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Erestor pushed through the thick undergrowth, gasping as he fought for breath. There was no moon and a thick storm had rolled in, bringing down snow so fast it filled up his faint footsteps in seconds. Behind him he could hear the snow dusted pines snap and shatter from the stone giants that chased him. Blood dripped into his eyes, making it hard to see. There was something wrong with his right shoulder, but he didn't know what. Glorfindel had – no. He couldn't think about that right now. He had to move. He had to find Galadriel. They had to be warned.
He had lost the path to the pass miles ago. Erestor stumbled from rock to rock, scrambling up thin cracks as fast as he could go, hearing the pursuit behind him. Lothlórien lay somewhere to the south and the east of him, but he did not know how far. The mountain range that lay between them had many passes, some known only to the wild life that used the thin, bare trails that led over impossible ledges. Glorfindel had...Erestor breathed in through his nose as he hauled himself up another boulder, ignoring the agony in his shoulder and the sound of the howling wargs behind him. Glorfindel had kissed him, Erestor, right before pushing him off of the path and into the river below. There had been no other way. The warg riders were too close, the orc patrol hot on their heels and only one of them was able to hold off a horde by himself.
That, sadly, had never been Erestor's ability.
Now it was up to Erestor to find his way to Lothlórien and warn Galadriel. The Ringbearer had been betrayed. As far as Elrond knew, before Sauron loosed his armies onto Imladris, was that one of the humans had turned, had been possessed by the power of the One Ring and had taken the life of Frodo Baggins by force. What had become of the rest of the Fellowship, they did not know. Galadriel had sent word that Gandalf had fallen in Moria but they were not to mourn, for she told of his return. Of many returns, but what she meant, they did not know since only a part of her message had reached them. Elrond had sent Erestor and Glorfindel the moment they had received word that the Ring had been taken to Gondor and that two days after it had fallen to Sauron's armies.
Nothing had been said about Frodo. Erestor remembered how Bilbo grieved. The old hobbit had packed his bag in the night and slipped away without anyone knowing. It had been a message from a raven, one born in Erebor but who had been Bilbo's long companion in Imladris, that told them that Bilbo had found Frodo's body...and those of the other hobbits. None of them, it seemed, had been spared.
There was no more word from Bilbo after that.
That had been the day Elrond had urged them to go. Glorfindel had swept him up onto Asfaloth and they had galloped out of the valley...and almost right into an army of orcs and trolls and stone giants. Asfaloth had fallen during a bridge crossing, one of the horse's legs snapping as a rotted board fell through. Glorfindel had hauled Erestor up and over the rest of the bridge, both of them weeping as they heard Asfaloth scream and then the bridge give way. That had been the same day that Glorfindel had kissed him...and then pushed him into the safety of the river.
Now, a day and a night after, Erestor still was not sure where he was. The mountains never seemed to end. Every time he looked up there was still more to go. His hands were a bloody mess. His shoulder clicked every time he breathed. Blood had frozen onto his face and lashes, making it hard to blink his gaze clear of snow and whatever else was falling into his eyes. Even then he could hear the sound of pursuit behind him. The howl of wargs. The thunder and clash of the stone giants. The cackle of the monstrous orcs that Sauron unleashed from Saruman's dungeons.
Up and up and up he went. The storm, too, never seemed to end. Thick snow fell around him, making the rocks slick and his fingers numb with cold. Erestor's entire world was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, finding the next hand hold, scrambling over the next rock. Each second seemed seared into his brain and yet he had little memory of the path behind him. It felt like a wall stood between his Present and his Past. All he could do was look forward.
At some point the night went quiet and still. All Erestor could hear was the rasp of his breath and the click of his shoulder. He strove forward, further and further until his hand hit air and he was falling, head over feet, down and down until it felt like every part of his body was bruised...or worse. He rolled to a stop, head spinning, ribs aching, staring up at a sky full of stars.
That...that was wrong. There was a storm. Wasn't there? He had been running through the night, through the wilds. He should be seeing mountain peaks or hearing the sound of crashing footsteps getting close. Instead all he heard with the whistle of the wind. Above him the stars gleamed.
Then, in the stillness, there was a sound. The shush-shush sound of clothing dragging over stone. Erestor tried to sit up but every bone and muscle in his body screamed out in pain. He fell back with a whimper, feeling frustrated tears leak from the corner of his eyes. He did not want to die on his back. He wanted to stand, to fight, to defend the life that Glorfindel had chosen over his own safety. He wanted...he wanted ...
A Being stopped at his side, shining in the dark. Her gown was as white as the stars. Her dark hair was dotted with gems that sparkled with a Light of their own. Erestor stared up at Varda Elentári and wanted, more than anything, for this all to be a dream, one that he could wake up and tell Glorfindel over tea and toast, the same safe morning ritual they had been dancing around for literal Ages.
“Erestor of Imladris,” Varda Elentári said. “You are far from home.”
“I bring a warning,” he managed to wheeze out. He could feel blood trickle from the side of his mouth. “The Ring. Sauron has the Ring. Galadriel must know. She is the only one who can face him.”
“Do you think so?” Varda tilted her head to one side. Her eyes were strange. Erestor had always thought that Varda Elentári would look the most like the elven race, but there was some strange distance to her expression and gaze that made all the hairs on the back of Erestor's neck raise. “Perhaps. But Galadriel of the line of Finarfin has had her chance to face that evil. Several times.”
None of that made sense.
“Each time she was faced with that choice, Galadriel passed the test. She chose to give up the power presented to her, the power Sauron once would have offered on bent knee, in exchange for the safety and the continuation of Arda as it should have been. You, however,” Varda pursed her lips a bit as she stared down at him. “You're the first I have seen, yet.”
