Title

Title: Sweetness and Gall

Author: Maggie Honeybite

E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com

Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, Elrond/Gil-galad implied, Elrond/Glorfindel implied

Rating: NC-17 eventually

Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM in later chapters

Beta: Manon

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his Elves.

Feedback: Would make my day

Notes: FYI, this story takes place around TA 1000.

Acknowledgments: A big thank you to all those who sent feedback. Thanks to my beta, Manon, for her helpful comments; thanks to Kharessa for the encouragement; and thanks to AC for inspiration, help with research and constructive criticism. :)

Chapter 1:

Elrond Half-elven sighed and rested his hands on the railing surrounding the wide balcony on which he stood, his keen Elven eyes following his father’s ship’s path across the sky. The light of Eärendil shone down on Middle Earth and its inhabitants, bringing hope and comfort to those in need of solace, his son among them. The peace and quiet of the night and the brilliant light of the stars always gladdened Elrond’s heart, even when it was most heavy, somehow managing to make the Lord of Imladris feel small and important at the same time; a modest part of a meaningful whole. He had his place in the grand scheme of things, and the knowledge of this significant fact made his burdens a little easier to bear.

He said a silent prayer to Elbereth in thanks for the blessings he had been granted, determined not to dwell on those that had been denied him, then turned and reached out with his hand for a flaky honey pastry temptingly displayed on a silver plate set upon a narrow table by the wall. The sound of hesitant footsteps halted his hand’s progress and Elrond turned towards the open doorway, curious about the unexpected intruder in the library beyond. The quiet footsteps ceased, replaced by the sound of someone sliding a book from a high shelf, then commenced again as the unanticipated visitor made his stealthy way towards the balcony on which the Half-elven stood. A few seconds later Elrond’s puzzled eyes were met with the sight of a young, dark-haired Elf, already deeply engrossed in the volume he held, even though his feet had not yet carried him to his intended destination.

"Melpomaen?"

The young Elf nearly dropped his book in surprise, his wide eyes focusing on Elrond’s kind face in apparent panic as he quickly stammered his apologies. "My Lord! I’m so sorry; I did not know you were here! Forgive me for disturbing your peace."

"You have done no such thing." Elrond smiled at the young one, determined to put him at ease. "It brings me great joy to find that there are those in the Last Homely House who so love books that they would forego their rest to spend the deepest hours of the night in the company of the written word." He gestured for the Elf to come closer. "I would be glad if you agreed to share my company as well, since we both seem to share a taste for late night reading."

Melpomaen wavered, seemingly wanting to accept the Elven Lord’s invitation, yet too awed by the authority of the ancient one before him. He took a few deep breaths, the answer apparently unwilling to come from his tightened throat.

"Pastry?" Elrond held the silver plate out towards the young scribe, enticing him with the appetizingly arrayed morsels coated in sweet honey.

That seemed to decide the dark-haired Elf, for he gave a somewhat more relaxed smile and took his first timid step towards the Lord of the valley.

"Mind the book..." Elrond managed to call out in warning, but Melpomaen had already carefully laid aside the volume he had cradled, ensuring it was safely out of harm’s way.

"I wouldn’t dream of defiling a precious tome such as this with my sticky fingers," the young Elf shyly offered, as his hand reached out for the delicacies on the silver plate before him.

"You have a great respect for books," Elrond noted appreciatively. "You’re a great deal more careful with them than my sons were at your age. I seem to remember a rather unfortunate incident involving a volume of Dwarvish tales and a pot of raspberry jam..." The Half-elven raised his eyes to the heavens and smiled indulgently, his tolerance owing to the perspective of a few hundred years.

Melpomaen looked horrified. "Raspberry jam?! But the books in your precious collection are so rare and beautiful! They should be treated with the utmost care and attention!"

"Spoken like a true scribe and lover of lore." The Lord of Imladris gave another pleased look to the young Elf before him, who fairly glowed under the attention. "It seems you have chosen the right occupation, Melpomaen. With this much dedication to your craft, you are sure to excel."

Melpomaen blushed and nodded happily. "Yes, I hold much love for what I do. And I’m so pleased to be here in Imladris; Edhellond didn’t have such... treasures as these." His eyes lovingly scanned the heavy bookshelves lining the walls of the spacious library, his fingers still gingerly holding the remnants of his pastry.

