Beyond Canon

- Text Size +
Story Notes:
Cross-over written for TME Challenge. Lord of the Rings (Tolkien’s writings) crossed with The Iliad (Homer’s writings). Not sure if that would make the other fandom Greek Mythology or Homeric Poetry, but I’ll take either one for the win, Alex. They’re both listed on, so it’s whichever works for you, dear reader. I’m just in it for the Elves. Er, I mean, Nymphs... yeah.
Betas: Lalaith_Raina and Smaug, who also helped with the header.

They stood on the wall looking down upon the foreign army camped in the distance. Fires were lit across the land, some for cooking, some for warmth, and some the funeral pyres, burning bright, with thick plumes of smoke twisting toward the heavens as if to try to reach Mount Olympus. There were fires burning behind them as well, within the walls of the city, where – for now – they were safe.

“Reminds me of Gondolin.”

An amused chuckle was the reply. “Gondolin happened in a day. This,” said the blond warrior, extending his arm with his palm open to acknowledge the Achaeans below, “has been going on for years – and it will continue for years.”

“But Hektor is dead now and—“

“And what am I?” Glorfindel shook his head, the braids his hair was woven into giving their own disapproval. “Am I not still a warrior?”

“You are indeed,” agreed Erestor. “A stubborn one at that.” He placed his palms flat against the stone of the wall and leaned forward just slightly, observing what he could see in the far distance. “However, I am not about to allow you leave to go forth and prove that fact.”

“It hardly seems of any use that I am here, then,” Glorfindel grumbled. He crossed his arms over his bared chest to further express his disdain of the current situation. “I should go out there tonight and slay a few, just to spite you.”

Erestor glanced sideways and smirked. “Says the warrior wearing a skirt.” He was glad they chose to speak in Sindarin, and glad that King Priam had decreed that they were allowed such liberty to do so, for a pair of similarly clad soldiers strolled by as he said such. The two parties greeted one another amicably; these ‘far-seers’ as they were called for their ‘gift’ of cunning vision (which Glorfindel had attributed to Apollo on a whim to appease the king upon their initial meeting), and the citizens of Troy who had taken these strangers to be a blessed sign from their gods.

As soon as the others had passed by, Glorfindel turned to lean with his back against the wall, arms still crossed, and shot a glare at his companion. “This is not a skirt; this is the latest most fashionable armor. You should talk – what is that, a dress?”

“Robes, darling.”

“Sure they are,” scoffed Glorfindel. “Wait, now, you just tried to change the subject!”

“I did change the subject. I wonder what the latest fashion is in Kemet?”

“So do I, but I think we need to discuss the situation at hand.” Glorfindel repositioned himself so that he was right beside Erestor, looking over the wall with him. His voice dropped lower, despite the inability every other inhabitant of Troy had to hear them. “We are stuck here, and all you will let me do is shoot arrows over the wall. I am restless, love. I need to be down there.” He pointed firmly toward the ground. “My blade is furious that it has remained sheathed for so long – let me make it sing for the gods.”

“Whose gods? Certainly not yours,” admonished Erestor. “Or have you exchanged Eru for Zeus?”

“I am restless – and I am a warrior! Upon that, we have both agreed,” Glorfindel reminded him.

“Yes, yes, you have not ceased to remind me.” Erestor walked away slowly, annoyance building. Glorfindel followed until they reached a bend in the wall that placed them at a corner. “What would I do if you were to fall?”

Glorfindel sighed. “I will not fall.”

“I cannot take that chance. YOU cannot take that chance. This is not your war to fight, my dear. From afar and from these walls I still fear you might bring about the wrath of Manwe or Elbereth, but once you stand amid those Men, it will be their gods whose wrath you shall face, and they are not so merciful. Some days I wonder if we are even on the right side of this wall.” Erestor paused, and tried another tactic. He placed his hands upon the strong shoulders of his partner and asked, “Who will go with me to Persia if you were killed here? I know how great a champion you are,” continued Erestor as he squeezed the firm biceps. “No one out there knows,” he whispered, stepping closer. “Now is not the time for them to learn. What shall we do if one of them were to slip past our guards or fly like Daedalus over the walls, with Hektor here no more? You are needed here, darling, but you must be patient.”

“Did Cassandra tell you to say that?”

“Not in those words, precisely, but I have learned that no matter what anyone says about the poor girl, she tends to be right most of the time.”

Glorfindel abruptly pulled Erestor to him, and then gently held him as the flickering fires all around them began to burn down to golden embers. “I miss Hektor more than I thought I would. I see little Astynyax and know he shall never see his father again. I want so badly to go out there now and avenge Hektor’s death. I want to hear the men dying on my blade, I want to taste their blood on the air. I want to find that bastard Achilles and run my sword through him and spit in his face. Before he is dead, I want to rope him behind my chariot and pull him through the streets as he did to Hektor. And then, before he dies, I want to say to him that he is not the greatest warrior ever, that he is nothing, nothing compared to Hektor, and certainly, he is nothing compared to me.”

Erestor was quiet for some time. Finally, as the last of the fires burned down to ashes, he spoke. “You scare me sometimes,” he whispered in the darkness.

“How do you think I feel?”
You must login (register) to review.