These are really based on outtakes from More Dangerous so I know they do not read as a single narrative in quite the same way as other fics- but it sort of runs alongside and I will one day put it into a proper order with 'Imrahil' as that is where it will end up.

Not beta'd so all mistakes are mine- I'm always grateful to people if they let me know of glaring errors.

For Encairion Happy Birthday! There's a nod at least to your wonderful Price of Duty.

There is a lovely picture from Mienpies on www. . esteliel.

Chapter 3

The long windows of Erestor's rooms were thrown open so the cold-frost air could flood his study, and from the garden below came the scent of the last of the lavender and late roses that could only bloom in Imladris in this season. Glorfindel had returned. And Rhawion was dead. Erestor stared out at the hard mountains, remembering the slack body Glorfindel had carried into the House and laid it down with such care. It had been years since they had lost anyone to Nazgûl, he thought, and wondered how in all of Arda Thranduil coped with so many and such frequent losses, how had he not given up and sailed. It could have been Thranduil's own son they had returned dead.

He leaned his cheek against his hand and his elbow on the window sill, staring out. Will it never change? he thought. Will there always be someone returning dead? Is Valinor so sterile that it makes this worthwhile?

Why do you not sail?

Because I made a promise, he reminded himself. An oath.

There are so many oaths...many are broken.

He almost laughed. This from one who knows an oath when he hears one!

You cannot keep it, your oath. He to whom you made it never heard it, does not know. It does not comfort him.

It comforts me

No. He could not break this last promise, not this one. He had not broken the promise made to the last sons of Feänor to safeguard and keep the sons of Eärendil, so that they too could abandon those children for a greater love, a greater promise. He stirred, surprised by the disloyal thought. And he still kept that promise, and until Elrond sailed, he was bound to it.

And when I have kept that last promise to my lord, he told himself, there is another which I have made to myself.

A last promise made to his beloved lord, like a last kiss.

He dreamed again that night, of the Nirnaeth Arnodiad. It had been almost the worst day of his life... but there had been one more to come...

0o0o

Erestor himself was still stunned, lost in grief but he knew his duty and and thrown himself from his horse, casting the reins to a boy and running up the steep stone steps of Himring.

Maglor had caught at him as he passed, himself still bloody from battle and wide-eyed with horror...because he too had seen what had happened.

'Do not tell him,' Maglor, proud Maglor who loved beyond reason. 'Närmó, I beg you...do not tell him.'

Blood and a silver blue banner trampled into the mud. Erestor had bent and peeled a bloody scrap of silver-blue out of the wet mud. He could not recognise the face, trampled as it was and nothing but bloody pulp, but he knew the gold braided in the black hair, knew whose hand had twisted the gold strands through black silk hair and had cupped the lovely face for a last tender kiss.

But it was too late to back out now despite Maglor's haggard face, his beseeching eyes.

Within the stone walls that had almost become a cell, low firelight caught in copper-bronze hair, light stroked it like Maedhros' father had stroked fire into the jewels that brought his own destruction and that of all his sons. Grey eyes turned to Erestor that were filled with an other-worldly light, one might say silver but it would not do them justice. But this time, there was emptiness, a deep well of emptiness. Soul-void. And if Maedhros had not been broken by Angband, or by his father's death, by the gradual loss of all his brothers, it was Fingon's death that broke him now.

Not a sound passed his lips.

He simply turned at the sound of Erestor opening the door. Erestor's boots scuffed on the cold flagstones, he halted, standing uselessly by, unable to speak and Maedhros simply looked at him. Maglor had already seen that Fingon was dead, so how much sharper Maitimo's gaze.

The moment seemed frozen and then Maedhros reached out with his missing hand to steady himself, forgot in that moment and his arm missed the mantle above the fire and he stumbled.

'It is not true!' Maglor pushed past Erestor to reach his brother. 'It has not been confirmed. Närmó, tell him you could be mistaken.'

