Fanuilos
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Author: AC
Series: Folly of Starlight; slight spoilers for upcoming
stories
Synopsis: A snowfall brings back precious memories when
Elrond needs them most.
Pairing(s): Elrond/Legolas
Rating: NC 17
Not mine, no harm intended, the sheep are lying through
their teeth! Thanks to Emma for the beta job.
Special note: This story is written for the "Love in
the Snow" slash challenge (http://www.mil-ne-gloss.de.vu/)
Comments are always cherished (elrond@ithilas.com)
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Part 1:
[Hrive 48, the Year 2719 of the Third Age, Imladris]
<< “My lord, the prince has returned.”>> With
the sentry’s words echoing joyously in his ears, Elrond hastily covered
the
distance between himself and his heart’s fondest desire. His slippered
feet
kicked up soft shuffles of snowflakes, the afternoon’s nascent dusting
finally beginning
to stick to the stonework of the valley. He reached the rock hewn
archway
framing the path and with a held breath and a smile entered the
semi-private
sitting area beneath his balcony which overlooked the great
falls.
He halted just inside the doorway, his eyes surveying the
tableau before him with smug amusement. The prince had set his travel
pack upon
the ground and was staring up at the sky with a wondered expression,
apparently
welcoming the cold, feathering flakes which softly floated down upon
his face.
Having his beloved here during the season of Anor’s weakest hours was a
rare
treat, and one he found most precious indeed.
Legolas normally spent the cold, dark months of each year in
his father’s realm, returning to Imladris with the first green leaf of
spring,
just as he had once promised. The prince had recently accompanied his
brother
by marriage, Celairos, and a small company of Mirkwood’s guards back to
the
younger elf’s homeland in the foothills of Ered Luin. Thranduil had
grown fond
of the native herbs which the wedding party had brought back with them
from
those western lands, and meant to transplant a crop of certain rare
plants in
Mirkwood. It was said that they could only be moved with surety of
survival
during the months of their dormancy, after the first fall of snow,
hence the
unusual timing of this sortie.
It had been one full passage of seasons since his grievous
injuries suffered at orc hands, and Legolas welcomed the task, eager to
put
aside any of his father’s erring thoughts that he still harbored some
weakness
in arms or slackness in duty toward his homeland. Now, his mission
apparently
complete, he passed through Imladris for what was expected to be
several days
of rest and sensual pleasures before returning to the forest of his
birth to
spend the remainder of Hrive’s chill in the caverns of his father’s
reign.
With reluctance, Elrond found the voice to break the spell. “Have
you never seen snow fall before?” he finally inquired, stepping fully
inside
the patio with arms folded across his chest as would a scolding parent.
Legolas lowered his eyes and met the amused gaze with a
broad smile of his own. “Yes, but never in Imladris. ‘Tis somehow more
-- magical
here.”
Shaking his head slightly, Elrond closed the space between
them, capturing the high, noble features in his hands. “If there be
magic in
this land, then there is none more wondrous than that which I now hold
within
my hands.” A particularly large white fleck plopped most inelegantly
upon the
bridge of the prince’s nose, and Elrond brushed it aside with his
thumb. “There
is none so lovely as well.” With a sigh of gratitude at this precious
respite
from the long season of his bedroom’s loneliness, he claimed the
prince’s lips
as his most prized treasure, taking his fill until both elves were left
breathless
and flushed.
With his kiss-swelled lips curved in a secretive smile, Legolas
broke their embrace and returned to his child-like frolic in the snow.
His eyes
wide in wonder, chin tilted upward as the snowflakes fell upon his
smiling face,
his arms were outstretched and raised toward the sky as he slowly
pivoted around
in a circle. He raised his voice in song, soft and low, yet clear and
bright as
silver elvish bells ringing in the dawn,
“A Elbereth
Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!”
Elrond heartily laughed at his lover, the sound admittedly
unfamiliar to his own ears. “If you would behave so, then why not
indulge in all the follies of youthful days?”
Legolas slowed his snow-worshiping gyrations, his expression
curious yet confused.
With a sly smile, Elrond scooped a handful of snow off the
low stone railing and rounded it in his fingers, then brought back his
arm and
hurled the white sphere in Legolas’ direction.
The prince easily dodged the projectile, his expression perplexed
and amused. “If you would behave so,
then the very least you could do would be to hit your mark.”
