimbor alone several times and in rather...compromising ways. Lord Celebrimbor did not remember these incidents but trusted his husband above this emissary, turning him away with a word of Power that Lord Celebrimbor could have only learned from Fëanor himself.
So that strange Annatar had gone, with a wounded pride and sorrowful words, leaving the city and vanishing into thin air right outside the gates. Some in Ost-in-Edhil still believed in him. Some in Ost-in-Edhil wished to invite him back. This Annatar had promised gifts from Aman, gifts from the Valar, from Aulë himself, to be given to their peoples as a sign of trust and a promise of better, brighter futures ahead.
And now, with this stranger who had just come to their city, shouting about this Annatar, calling him a thief ...well. Many had taken quick notice of that. Particularly Narvi. And Lord Celebrimbor.
“How is he?” Thinking of the lords of Ost-in-Edhil (not that Narvi would ever call himself that but Glorfindel saw how Celebrimbor had incorporated both of their sigils in the runes of the foundation of the city) seemed to have summoned them to the door. Glorfindel looked up to see Celebrimbor standing just inside the room with Narvi at his side.
“In a bad way,” Oni said. “His head's been cracked more than once. Several broken bones in his face. It takes a lot to scar an elf,” he nodded at the small figure on the bed. “That would be the result of I don't know how many hours of torture.”
“Years,” that same small figure murmured. All of them jumped at the sound. The elf reached out his hand, curling cool fingers about Glorfindel's wrist as if his eyes were open and not blinded by a wet cloth. “Years and years,” he sighed.
“What is your name?” Glorfindel asked into the silence his words left.
The elf shifted on the bed, a frown flitting over his face. “You know my name, Glorfindel.”
Glorfindel shook his head at the others in the room, shifting to make space for Ecthelion on the bed. “I am afraid I do not. We have only just met.”
“Just met...” The elf shifted again. “But that's not right,” he murmured. “Not right at all. There were...centuries. Of you. And your annoying whistles ,” he made a face. “It's terrible.”
Glorfindel blinked down at the elf. “My whistling is not that bad.”
“Yes,” Ecthelion said. “It is, Fin. He's right about that.”
The elf's head turned. “You,” he said. “You're...the fountain. No. Echoes. No.” The floor trembled. Then, “Ec-thel-ion. Of the Fountain. That's right.”
Ecthelion took the hand that reached out towards him with a gentle grip. “Well met, my friend. That is my name. But I am afraid I do not know yours.”
“Well you wouldn't. You were dead.” Glorfindel jolted at the elf's words. “But that was then and this is different. You're not supposed to be here but it's better now. Glorfindel was always so sad.”
“And your name, my friend?”
The elf shifted on the bed. “Erestor,” he finally said. Glorfindel heard Celebrimbor's gasp. “My name is Erestor.”
“Erestor,” Celebrimbor breathed out, taking a step towards the bed. “Is that. How can that...I – I – Erestor?”
“That is my name,” the elf said. “Who is that?”
“It is me, Celebrimbor, your cousin,” the lord said, going to his knees next to Erestor's bed. Glorfindel blinked at Ecthelion, who shrugged back at him. “Do you not remember me?”
“Why would I remember you?” This Erestor shook his head. “I have no cousins. No family at all. Just a foundling. Nothing more.”
“You are not,” Celebrimbor shook his head. His hand hovered over Erestor's arm before he pulled it back. “We are cousins, you and I. I swear it.”
“Liar,” this Erestor snorted out a laugh, then another and another until he was giggling on the bed. “Liar, liar. I've no family but what I made. But then they were gone gone gone because he took them away.”
“Erestor –”
“Annatar ,” the word hissed through the room. Erestor's lips curled back and that was when Glorfindel could see the scars even inside his mouth. What had been done to him? “Sauron. Mairon. Liar, fool, and thief. He took them, he took them, he took them –”
Glorfindel threw himself across Erestor as the room began to shake and dust rained down on them. “Easy, my friend,” he crooned at the thrashing body beneath him. Ecthelion was at his side, holding onto Erestor's hand. “All is well. He is not here. I swear to you, he is not here.”
“He is – he is –,” Erestor was panting, hot breath washing over Glorfindel's cheek. “Promise me you will kill him,” Erestor whispered. “Do not let him close. He cannot make the Ring. Promise me, Glorfindel. Promise me.”
“No rings will we let him make,” Celebrimbor said before Glorfindel could swear to that oath. “I promise, cousin. I will never work with him. Never.”
“...Cousin?”
“Yes, cousin.” Glorfindel eased back as Celebrimbor shook his hair free of dust. “We are family, you and I. I swear it.”
“...Family?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“...what?”
“You are the son of my uncle Caranthir and his late wife, the Lady Haleth,” Celebrimbor said. Glorfindel leaned back, feeling his shoulder press against Ecthelion's. He had heard this story before. “You were lost, long ago, during the War of Wrath. We thought...we thought Morgoth had you. We were wrong.”
“Not him,” Erestor said after a moment. “No. Not him. Close. But not him.”
“Uncle Caranthir will be so happy to see you.”
Glorfindel winced.
“...What?”
This was going to be a terrible family reunion.