"You know you are welcome to use this library whenever you wish." Elrond’s tone was inviting, his grey eyes keenly assessing the shy Elf and finding him worthy. "Any time of day or night."

"I wouldn’t want to intrude..." Melpomaen sounded unsure, yet quite clearly tempted by Elrond’s offer.

"You will not intrude, I can assure you of that." The Half-elven’s voice was heartfelt and sincere. "I greatly pleases me that you find such delight in my library’s collection. Not all do, you know."

"Your sons... they do not care for books?" Melpomaen timidly ventured, looking up at Elrond with curious, wide eyes.

"Oh, they do now, but when they were younger..." Elrond gave an exasperated sigh. "Elrohir always did like books, maybe a little too much sometimes; hence the raspberry jam. It was Elladan who often had to be chased into the library with a stick... or the threat that I would get Glorfindel." The Lord of the valley laughed quietly and offered his companion another pastry, which the young Elf eagerly took. "My oldest son always did prefer his sword and horse to quill and parchment."

"*I* always preferred my quill and parchment to sword and horse," joked Melpomaen with a self-deprecating smile. "That’s probably why I’m such a terrible swordsman, and as for horses..." He cringed. "They do not care for my company."

"Your skills with the quill, on the other hand, are quite commendable, Melpomaen." Elrond complimented the dark-haired scribe, feeling a secret thrill at how his kind words raised a blush to the young one’s cheeks. "Erestor has shown me some of your work; you write a very fine hand."

The object of Elrond’s praise coloured with delight and timidly dropped his eyes to the floor. "Thank you, my Lord."

And that was when Elrond felt it; that long-forgotten quiver in his stomach, the desire to reach out and stroke a delicate cheek and see those curious eyes gaze into his own, the sudden urge to speak more honeyed words and be rewarded with a hesitant, beautiful smile. Although he hadn’t felt such stirrings in centuries, he recognized their symptoms at once, for it felt as if his heart had suddenly grown wings and begun its first, uncertain flutters in his chest. «He is a child!» Elrond quickly chastised himself, but to no avail. For the heart has its own reasons and will not listen to the well-meaning arguments of logic.

"How do you like it here in Imladris?" Elrond quickly asked, determined to dismiss from his mind the curious and disturbing feelings that had just made his heart quake and his body respond in kind.

"I like it quite well, thank you my Lord," the youngster eagerly replied, brushing a stray piece of pastry from the corner of his shapely mouth. The Lord of Imladris could only stare, mesmerized, as the young scribe quickly flicked the tip of an enticing, pink tongue and removed the offending trail of honey from his lower lip.

"Do you... miss home?" Elrond continued, half-ashamed at his body’s unexpected response to the tender charms of the younger Elf. He was an ancient Elf Lord who had experienced and endured much over the course of his many millennia. To be suddenly overcome with strange yearnings for one so much younger and so obviously vulnerable was unseemly and... quite out of character for him. He simply didn’t act thus; he never had.

He had always been drawn to strength; both of body and of spirit, as his long-standing and passionate relationship to his High King could attest. Gil-galad had been all that and more; strong and unbending, he had borne the heavy mantle of responsibility and destiny with grace and courage few could boast, and Elrond had loved him for it. His long-dead lover’s tenacity and stoutness of heart had forever marked the Peredhel, and he did not believe that he could ever settle for anything less, for anyone whose star shone less brightly.

There was his wife, of course, but... well, that was another matter altogether. He had come to the marriage with few illusions, yet with the earnest hope that they could build something lasting, something pure and good. It had taken him a few centuries to realize that Celebrían simply preferred to remain apart, no matter his good intentions. Reluctantly, he had resigned himself to his loneliness, knowing no one could ever rival Gil-galad’s hold over his heart and, thus far, no one had. So why did he now feel that strange yet all-too-familiar heat rise to his cheeks, and why did his heart beat faster when his eyes met Melpomaen’s?

"I have felt more at home here in Imladris over the past few months than I ever did back in Edhellond." Melpomaen’s voice was tinged with bitterness and Elrond suddenly felt a piece of the puzzle slide into place. The scribe may have been young and not had the appearance of a warrior, but there was strength in him, to be sure. The young one’s eyes held the steeled resolve Elrond had come to recognize in those whom life had dealt a hard blow. Melpomaen may have been young, but he was no child.

"Do you miss nothing of it?" Elrond prodded further, needing to know more.

