Set in the Glorfindel Lion-heart alternative universe
Dramatis personae: Erestor, his mother, assorted advisors and kings
Rating: depending on chapter - green to orange
Beta: Miss Enismirdal and Miss Zimraphel. Special thanks to Feronil for the notes.
Warnings: Tissue alert! Sap! Terrible, terrible sap! And Erestor as an Elfling. Plus: the tale is set after the Battle of the Last Alliance. So not everyone is alive anymore...
Beautiful, beautiful artwork by NELLAS OF DORIATH. :,-)
Summary: After the Battle of the Last Alliance, the Elves of Mirkwood are mourning, and it seems they all have lost hope. All but one Elfling.
Author's note: Have fun, and a merry, peaceful Yule time to all of you. And if you feel like being generous: Doctors without Borders always need donations. Thank you!
YULETIDE TALES, DAY 2:
Glorfindel Lion-heart:
2/4 - "The Missing King"
"Please come away from the window, Erestor. It is far too cold there. Here, sit by the fire to get warm."
"No, nana, I wait for ada," Erestor said stubbornly, and pressed his nose to the cold glass of the window, steaming it with his warm breath.
Erestor's mother did not have the heart to tell the Elfling that his wait would be in vain. The outcome of the battle had been disastrous for the Elves of Mirkwood. Victory - yes, but at what price! Their good king dead, and his son lost as well! It had been a sad little group that had returned from the battle, battered and bruised, and in many families, wives and children had waited in vain for their fathers, sons and brothers.
Her husband had not returned, either. And there was not even a body to burn on a pyre, not even the chance for a proper farewell. She felt it would have been easier for her to mourn if there had been something... just anything to make this more real. All that kept her going was her son and the hope for a reunion in Valinor one day. And now they would have to face the first Yule without husband and father. She bit her lip to force back the tears. There was no point in upsetting Erestor now.
Preparations for Yule had been made only half-heartedly, anyway. There had been too many losses, too much grief. And it was not only the war - already the heads of various clans were beginning to argue who of them, with Thranduil gone, should take over Oropher's duties. It was only a matter of time before the arguments would turn violent.
It was a dark time. But while she grieved terribly over the loss of her husband, seeing her child's pain was worse than anything. Sloe had been by Oropher's side, as usual, and so, when the king had been lost, he was lost, too. But while she had tried to break this sad news to her son several times, Erestor simply refused to believe that his father was dead. This silent vigilance of her son by the window, day after day, was terrible to see.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Please enter," she said, and when the door opened, she saw the youth who was the newly appointed chief-advisor to the queen. If it had not been so sad, she would have laughed. Some years ago, he would have been considered still an Elfling, not fit to speak among the elders, and now... it was almost only Elflings who were left in Mirkwood. Elflings and a handful of veterans, whose eyes had the empty expression of those who had seen horrors beyond imagination.
"Yule approaches. We need to make preparations," he said, fiddling with his belt. "My queen wants to keep up the tradition, and I do not know... my father is not here anymore... well, I hoped for your help... your husband used to..."
He broke off. Poor child, she thought, you should be out there, playing in the snow, not standing in my chamber, lost and frightened.
"Please take a seat by the fire," Erestor's mother said, trying to sound as warm and understanding as possible. "If our queen wishes to hold a Yule feast, then I will do all I can to help you."
He looked very relieved, thanked her and took a seat. Erestor had only turned his head briefly, nodded in greeting and then returned to stare out into the dim winter evening. The two Elves sat by the fire, neither saying a word. Neither of them wanted to be the first one to say in front of the Elfling that this would be the first Yule without... them.
Erestor stared out into the darkness. He was tired, but not ready to go to sleep yet. For the umpteenth time he remembered the day when his father had left. Despite his youth he had thought that they had been terribly ill-equipped with their bows and arrows. Certainly you needed more and bigger weapons if you went to battle an evil overlord? But his father, the king and his son had looked very proud and confident.
"You must not worry for me, Erestor," Sloe had said, pulling playfully on one of his son’s thin braids. "While I am away, you need to look after you nana. Make sure that she does not dance on the table like the queen, and that none of the guards will make moo-eyes at her."