But the scrap of blue and silver Erestor clutched in his hand was stained with Fingon's blood and he held it out, wordless. Maedhros reached for it in a dream and his long, elegant fingers took it so gently and sifted it against his fingertips. Unbearably, he brought it to his lips, his nose and smelled the blood, and closed his eyes.

o0o0o

Erestor half turned in his sleep for his pillow was wet and his breath came out in great sobs. How he wished he had given the news more gently, more kindly! But he knew only the horror of what he had seen, and was but a messenger, no tried and hardened warrior. Born in Berleriand and fostered by his beloved lord who could not help but gather to himself the orphans and bastards, thrown-away children that he never begot himself, as if he would gather together again his brothers, his never-born children. He was so loved, thought Erestor. But from that moment, Maedhros could only see the blue and silver banner trodden into the mud, the battered body beaten into the dust, the lovely face a bloody pulp.

Erestor found himself pressing his hands against his eyes. To have been so glorious, so fair; if Feanor had been the Spirit of Fire, Maedhros had been its heart. For he had loved, and given and given and loved and loved and taken so little for himself. But from then on, from Fingon's death he lost all hope. And there was only Maglor left.

So Erestor had promised himself that when Elrond sailed, he himself would not. Feänorian through and through and through, though not by blood by choice. He was not welcome in Valinor anyway. And he did not care. For a long time in Lindon, there were those who hissed Kinslayer, as he passed andErestor had gained several dashing scars from brawls, for he liked to brawl. It dulled the pain.

But he would do one last thing for his beloved lord, and find that which was lost. He would search for Maglor and he would not cease or rest until he found him, or died, or faded. It seemed only right to try and save the one thing left, that except for Fingon, Maedhros had loved the most.

He had heard rumours of course over the long years, in both war and peace. Now and again a stray traveller brought news and Elrond, as eager as he, sent messengers, emissaries to find out more. Often Erestor himself travelled and searched but when he arrived, even in the hard, dry lands in the East or South there was only an elusive whisper, a rumour and no more. Like a song that could almost be heard.

A note sounded.

... but it was only the wind in the long bells that Arwen had hung in the garden, softly chiming in the wind.

He turned away feeling deep loss and yearning; Maedhros would never, never, never come again walking through the long grass, or striding on long legs up stone steps of Himring to look out over the battlements with the trumpets ringing behind him and his long bronze hair pulled back, his grey eyes alight with Fingon's blue and silver banner snapping in the wind. Never again would the High-King come galloping over the plains to greet the sons of Feänor, the Son of Feänor, the Lord of Hithlum, Maedhros... Maitimo, for that was what Fingon called him. He was the only one who called him thus... And Erestor waited upon them with a tender love for the pure heart and their devoted love, for the the small brief moments that they shared.

Erestor found his eyes full of tears once again and shook his head. What was it that made him dwell so much in the past right now?

All this could end...a whisper. He was tall and fair...fairest. And Fingon the Valiant...

Yes. He was tall and fair and stood so strong against Moringotto. Despite all attempts to break him, he would not break, the memory of it tempered him. Like steel. Until he broke. And it the easiest thing of all then...

The easiest thing of all to find him whom you seek...

In his dream Erestor found himself standing at his balcony, leaning out and the long cool drapes fluttering in the wind that came down from the Mountains, laden with frost and smelling of pine and fir.

Sauron! Where are you?

...I am here...

But all he saw was the Hobbit walking slowly in the garden below. His head was bowed and he walked slowly for he was still recovering from the blade of Mordor.

I am here...

Erestor's gaze lingered on the dark garden. He could see the dim shapes of the trees, their black branches netted with stars. Frodo glanced up and seeing Erestor, lifted his hand in greeting and Erestor slowly returned the gesture, finding it hard to move, like in dreams. He struggled to awake but could not.

I know where he is...the one you seek, the one you swore you would find...