Raucous laughter and raised voices echoed through the
private quarters of the lord of the valley, attracting the attention of
one
most loyal subject.
“My Lord, I heard raised voices,” Glorfindel spoke with
concern, stepping into view. A cold, hard sphere immediately connected
with the
side of his head.
“A thousand apologies, Glorfindel,” the prince awkwardly
offered, raising his offending hand to his mouth to shield his guilty
grin.
The ancient lord wiped away the film of frost from the side
of his face. “’Tis all right, no harm done. ‘Tis my own fault for
intruding on
my lord’s private business. I thought I heard your voice, fair prince,
and
wished to know if my mind was playing tricks upon me.”
“Tricks abound, but they are not in your head, my friend,”
Legolas lyrically laughed.
Elrond stepped closer, a small globe of snow rounding in his
hands. “Now that you have discovered our folly, would you care to join
us?”
Legolas pursed his lips in exaggerated insult, gesturing
toward Glorfindel as he spoke. “Why – do you believe the odds to be
more in
your favor if it is two fighting against one?”
Glorfindel raised his hands in submission, instinctively
stepping backwards towards the door. “With your leave, I wish to remain
a
neutral party in this battle, my lords. There are other, more pressing
matters
I really should attend to.”
“Very well.” Elrond offered with a disappointed sniff.
“My lords,” Glorfindel replied with a slight bow. “’Tis good
to see you within our halls again so soon,” he said with a smile in the
prince’s direction, then made a hasty retreat.
“He fears my aim,” Legolas chortled after Glorfindel had
left.
“Or your lack thereof.” Elrond smiled in return. “Do you
wish to debate this here, in the open, or in the privacy of our
quarters?” he
huskily suggested, caressing one angled cheek with the back of his hand.
It was now the prince’s well-deserved turn to be
lasciviously evocative. “Unless my memories have turned false, I
believe we
have found great pleasures here, in the open, as you term it.” He
turned and
gestured toward a full length divan set beside the stone wall
overlooking the falls.
His voice turned husky with undeniable need, his eyes hooded with
weighty
desire which would not be denied. “I would have you here
– now.”
Part 2:
Elrond visibly shuddered, the sound of his lover’s voice
ripe with desire interwoven with the ethereal vision of the delicate
frosting
of the white flakes dusting the golden braids making the prince far
more
irresistible than usual, and beyond his power – or will – to refuse.
“The sons
of Mirkwood are unfair in warfare,” he playfully growled, a hint of a
swagger
in his step as he met up with Legolas.
“Not unfair,” Legolas retorted with a sly smile, sensuously
stroking the side of his lover’s face with lightly dancing fingertips.
“I have
merely found the weakness in your defenses --”
“And your intention is to use it against me,” Elrond
finished, his voice melding with a throaty moan of delight as those
talented
fingers fleetingly traced over the responsive rim of his ear. “The
battle is
lost – you have my full surrender.”
“No, meleth-nin, the battle is won.” Spooning behind the
elder elf, Legolas nuzzled his nose into the honey-scented mane and
laced his
fingers into the lapels of the velvety outer robe. Slowly he slid the
heavy
fabric from his lover’s shoulders, gracing the ticklish skin of the
passion-craned neck with lingering kisses equal parts promise and
ownership. With
a graceful twirl of his arm, he catapulted the discarded robe onto the
divan,
then without pause returned to the satisfying work of claiming the
spoils of
war.
Holding Elrond’s hands his purposeful captives, Legolas
raised them over their heads and, once satisfied they would remain in
such a
position without his continued attention, knelt down and gathered the
hem of
the shimmering, silvery undershirt. With a single, fluid motion he
returned to
his feet, shucking the soft garment upward as he stood. The discarded
cloth was
tossed under the divan without care, then the prince gathered Elrond to
him in
the tightest of embraces. Running his fingers down the slight arc of
the lord’s
back, they settled quite naturally upon the full, rounded fields of
flesh
beyond.
“We cannot allow the cold to profane your flesh,” Legolas
sweetly whispered between petal-soft kisses, his fingers brushing
uninvited
flakes from skin beneath his touch.
“’Tis strange, but I feel naught but heat,” Elrond teased
softly under his breath. A gasp of shuddered surprise caught his breath
at the
sensation of several fingertips running down the cleft valley of his
buttocks.