"I... miss the rivers. And the sea." Melpomaen’s thoughts turned inward, his eyes looking into the night but not seeing. "And the salty air." He looked up at the Elven Lord and smiled. "But not the people."

"Not your family?"

"My parents were killed when I was only a baby, and the people who raised me... they were not my family." His mouth turned grim again.

"I’m sorry to hear that, Melpomaen." Elrond’s voice was full of sympathy. "I know too well what it is to lose your parents at a young age."

"I know, my Lord." Now it was Melpomaen who gave the older Elf a look filled with sympathy. "But your father watches over you still." The young elf raised his dark eyes to the stars.

"Aye, and it comforts me greatly to watch his ship sail across the sky." Elrond smiled. "I sometimes come here just before the dawn to track its progress. It makes me feel less... alone." He glanced at the younger Elf, his gaze unguarded, and was met with a look of genuine concern and understanding. «Aiya, what am I doing?» Elrond suddenly came to his senses. «I am speaking of matters far too personal to discuss with someone of his age and station.»

"What about your family here, my Lord?" Melpomaen’s voice was timid, but his eyes betrayed a far greater courage. "Your children? Your... wife?"

Elrond could have stopped the conversation right there; the young scribe was, after all, asking about matters that should not have been his concern. But the look on Melpomaen’s face and the affinity Elrond felt between them, strengthened by the intimacy of the silence in the pre-dawn darkness, made him answer without hesitation.

"My wife spends most of her time in Lórien. She prefers it there." The Lord of Imladris gave his young companion a frank look, which communicated much more than words could hope to do. "My daughter is with her, and my sons... travel a lot. They are away just now."

"If I called Imladris my home, I would not want to leave its beauty for all the charms of Middle Earth." Melpomaen stared at the stone tiles beneath his feet, but Elrond could tell from the trembling in his voice that the sentiments he had just expressed were ones he held most dear.

"But you *do* call Imladris your home, Melpomaen." Elrond gently reminded the younger Elf. "It is your home now, even if it wasn’t before."

"Yes..." The young scribe’s face brightened visibly. "Yes, I guess it is." He looked at Elrond with eyes that gleamed with an inner light that made the Half-elven’s lonely flesh tingle once again. "Thank you for speaking with me. You were most kind to make me feel welcome." He turned as if to leave. "I will not disturb your private moments any longer."

"Don’t forget your book." Elrond held out the leather-bound volume to his retreating companion. "It’s what you came in here for in the first place." He gave the young scribe an amused smile.

"Oh, I couldn’t take it out of the library, it belongs here..."

"I’m sure it will be quite safe with one who loves books as much as you." Elrond smiled again.

The Lord of Imladris watched Melpomaen take the weighty tome, give a quick bow, then soundlessly slip out of the room. He closed his eyes and sighed, trying hard to ignore the fire the younger Elf had kindled in his heart.

Chapter 2:

Melpomaen woke early to the feeling of a light breeze coming through his window. Still unused to his surroundings, and not quite at home in his wide, high bed, he stumbled awkwardly before painfully landing on the cold, hard floor. The day was definitely not off to a good start, he thought stoically as he picked himself up and rubbed his sore ankle. Quickly dressing in the long, flowing robes customarily worn in Imladris, he nearly fell again as his foot accidentally stepped on the hem of his outer garment. He was finding these long robes to be a real nuisance, and would have much rather worn the loose tunics and casual leggings he was used to, but his position as apprentice scribe and advisor in Elrond's household, and respect for the customs of his new home, obliged him to adopt the habitual dress of the valley Elves. He would get used to it in time, he thought. It was a very small price to pay for the privilege of working and living in the Last Homely House. He was quite fortunate to have been accepted into Elrond's service, and would do his best to acquit himself admirably of his duties.

His thoughts inevitably turning to his work, Melpomaen realized with dread that today was a day of rest. There would be no Elves toiling in the vast libraries of Imladris today – especially not on as fine a morning as this. Most would be outside with their families and friends, enjoying the sunshine, strolling through the gardens or perhaps taking a swim in the Bruinen. Unfortunately, unlike the vast majority of the valley Elves, Melpomaen found holidays to be awkward at best. He had no family and had not been around Imladris long enough to make any friends. Not that he found making friends easy at the best of times; his introverted, timid nature made it difficult for him to open up to others, and severely impaired his ability to initiate conversations. «A fine advisor I will make...» thought Melpomaen disparagingly, as he carefully closed the door to his chambers. He wished he had the confidence of someone like Lord Glorfindel, who always seemed to be laughing or talking loudly, ever at ease and in his element.