In his dream there was a strange mist that wrapped about him and gracious notes came from somewhere within, a lovely song, complex, loveliest, long slow sonorous notes that invoked some sweet emotion he could not name...and the mist opened a way for him to see the Sea, and upon the silver shore, a figure that he knew was Elven though gaunt and ragged. But the deep-grey eyes that turned upon him could only belong to an Elf who had seen the light of the trees, gazed his fill upon the light of the Simarils, closed them against the slaughter of his brothers...been loved to an incinerating intensity by his father who could not see beyond possession...

Ah, Macalaurë!

And the song Macaluarë had written swirled about Erestor, wrung tears from his eyes so his cheeks were wet.

He reached out but the mist dissipated at his touch and with it, the ghost of Macalaurë. The only one left, brother of his lost beloved lord. Erestor's own oath stung his lips then and he found himself repeating his promise.

I swear, my lord. I swear that I will find him, keep him safe. Or raise a cairn over his bones such as none of your kindred had- to honour your memory through him.

Erestor found his own oath salted his lips and his eyes blurred as the ghost was washed away.

I am here...I will help you...You can help me...

He stilled under the pressure of the words, watchful, careful...listening. It was a seduction of the heart more intense than any Erestor had assayed himself even in his long, long life.

...Across the garden was the wash of the Sea, and a salt fragrance lay like blue silk on the air. That haunting, lovely song brushed against his thoughts once more, that he thought never to hear again such a voice, stroked his loss and yearning for older times when he rode in their wake...and he felt the loss more keenly than ever...

His fingers brushed the cold steel of his knife before he even knew he had done so, and a cold frost-laden breeze drifted down from the mountains and lifted his hair. His amber eyes, had he known it, gleamed in the starlight and he stood frozen, looking down...

Until a hand gently turned his face and he stared, unrecognising for an age. Fingers carefully loosened his grip on the hilt of the dagger that had been borne by hands older and bloodier than his. An arm tenderly laid across his shoulders, steered him away and closed a door he had not even known he had opened.

When he found a cold glass in his hand, he drank and the warmth that flooded his chest and belly brought him slowly back to awareness. Miruvor. He blinked then and wondered why Elladan was looking at him, his lovely, still face so close. Had they kissed?

Stunned, he moved closer. Helpless. For had he not always loved him?

'I have always loved you,' he found himself saying. And Elladan's lips parted in a smile that was so sweet, so painfully sweet, that Erestor's breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart swell.

'I know. You have always been there for us.' Elladan's voice was gentle, like he spoke to a child. His hand was on Erestor's arm, lightly steered him. 'What was it that brought you to the Hobbits' chamber? Did you fear they might take some harm?'

'Yes.' Erestor heard his own voice as if it were not his and he were far away and in a dream. "Some... harm...' He gazed into the anxious, beautiful grey eyes, eyes that had gazed upon him and seen who he was, through the glamour that he cloaked himself with, and loved him for what he was, who he was, all that he was. He found himself leaning in and the scent that was Elladan took him and he closed his eyes to bury himself in sensation...

'Erestor? You are not yourself.'

Slowly he brought himself back to where he was. Standing on the verandah outside the Hobbits' rooms, with Elladan, and Elrohir too looking on with wise, perceptive eyes. Erestor recoiled.

Blinked.

Stepped back.

'When did you return?' he forced his mouth around the words, forced his eyes to focus on their identical, noble, beautiful faces... not identical. He always knew. Let his gaze waver and drift beyond them all to somewhere outside of them both...

'Erestor?'

Concern in that one's voice, he noted. This one is steel and blood, he reminded himself.

'You look faraway and wandering on a distant shore.'

A hand forced his chin round to face the one of steel and blood. There was a serpent coiled at his waist, it hissed. It wanted blood. Did not much care whose. Erestor glared at it... Not mine! he told it and it curled back, hid its malevolent yellow eyes.

No, it agreed. It would wait. Kinslayer. It recognised blood.

And you have spilled much, he told it. Drunk your fill yet?