“That is but a taste of what fire I would have you feel this
night.” Releasing the elder elf, Legolas turned around and collected
the heavy
robe from the couch, carefully shook all hint of snow from its folds,
and spread
it over the lightly dusted fabric of the cushions. “Find comfort here,”
he
invited with a gesture of his hand.
Elrond acquiesced eagerly, and was soon covered by the
warmth of the prince’s heavy travel cloak. His gaze followed his
beloved’s next
actions with rapt anticipation, Mirkwood’s heir having the gift of
making
poetry of the simplest of actions. The suede travel tunic was unlaced
and shed
with lyrical meter, the removal of the pale green shirt beneath another
stanza
of equal allure.
Unlacing the front of his leggings, his eyes still locked with
Elrond’s, Legolas lingered in the contact. His fingers suggestively
traced out
the obvious outline of the aroused, private package, accentuating his
need for
his lover’s benefit and torment. “I thought of you every night I spent
alone,
imagined the sensation of your lips upon mine, your fingers upon my
flesh.” He
squeezed the filled front of his leggings and let out a small moan of
unabashed
pleasure. “Some nights I would take myself in my hand and imagine I was
sheathed in your body instead.”
Elrond’s hand now clasped around his own aching, turgid
flesh, his throat growing dry with the thrill of expectation. “Why
should we
now waste time remembering our nights alone when we may instead enjoy
what we
both longed for most?”
Legolas smiled mischievously, then purred as he lowered his
leggings and allowed his readied spear to spring freely into proud
view. “I
would have you know the agony I felt when I was absent from your bed.”
Toeing
off his boots and leggings, he stood now unadorned, his hand wrapped
around his
insistent need. His legs slightly spread apart and his back arched, he
thrust his
loins in Elrond’s direction, then with barely parted lips, he began to
stroke
with agonizing slowness.
Elrond moaned, his own fingers following the prince’s lead,
traveling the length of the lord’s need in fluid motion. “I know that
ache, for
I felt it too, as I do every night you are separated from me.” He
admired the
vision of perfection standing before him, long alabaster limbs, golden
hair
swaying across bow-honed shoulders, delicate crystals of snow
collecting on
brush-like lashes while others melted instantly upon contact with the
flush-heated
skin. “Ai, I feel it more sharply now, for this night I desire you more
than I
ever have.” He pulled aside the cloak, exposing his twitching flesh and
slightly spread legs, his posture as beckoning as his voice. “Come,
fanuilos caun-nin,
let us taste each other under the sky as you wished.”
Without delay, Legolas lay down upon his lover and wrapped the
cloak over them both. He took his unrushed fill of Elrond’s lips,
grinding his
swelled flesh into the other’s with incongruous urgency. Both elves
instinctively
moaned in delight, Elrond’s tone turning to one of disappointment as
Legolas
suddenly broke away. With a smile, the prince lay a single finger upon
those protesting
lips, straddled Elrond on his knees, and bent over to his pack. He
retrieved a
small phial and opened it with one hand. “I have learned to ever be
prepared when
there is any chance I might be in your presence, my lord,” he teased.
“I would
never wish to disappoint you.”
Elrond shivered at the sultry sound as well as the obvious
hint of bravado it bore. The passing of seasons had obviously healed
far more
than the prince’s broken body. “You do not have that ability,
malthenel-nin.”
“Let us pray this always be so.” He took one of Elrond’s
hands and poured some of the viscous oil into the cupped palm. “Prepare
me,” he
requested in a low, commanding voice. A hint of a smile twitched his
lips. “And
then yourself,” he purred more firmly still.
Elrond did as he was told without hesitation, lathering the
oil over the entire length of Legolas’ member, delighting in the solid
feel of
the steeled flesh undeniably responding to his touch. He rubbed a
slippery
thumb across the ridged crown and teased the sensitive slit which
graced it. Rewarded
with a whispered moan, he withdrew his hand from Legolas’ flesh, pushed
the
prince back with his dry hand to free his own legs, then drew his
thighs up to
his chest. Reaching under his body, he slid one of his own fingers
inside,
slowly, with purpose, his prince’s name moaned upon his lips. He
stroked
himself several full lengths, then withdrew the digit, joined it with
another,
and resumed the fulfillment of his appointed duty.
His cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded, the prince’s face was
a mirror of Elrond’s own features. He delighted in the desire he could
always bring
to blossom in his beloved’s face, and found he could wait no longer for
the
long-missed completeness of the prince’s body sheathed – nay consumed
-- within
his own. “As you have commanded, I await your touch,” he whispered in
tremulous
voice, withdrawing the fingers and
pressing the tight hunger of his needful flesh against the solidity of
the
prince’s waiting shaft.
Lacing his fingers through Elrond’s hair, the prince locked
lips with his favorite mouth and with a masterfully controlled thrust
of his
hips slowly slid inside. Together they moved as one, lips and loins, as
the
snow swirled around them with an increasing intensity which matched the
fire of
their veins. Yet all they could taste or feel was the completing
experience of
this most intimate of dances. Elrond’s fingers dug impressions of nails
into
Legolas’ shoulders from behind, his back arched upward to meet each of
his
beloved’s throbbing thrusts.
Sensing his own imminent arrival at that place only lovers
know, the younger elf slid a hand between them and with several
well-timed
strokes assured that his voice was not unaccompanied in crying out its
blissful
refrain.
Part 3:
[Hrive 48, the Year 3019 of the Third Age]
Elrond sat upon the divan, staring out over the falls, his
mind lost in memory, his flesh twitching under the privacy of his robes
in
remembrance of the prince’s magical touch. It had been half of Ithil’s
cycle
since the Fellowship left the safety of the valley, bearing away with
it his
very heart. Now even the skies above Imladris poured out their frozen
tears in
their sorrow at the Legolas’ leaving, the silent, pale flakes settling
upon the
stonework like a frosting upon his very heart.
Glorfindel entered the archway unnoticed and stood in
silence for the passing of several heartbeats. “My lord -- is all well?”
“Nothing has been, nor will be, for the passing of many
days.” Elrond paused, sighing heavily. “If ever again.” He glanced
upward,
feeling the chill of the wet flakes settle upon his face, covering his
cheeks
with nature’s weeping. Weary of the burden of Celebrimbor’s folly and
all its
seemingly endless repercussions, Elrond slowly rose from his seat,
swiping the
moisture from his cheeks as almost an afterthought. “Perhaps we should
have
considered more carefully your suggestion to entrust the ring to the Great
Sea, my friend.”
A sad smile of understanding reflected back. “’Twas a vain
hope, nothing more.”
Elrond strolled past Glorfindel, his voice flat, and bereft
of life. “’Twas a hope, nonetheless.”
“It would not have kept him safe forever,” the Lord of the
Golden Flower argued, following his friend several steps toward the
archway.
Sighing, Elrond rubbed his eyes in his fatigue of mind and
heart, wondering if the wetness he found there was from the snow alone.
“It
would have given him a chance to sail West.”
“Now ‘tis you who waste time in vain hopes. He would never
pass West without you, and we both know you would never leave these
shores
while the danger remained – your loyalty to Gil-galad would not allow
it.”
Glorfindel keenly regretted the need to bring up past pains, especially
now
that fresher ones just as grievous now loomed as a reality before them,
despite
the forced optimism of his words.
“I lost my heart once to Mordor….” Elrond found the words
caught in his throat, unable to give voice to his overwhelming fears
less he
somehow help them to become realized.
Glorfindel clasped his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “He
will return. You would not have sent him if you did not truly believe
that in
your heart.”
“’Twas he who asked to go, out of loyalty to Aragorn.”
Elrond paused. “And in honor of an oath he blindly swore years ago.”
“The prince was not so naive as you believed when he pledged
to treat your burdens as his own. Any decision he has made has been
with opened
eyes and an opened heart, and was done by his own free choice. ‘Twas a
choice
he has never regretted in the past, nor shall he do so now. He has
shared in
the fostering of Estel since his birth, and considers him as a son –
the son of
his blood he knows he shall never have.”
“He lost that choice the day he gave his heart to me,”
Elrond sadly noted.
“And as with all his choices, it was the one of his heart. He
also requested to go on this quest to save you the pain of asking him,”
Glorfindel too keenly surmised. “You would trust no other with a task
this grave.”
The golden-haired elf lord sadly smiled, understanding well his
friend’s
concerns. “He would also protect Lady Arwen’s heart from tasting the
bitterness
of grief.”
A father’s pain now mingled with that of a lover, the
sea-hued eyes reflecting agony which knew no bounds. “Would that any
could do
that with certainty. But ‘tis not possible. To love a mortal is to know
grief.”