Erestor had blushed, proud of the trust his father had put in him, and then he had seen him leaving Mirkwood with the other warriors, all of them eager to fight and certain of their victory. He also remembered their return, the small handful of battered warriors. Day after day small groups had returned, and every day, Erestor's heart had become heavier when his father had never been among those who returned home.
His brain told him that his father was gone, but his heart refused to believe it. His father had to come back. It was simply not possible that the warrior would not sit in his favourite seat by the fire again, lighting his pipe and smoking the terrible weed some travelling wizard had given to him. His mother used to wrinkle her nose in disgust, pointing out that this was not Elvish custom, and his father apologised and tried to look guilty, failing miserably.
Erestor's mother was just about to address the matter of the Yule feast when suddenly her son cried out and then, without saying another word, bolted out of the door and ran down the corridor, not even bothering to close the door behind him.
"Erestor! Erestor, come back! You cannot go out at night! Take your cloak!" his mother cried, but it was very clear that Erestor did not hear her.
The young advisor went to the window and peeked out.
"There is a group of people," he said. "From the looks of it, men. Followers of Isildur, maybe."
She frowned.
"Why have the scouts not warned us? And what business do Men have in Mirkwood? I would have thought they had caused enough grief to last us at least two ages!"
Again, the youth looked lost.
"What would be the proper protocol, my lady? Do I have to greet them? Or do I have to go to the queen? She is not in a state to see anyone." He hung his head. "Oh, how I wished your husband was here, my lady."
"I think we should go out and welcome them," she said, trying to lock out his comment. "I shall accompany you, if this should be a help for you."
"Oh, it would be, my lady, very much so!" he said, his relief obvious.
Together, they walked down the corridor, and braced themselves against the cold wind before they opened one of the doors that lead outside. By now it was dark, but they could see the group of men. Twenty, maybe thirty of them. Both Elves narrowed their eyes to see more clearly, and when the figures became more visible, Erestor's mother covered her mouth with her hands.
"This cannot be," she whispered. "This..."
With eyes wide in surprise and disbelief, the two Elves stared at the approaching group. Yes, they were men, but between them walked Sloe. A battered, skinny and very tired looking Sloe, but he had still been strong enough to lift up Erestor when his son had run into him. The Elfling clung to his father, and his mother thought she had never seen such happiness as now showed on Erestor's face. All the stars in the sky would never be able to outshine the light in Erestor's eyes.
Behind Sloe, a heavy farm horse made its way unhurriedly through the snow. On his back, clinging to the thick mane so not to tumble down, was Thranduil. One of his legs and his head were covered in dirty bandages, and he looked like he had also missed more than one meal, but he was alive. There were about ten Elves, all in all, escorted back home by the rangers, who had picked up the small group of survivors along the way.
More and more Elves had come out of the Great Cave, all of them staring in silence at those who had come back though nobody had dared to hope for their return anymore.
No, this was not correct. There had been one who had never given up hope.
Erestor's mother suddenly regained control over her limbs again, and ran through the snow, falling down, crawling up again, until she finally, finally reached Sloe and threw her arms around his neck, kissing his face, his hair and Erestor, who beamed like a Yule bonfire. Sloe hugged both of them as hard as he could.
"See nana? I knew ada would return!" Erestor said, looking very proud.
"Yes, yes you knew," his mother whispered, "I wish we all had your faith, Erestor."
"My lady," one of the men next to them said, bowing his head. "We found them two days’ travel from here, camping in the snow. We were worried they would not make it by themselves, so we decided to escort them. The Elf on the horse needs a healer very urgently. He cannot walk, and if your husband had not carried him all the way through the snow, he would most likely have died."
Thranduil, who had seemed to be unconscious, stirred on the horse, and tried to sit up. His eyes focussed on Sloe, who had turned to look at him, an eyebrow arched.
"Smug bastard," Thranduil murmured. But when Sloe reached out to him with one hand, Thranduil took it, and squeezed it so hard that Sloe's bones cracked.