A/N: I wrote Like A Shadow straight after I finished betaing This
Shadow for Red. It was completely unplanned, but Red's wonderful use
of words to paint Glorfindel's pain made a huge impact on me. I guess
Erestor's POV just grew out of my natural curiosity as to his motives.
This is in no way a sequel - a `what happened next'. That will never
be written. It is a companion, a mirror image of the same night, seen
through Erestor's eyes. -- Keiliss

NOTE from RED LASBELIN: When I wrote This Shadow, I had never intended
to write Erestor's side, hence leaving a lot of questions, but Kei was
inspired and wrote what I think is the perfect companion to my fic.
This answers lots of the questions that would never have been
addressed and it is a very good explanation for what happened. I
really like this. I'm honored for lack of a better word that it is
connected to my own -- Red


Like A Shadow
(Erestor's POV)

You stand apart, my golden lord, having no share in the banter and wit
of those around you. Your clear, blue eyes are far-seeing, you move
with deliberation, your words are quietly spoken, considered. Your
thoughts follow deep pathways before you give them utterance. Even at
this, some shadow rests upon you from your sojourn in the Halls of
Mandos.

Noble son of a vanished line, you were born too high, too far above
me. You stand equal to the greatest amongst us here upon this fading
shore. No concourse passes between us during daylight hours, save for
that required by our station and responsibility. There is no sharing
of casual conversation, no cup of wine, or ready laugh.

We traverse our days, you on your path, I on my own, speaking with
quiet courtesy when chance or the requirements of our Lord dictates
those paths should cross. The look you turn upon me then is cool,
polite, saying nothing, hinting less. Your glance does not admit to a
link: a tie, a bond of darkness and heat. In daylight ever so do we
walk and talk, thinking our own separate dark thoughts of the night.

Night brings my footsteps ever and anon to your door, walking soft,
seeking shadow and hiding from my very self. A longing, a hunger, a
despair larger than self draws me here time and again, to gift myself
to your need - to your requirement. Soundlessly in the silent room do
I shed my clothing, darkness against blackness. Naked I stand in the
cool night air with my only cloak and shield - my weighted fall of
ebony hair.

I enter your bed, because I can do no other, spread my hair upon your
pillow, my limbs upon your sheets, and give myself over to your hands,
your mouth, the weight of your warm breath. No words pass between us,
for what words would my golden lord have for such as I, a no one, with
ancestry unremarkable, achievements respectable without scaling
heights or plumbing depths. I am here to service your need, to spread
myself open for your ease, to be a receptacle for your desire. I ask
no more; it is enough that I should be allowed to make an offering of
myself at this shrine that is your body.

Your hands explore me, finding secret places of pleasure, exceptional
centers of lust. I submit myself to your touch, giving to you all that
I dare, twisting and moving under clever fingers as they stroke and
press. Your fingertips roughly brush my sensitive nipples and I toss
my head, a reflex beyond my control to prevent. At once I sense my
error, feel it in the pause of your hands' journey, the stillness in
the air between us. I have infringed upon the mystery, the silence
that holds us every night and releases you from the obligation to
acknowledge my gift to your hands, mouth and shaft.

Silent as the night around us I make to you my offering of apology,
the phial of oil, to ease your way to release, and it is silently
accepted. There is motion of hands and stopper, then your touch upon
me, fingers gliding within my cleft, seeking the secret hidden place
open to you alone. Fingers slide within, filling me, stretching me,
preparing me for your use. I push back against your steady hand,
feeling you sink deeper, feeling my pleasure build, my neglected
engorgement swelling, throbbing in need with anticipation.

Easily you breach me, no tenderness tonight as you enter me, filling
me. I wrap my legs around your waist, my body taking its cues from
your breathing, the movement of your hips. I lie on my back in the
dark, my midnight hair pooled around me, invisible in the night. My
arms are flung wide, my hands grip sheets, grasping and twisting. You
increase the pace almost at once, thrusting deep and hard, striking
the center of all my desire, sending white heat through me at every
stroke.

Your breathing is harsh, your need is very great. Even in darkness
your hair glints gold, it falls around me, always in motion, washing
over me like waves of cool water in counterpoint to the heat within me
- the heat that finally takes me beyond all awareness of self.

At last your hand surrounds me, clasping, pumping, bringing my
release. I give a gasp beyond breath, as the world stops and all I
know is your hardness within me, your cool hair without. Then I clench
and spill, my seed soiling your hand as my contractions of bliss bring
you to your final completion. Deep, ever deeper within me you thrust
in those last moments, as I lie, still impaled, gasping for breath and
my legs about your waist.

Then it is over, and we lie, touching and entangled, black hair
mingled for a little time, a very little time, with gold. And then I
withdraw from you - soundlessly and wordlessly - careful not to burden
you with my voice. Never, ever have I heard a word of thanks or
pleasure or satisfaction from your softly curved lips, but love is a
bitter edged sword. It is enough that I should be able to ease your
aloneness in such manner, offer my body as a salve. Since the night of
desire and despair when first I gave myself to you, silent to your
silence, straddling you unasked as you lay between sleep and waking,
riding you silently to release and relief, I have known to expect
nothing more.

Silently, as in all else, I rise from your bed, the one place where I
am truly alive, and dress and leave quickly before you see my tears,
swiftly before I weaken and fall to my knees and beg you just once -
just this once - to hold me, to pretend to love me, to give me an
illusion of what it would be to have your regard, your fondness, your
heart

But you, reborn and glorious, are of the House of the Golden Flower of
Gondolin and I was born, a child of this hither shore, the son of a
scribe in the household of a fallen King. I will never be worthy of
you. I wrap my love for you around me, like a shadow, and let myself
out into the night.

End