Title: Risen
Author: tineryn
Rated: G
Genre: Drama
Characters: Glorfindel, Erestor
Summary: Everything was perfectly fine, and then, it wasn't. Slash?
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Everything was perfectly fine, and then, it wasn't.

He could feel the wind in the air, the grass on his cheek, the stone digging into his side. He could smell the dung from a nearby farm and feel the heat of the sun beaming down against his untried skin.

Everything had been perfectly fine, but now, it wasn't.

Death was not quite as bad as they made it out to be. You could not feel anymore, so there was no pain. You did not know anymore, so you could not forget. You could not remember, and so you knew no aching loss.

Death was not as bad as they made it out to be, but it was not as good, either.

You could not feel anymore, so you could not enjoy sensation. You could not feel anymore, so there was no affection. You did not know anymore, so you could not remember. You could not remember, so there was no friend or comradeship. Death was alone, but that was all right because you did not know any better.

Now, suddenly, he knew again. He knew what it was like to die, and he was slowly remembering what it was to live. He lay in the grass somewhere, in the sun. The breeze he felt stirred little and did less to ease the heat. He smelled the air. It was crisp, fresh, and natural, but permeated by the dung from the cattle. Somewhere, not far off, he could hear the animals plodding and calling. He could also hear the gay laughter of human children in the distance.

He did not know where he was. He did not know when he was. As yet, he did not even quite remember who he was.

He was somebody. Somebody who died. Now lived. But that was all.

He remembered some things. He remembered what rain was, how to walk, what happy was, what dying was. He remembered being dead. He remembered not knowing. That was a strange sensation-remembering oblivion. He was not sure if he remembered it at all, or if he was just imagining it.

The grass pressed against his cheek, making little crisscrossing welts, to be sure. His cheek, against the grass, felt slightly damp. He did not know if that was from the dew or if he had been sweating. It certainly was hot.

The grass was long, and tickled the bare soles of his feet. He was not sure if he remembered how to move yet. The grass made his feet itch and he wanted to wiggle his toes. He did not. Lethargy still gripped him. He was barely alive again, and moving was still beyond him, even if he did remember how.

He remembered just before he died. He did not remember what it felt like. Everything was still mechanical as he got used to living again. He remembered images. He sort of knew what happened. There was bright red and orange. He brandished a sword. Somewhere behind him families lingered, caught between fleeing and remaining. He told them to go. That made them stay.

He was on a mountain. He fell off the mountain. The beast might have caught his hair. He was not sure-he only knew that he fell. Somehow. He did not know what it felt like. He only knew it happened. Somehow, the emotionless memories seemed wrong. He thought that he should feel something. Maybe fear.

The light from the hot sun stung his blue eyes. Blue eyes. He had blue eyes. He wondered how he knew, because he could not see his own eyes. He remembered that there was a way he had seen them, but he did not remember how. He should ask somebody when he saw them.

He craned his eyes up-or down, since it was toward the grass-and to the side. Something shiny and gold-yellow draped lazily across the green. It was his hair. He had golden hair. He was famous for his golden hair. Perhaps named for it?

The wind blew harder, and a long stem of grass tickled his nose. He wrinkled it and blew out of his nose. He wondered if he could move the rest of his body too, but he only wriggled his nose more. He remembered that moving was light and graceful and easy.

If he could move, maybe he should get up and go somewhere. Then he remembered that he did not know where or when he was. He did not know where to go. He wondered what they would all think when he stumbled randomly into their midst. He was an elf, returned from the dead. Then he wondered what he thought of it.

He missed Ecthelion.

He remembered Ecthelion.

It was an odd sort of remembrance. When before he wanted to remember, and he only did it mechanically, this time it was bittersweet. He thought it ironic that his first emotion was bittersweet. He was not sure if he wanted to remember Ecthelion, because he was probably dead too, but he also did not want to forget about him.

Glorfindel was tired of laying there. His name was Glorfindel-he remembered that, too. He was tired of lying there, but he also did not want to move. He felt particularly lethargic. He was not sure what he would do. He supposed he should go to the humans because they were nearby. He wanted to find Elves instead, even though he did not feel anything about going to the humans. It was a strange sensation.

Glorfindel wondered if he was mad. If he was mad, maybe he never died at all.

He knew he had died. But maybe he was mad anyway. Maybe dying did that to a person. Maybe they would all think he was mad, even if he was not. Just the idea-an elf returning from the dead. He doubted they would remember he died. It was probably a long time later. Just the idea. It was absurd.

He pictured an elf he had never seen before, with black hair and black eyes and black robes. That Elf raised his eyebrows cynically. That Elf did not look like Ecthelion, even though he was black like Ecthelion had been.

Glorfindel wondered why he compared him to Ecthelion. He wondered who he was, and then he wondered why he imagined him in the first place. He was probably real. Something in Glorfindel knew that the black Elf was real.

Glorfindel wanted to meet the black Elf. He was small and pretty, and he wanted to hug him.

He craned his neck up and around. There was a tree behind him, though it did a miserable job protecting him from the sun. A grey stone dug into his side, so Glorfindel shifted away from it. He moved better now. He was more restless. He wanted to get up, but he did not know where to go, so he stayed.

He was getting impatient.

Suddenly a black mass blocked the sun. He could see strands of ebony hair reaching down to him. He touched them with his fingertips. The ebony was soft like silk. After a moment, he could see the face. It was the black Elf from his daydreams. He wondered if he didn't have the Sight, because he imagined the Elf before he met him. He wondered vaguely if the Elf would raise his eyebrows when Glorfindel told him that he used to be dead. He supposed it did not matter, because this Elf would not turn him away, and Glorfindel knew where he should go now.

He should go with him.

~Fin.