“Some would say that all who love must know something of
that pain. Would we sacrifice all moments of joy in fear of tasting
their
loss?”
Elrond turned to face his friend, slowly shaking his head.
“I would not sacrifice a single moment of joy he has given me, but I
fear we
may have forfeited moments we might have otherwise been gifted.”
“Those you forfeit will be repaid to you tenfold in the days
of victory ahead, should the Fellowship succeed.”
“I will hold that hope close to my heart. May it sustain me
in the dark days to come.” Elrond strolled over to the stone rail and
intently stared
south wondering where his beloved slept this night. “Leave me,” he
gently
insisted. “I would be alone, with my memories – and my hopes, fleeting
as they
be.”
Glorfindel bowed deeply, his brow wrinkled in sorrowed
defeat. “As you desire, my lord.”
Silence ruled the moment, Elrond utterly lost in the tempest
of his sorrow. The unexpected sting of something hard and cold
impacting his
shoulder from behind roused him from his melancholy. <<He would
not
dare!>> He whipped around, a scowl upon his face, only to find
the blond
lord leisurely brushing snow from his hands “Glorfindel!” he barked.
The counselor bowed slightly, an expression of contrition
gracing his features. “A thousand apologies, my lord.”
“Take care that it does not happen again.” Satisfied in a
point well made, Elrond returned his focus to the valley, only to feel
another
mass of snow rudely contacting the back of his head. “Glorfindel!” he
roared as
he spun around.
“My pardon, my lord,” Glorfindel innocently replied. “I
thought I had displeased you with my carelessness of aim.”
Despite his foulness of mood, Elrond’s scowl turned to a sweet
smile of mirth, and he laughed for the first time since the Fellowship
had left
his land. “The House of the Flower indeed has fine aim.” Scooping up a
handful
of snow from the stonework, he deftly formed it into a weapon. “But
that of the
Swan is more sure still,” he pronounced, sending his projectile sailing
toward
its golden-haired target.
The honor of Gondolin’s houses was therefore decided amidst
the icy swirl of Hrive’s chill, the unwavering warmth of friendship and
hope winning
its own war against the onslaught of despair.
The End
Notes:
1) The hymn to Varda is as follows (with translation):
“A Elbereth
Gilthoniel,
[O Elbereth Star-kindler]
silivren penna míriel
[(white) glittering slants down
sparkling like jewels]
o menel aglar elenath!
[from [the] firmament [the] glory [of]
the star-host!]
Na-chaered palan-díriel
[To-remote distance far-having gazed]
o galadhremmin ennorath,
[from [the] tree-tangled middle-lands,]
Fanuilos, le linnathon
[Fanuilos, to thee I will chant]
nef aear, sí nef aearon!
[on this side of ocean, here on this
side of the Great Ocean!]”
2) For the back
story on Legolas’ in-laws, see “We Are Finding Who We Are.” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/wafwwa.html]
3) Fanuilos = snow
white, or ever white, of form. One of the epithets of Varda
fanuilos caun-nin = “my snow-white prince”
4) Hrive 48 corresponds to January 8, two weeks after the
departure of the Fellowship from Rivendell (December 25). See http://www.astrochick.com/calendar1.html
for more information on the calendar of Imladris.
5) In the book version of the Council of Elrond, Glorfindel
suggested that the One Ring might be tossed into the Great
Sea and there hidden from
Sauron.
Not a bad suggestion on the surface of it, since it was hidden in the
Great
River for approximately 2500 years after Isildur’s death.
6) According to the book, Legolas did not volunteer during
the Council of Elrond to accompany Frodo. Elrond informed Frodo about
the make
up of the Fellowship some weeks later (just before the nine left
Rivendell) and
announced that “Legolas shall be for the Elves….” [LOTR:
268] We do not know what went on behind
the scenes in terms of the decision to send Legolas and Gimli. The
natural
answer is that they represented their respective peoples at the Council
and
therefore were chosen to continue that representation in the
Fellowship.
However, one could also ask why it was Legolas specifically who was
chosen, and
not Glorfindel, Galdor, or Erestor. Obviously I have my own
explanation, but
that is another tale.
7) For more on the oaths of Elrond to Gil-galad and Legolas
to Elrond, see “Burdens Born, Burdens Borne.” (coming soon)
8) Celebrimbor’s folly is of course the forging of the Rings
of Power.
References:
J.R.R. Tolkien (1994) The Lord of the Rings (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin)
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