He was dimly aware that somewhere, hands were leading him, something was at his lips, warmth spread through his throat and chest and belly. A fragrance. And then the voice... calling him... calling him back... it was crimson Power that loved him, the roiling, turmoil of energy that swept and surged around him so it could be the Sea or a storm...and that deep voice called him, pulled at his blood like the moon at the tide... but it had not the Power over him to coerce him, but he cared for it, loved it... and so he turned towards it for it knew him and he was always there... always came when they called... whenever...

'Erestor.'

That is not my name, he thought.

But this second voice was a part of the first. And only together were they whole; separate they were but parts... The second voice was deep as the Sea, where the Silmaril glowed, and its blue peace and calm spoke to him as no other. This second voice drifted and curled and wrapped itself around him gently and with such love... This voice was love... This blue presence that walked beside him and lay its hand gently upon his arm, and drew him back, was part of him like it was part of the crimson voice...

A sting on his cheek and he raised his hand instantly and caught a wrist in his own iron grip. He blinked.

Elrohir stood chest to chest with him, his hand raised and caught in Erestor's hand. A guilty look fled across his face and was gone, caught.

'Did you just strike me?' Erestor asked astounded, coldly horrified.

'Yes. You were lost.'

'I was not lost, I was thinking.'

'Of what?' Elrohir challenged.

Of Maedhros. of Maglor, he wanted to shout in Elrohir's face, blast him with his fury, with his disappointment, with his own terrible yearning loss. Instead he felt again the wrap of Elladan's concern and worry, and he turned instead towards the lovely face and lifted his hand to cup Elladan's smooth cheek. But he remembered himself half way and changed the movement to cup his own smarting cheek instead.

'Young pup,' he snarled. 'You are lucky I don't horsewhip you!'

'You were lost,' Elrohir insisted but he stepped away, still watching. Guilt, remorse fled through his eyes and were replaced by the steelier accusation more familiar in Elrohir.

'How could I be lost in Imladris!' Erestor said, heavy with sarcasm but he felt a dream still clinging to him, like cobwebs. 'Ridiculous children. Now get on and see your father. He is worried,' he said, to deflect and distract. Which it did.

'He can wait,' Elrohir, steel and blood, a serpent at his hip. Aícanaro. Erestor's lip curled. He had hated that thing from the moment Elrohir brought it back.

'Go and see him. He worries and you should not be so quick to add to them,' Erestor snapped but he was lost himself somewhere half between waking and dreaming, and the dream still clung to him like cobwebs, like vines that curled around his arms and thighs and drew him back into the dreams, the lure of finding Maglor, as he had sworn.

The brothers hesitated, looking at each other in that intent way they had, that had they known it, their father and his brother shared- so much more communicated than was spoken between them. Then as one, they turned.

'We will see you back to your own rooms, and then we will see Elrond,' said Elrohir, for he always called his father by his name..

Erestor snorted. 'You will do no such thing. You will go to Elrond now and I will take you there.'

It was only when he saw the flicker on Elrohir's eyes that he realised he had been outsmarted and again he snorted but this time in mild appreciation. 'You thought to do this all along, to take me away from here. Foolish children, do you think if I wanted to do something, you could stop me?' He flicked his fingers at them. 'Even with your serpent-sword, you could not stop me, child. And you think me ensnared by so insignificant a thing as Ash Nazg? I who fought Morgoth, who stood with Maedhros and Maglor against the Balrogs and Dragons? This is your war, and it is pitiful.'

He turned with contempt and stalked along the lawns below his own rooms, strode up the shallow stone steps and flung open the door to his study. He stood in his chamber. Only then did he look down at the dagger in his hand, and trembling, fix it back where he had taken it from the sheath on the armour that still gleamed like it had the day he was given it. It was all he had left from those glorious days, and he had sold it twice and then stolen it back both times. Shameless as a Dwarf.

But he sat on the edge of his narrow bed and held his head in his hands. what had he done? Or almost done? In despising Ash Nazg, he had underestimated it, for it had known his secrets and tempted his heart. So he knew there were none who were safe, and neither he, nor Glorfindel should accompany the Ringbearer, and certainly not Elrohir. And his heart quailed at the thought that his sweet Elladan should go into Mordor.

0o0o

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