“I don't understand,” Erestor whispered.
“Do you think you are singular in this place, young Erestor? Do you think this life you lead is the only one you'll have? I can assure you it is not. Eru Ilúvatar gave us all Visions of the world that was To Be. Most of my kith and kin believe that this is the path we have all seen. Each of them think that the struggles we have had to overcome is all part of the One Song. They are wrong,” she folded her hands into her sleeves. A wind picked up the edge of her dress and brushed it forward. “Do you know what gift Eru Ilúvatar gave to me, young Erestor?”
“I do not.”
“I See,” her eyes gleamed. “I See all the paths that have been taken, will be taken, are being taken, all at the same time. One step to the left, another to the right, each the same person, in the same world, existing at the same time, but each with different outcomes. You say that Sauron has the One Ring. In one world, there were no Rings of Power ever created. In another world, Galadriel wed the one once called Mairon, and they brought forth such a line of elven kings and queens that ruled over Arda for millennia. In another,” she knelt next to him. “In another world, the Ring was betrayed and Evil has won. There was no warning you could have given Galadriel, young one. Sauron would have struck there first.”
Erestor closed his eyes and felt hot tears slide down his temples. It had all been in vain.
A cold hand settled over his forehead. He blinked up at Varda Elentári, trying to focus. It was so hard. “I See,” she repeated, her voice dropping to a murmur. “But most times, I am not allowed to Act. I have fixed points that I must pass, or I will lose myself in the storm of my own making. I See,” she repeated again. The hand on his forehead clamped down. “This is not the way. This is not the path that needs to be. There are always choices in this world,” she blinked and it felt like a thousand pounds of pressure slammed into Erestor's chest. All the breath rushed from him when her gaze focused, clear and bright, on him. She smiled. “Choose wisely,” she said and something seemed to snap around them, echoing louder and louder until it was all he could hear. Then between one breath and the next, Erestor screamed .
~*~
Erestor woke, and the sheer surprise of the act made him blink. The last thing he could recall was some sort of brand being etched into the skin of his wrists, like he was being burned from the inside out. The memory of Varda Elentári's inhuman gaze was seared into his mind. He shuddered from it and then had to pause, realizing that his shoulder did not click or grind with the movement.
He shifted on the bed, biting back a groan. Then he frowned and tried to sit up, realizing that he was on a bed, a very soft and comfortable bed at that, and that his torn and bloodied robes were gone, replaced with soft linen and bandages that covered the worst of his hurts.
What he could see of the room did not make sense. It was clean and white, with a wash stand and a small chest of drawers and a wardrobe tucked into the corner. A small desk sat below a wide window that Erestor could see clear blue skies through. More than that, it was pleasantly warm, without a chill at all in the air. The scent of the air was different too...cleaner, clearer, like the air Erestor had felt once, long ago, when the armies of Aman had arrived in Arda during the War of Wrath.
Was he...was he in Aman? In Tirion? Or did he pass into the Halls of Mandos? But Glorfindel had claimed that the Halls were dreary and dark and smelled like old armor that had never been washed. Erestor was pretty certain that one did not wake up in the Halls of Mandos injured, either. And he was definitely injured. His right shoulder would bear no weight at all. His ribs protested with each movement. Nothing was making sense and that was something Erestor could not stand. He needed answers. Now .
Before he could get to his feet and stagger out the door, it swung open instead, revealing a round-faced maid holding a tray. She glanced up and then froze in her steps, the items on the tray starting to rattle. “My lords!” She cried out, the tray clattering to the floor as she turned and dashed out the door. “My lords! He is awake! He is awake !”
Erestor fell back into the mound of pillows that were tucked around him with a sigh. So much for that chance. He did not have to wait long. He heard the sudden pound of feet along flagstone and looked up...
To see Glorfindel of the Golden Flower stumble through his door. Erestor blinked, pressing his lips together to keep from gaping like a child, feeling a knot settle in his throat. Then he realized that there were two sets of footsteps when Ecthelion of the Fountain pushed past Glorfindel, almost falling to his knees in the middle of the room. Time seemed to slow around Erestor as he stared at them. Glorfindel looked young , fragile in a way that Erestor had never seen before. Erestor had only ever seen Glorfindel's sketches of Ecthelion, the elf Glorfindel had been said to have been Bound to, in Gondolin during the First Age. He, too, seemed young, younger than many elves Erestor had seen in Arda, in all his years there.
Choose wisely , he heard Varda say. The hairs on his arms and neck stood on end. There are so many paths before you, young Erestor. It is up to you to find this new Way.
None of that made sense. Nor did the way Glorfindel and Ecthelion sat on the edge of his bed, each of them holding one of his hands, staring down at the curled marks standing stark against his pale skin. The fact they they were in Gondolin, that Erestor had met – Erestor had met Turgon – the fact that he had seen a sulky Maeglin lurking out in the hall, none of it made sense. Gondolin had passed away. The armies of Morgoth had laid it to waste. Moreover, why was Erestor also introduced to Eol the Dark? Erestor was rather sure the Eol of his histories had been thrown from the towers of Gondolin for murder. Instead Erestor watched him be bossed around by a young maiden that could only be Aredhel and nothing made sense anymore .
So, of course, while he was having Very Serious Hand Holding Time with Glorfindel and Ecthelion, Celegorm, son of Fëanor, would burst in through the door, point at the pair holding Erestor's hands and say, loudly, “Get your hands off my son this minute!”
Nothing. Nothing made sense anymore .