To Keep a Promise

Chapter 13

The air is cool, a breeze washing over him that soothes the fire engulfing his body. He wakes with burning lungs that cause pained coughs to escape his ragged frame. He's engulfed in an inferno behind the blindfold, flames dancing before his eyes with the feeling of smoke choking his lungs making it hard to breath. He vaguely realizes his hands are once more bound behind him, but he is no longer pinned to the tree. Instead, he's lying on his side with the hard dirt beneath him. While it is not comfortable, it is undeniably better than the gritty bark digging into his wounds. He also comes to the realization that the poison must still be coursing through him or one of his wounds has grown infected for such heat to plague him.

Everything is quiet aside from the crackle of a few fires and the chatter of orcs who remain awake for watch. It is clearly night, and he finds himself wishing more than ever he could gaze upon the shimmering stars above. The darkness is suffocating as he's swallowed by the fire coursing through his veins causing sweat to sting his open wounds. He feels as if one look at Elbereth's magnificent work would help ease the pain flowing through his muscles. A shaky breath runs through him as he tries to find a more comfortable position on his side. Never before has he wished for the comforts of his soft bed in his life. Or the hand-carved chair in his office given to him as a gift many years ago. He would even find joy in paperwork at this point, something that would likely make Erestor question if he's finally gone mad.

As his mind wanders to his friend, he allows his thoughts to drift as there is little else to fill the unknown passage of time. The advisor is so unlike any of the friends Glorfindel once had in Gondolin. While Erestor is skilled with a sword, he is no warrior. Not like the Vanya's brothers had been. Not like Ecthelion had been. It is strange, in some ways they are so alike it can take his breath away, and then in others, they are so strikingly different he questions how he could even see them as similar in the first place.

Ecthelion had always been the eager adventurer, ready to learn more and experience everything Arda had to offer. He accepted any missions that required traveling to distant lands and would often explore the surrounding area whenever he could. Then he would turn around and sit quietly, writing his bewitching songs for hours that would later be performed for the many eager listeners that knew of his prowess with music. While Ecthelion was surely the more leisure of the two, he had a might and skill with the sword that few could outshine. He was a true warrior in the very core of his being which had been proven many a times throughout their lives.

Erestor was very much the same in his heart but so utterly different in his actions. He would much rather spend time working on paperwork or reading a book than learning new sword techniques. Yet he wields a hidden skill with the blade that can only be explained by natural talent. He is quiet and many find he only speaks when he knows his words are true or heartfelt. He would much rather work through hours of negotiations than ever be a part of a battle. Yet he shares the same fire and strength of character. The same determination to ensure those around him remain safe.

He ponders what the advisor could be doing right now. He's more than likely running Imladris with a firm hand while Elrond is scouring the woods. Perhaps he's sitting upon his favorite bench, staring up at the stars without someone at his side to ease the grief of a night filled with dark memories. He almost feels guilty knowing he is not there to offer his friend comfort and support whenever they may be needed. They have both watched their beloved homes crumple, lost so many people they cherished closely. Sharing the shame pain it is often easy to speak openly with one another and relieve the emotions weighing down on them. He's sure they'll spend many nights more talking on that lone bench if he gets out of this.

With an annoyed sigh that resorts to another coughing fit he tries to adjust his position once more so feeling can return to the arm pinned under him. He can't remember the last time he felt this horrible, while it does not compare to the wounds given to him by the Balrog, everything hurts something fearsome. He would not be surprised if a majority of his wounds scar even with the help of elven healing. Maybe he'll seek out the counsel of King Thranduil to learn the magic of glamour so they will not be visible, he muses glumly licking at the still very sore gash in his upper lip. Surely Elrond would not be upset if he spent some time away in Greenwood the Great, he feels like he deserves a break from Imladris now more than ever. Although there is also the chance the elven lord won't ever let him out of his sight again. He nearly chuckles thinking about the Lord's stern expression whenever Glorfindel gets hurt that usually follows with nearly the same speech on how stupid and stubborn he is.