The young Elf sighed and directed his steps towards the large dining room. It was about time for breakfast; he would have a bite to eat and then head to the library. He had left some work unfinished the previous evening, and just because he wasn't required to work today didn't mean he couldn't dedicate a few hours to copying his scrolls. If he chose to spend his day of rest hunched over his writing desk, it was his choice. It was where he felt most comfortable anyway.

The dining room, with its large windows overlooking the extensive gardens, was not crowded. Most of the long tables were empty, and only a few small groups of Elves sat eating and talking in hushed tones. Melpomaen piled some wild blueberries and honey pastry on his plate – he had to admit, these Imladris Elves certainly did know how to bake – and was just about to sit in a corner by the window when a cheerful voice reached his ears.

"Eating alone?"

Melpomaen looked up and was somewhat surprised to see an unknown, golden-haired Elf smiling at him. He looked around to make sure that the stranger wasn't addressing someone behind him, but no, the Elf seemed to be speaking to him.

"Melpomaen, isn't it? I've seen you around, but I don't think we've had a chance to meet yet. I'm Caegaran. Have a seat, breakfast always tastes better in pleasant company." The Elf's voice had a light, affable tone to it, and Melpomaen found himself relaxing. He moved closer and sat down.

"I see you've discovered Imladris' famous honey pastry. I can't get enough of the stuff myself." Caegaran's blue eyes twinkled merrily as he gave Melpomaen a friendly wink. "Don't get much of that when we're out on patrol. Have to make do with lembas."

"You're on the border patrol then?" Melpomaen finally managed to say.

"Yes, for about two centuries now. I work under Lord Glorfindel mostly, though I do lead the patrol myself from time to time. Especially in these times; we patrol more frequently since the Orc attacks have intensified, so I get a bit more responsibility. At least something good comes out of it all, I say." He grinned at Melpomaen.

"Certainly..." was the cleverest response Melpomaen could think of, and he silently cursed himself for his timidity. Since coming to Imladris, this was the first conversation he'd had that did not revolve around his official duties. Well... save for that strange late night encounter with Lord Elrond on the library balcony, but that certainly didn't count. After all, the Lord of the valley could do as he pleased in his realm, and if it amused him to speak to young Elves in his employ, it was his prerogative. Melpomaen certainly didn't think that their tête-à-tête – surprisingly candid though it was – could ever blossom into a real friendship. But this – this strange Elf chatting him up over breakfast – now this had potential. He took a deep breath and resolved to be as witty as Glorfindel.

"Do you enjoy the border patrol?" All right, so it wasn't the most insightful of questions, but at least it was a start.

"For the most part." Caegaran nodded thoughtfully. "Some days it's pretty dull, but the other day, for instance, just as we were crossing the river..."

His companion's tone of voice and body language signalling the beginning of a lengthy tale, Melpomaen sat back and leisurely sampled the blueberries and honey pastry on his plate. Lapsing into his old habit of surreptitious observation, he discreetly let his eyes wander over the Elf sitting across the table.

Caegaran – just now expressively gesticulating with his fork – was tall for an Elf, with golden hair and clear blue eyes. His skin had a golden tint to it, much unlike Melpomaen's own, which was pale and delicate. He seemed a good-natured fellow, and Melpomaen found himself smiling at the thought that, at last, he knew someone in the Last Homely House with whom he could share a meal. Perhaps this day of rest wouldn't be such a chore after all. Maybe they could walk down to the river or through the gardens or...

"... and it was a good two weeks before I could hold a bow again, let alone fire an arrow," Caegaran was saying. "It was Lord Elrond's healing abilities that saved my arm, naught else, of that I am sure." His eyes suddenly rested on Melpomaen with deep concentration. The young Elf found himself growing uncomfortable.

"Do you work with Lord Elrond much, Melpomaen, as part of your duties?" Caegaran's eyes had focused on Melpomaen's own with such intensity that the dark-haired Elf found he had to will himself not to look away.

"From time to time... I'm apprenticed as one of his scribes and advisors, only the most junior of advisors mind you... I've worked with him in the library sometimes, and I do attend his council..." Melpomaen felt a chill travel down his spine as Caegaran's eyes turned almost predatory.

The border guard's voice had almost a mocking tone to it when he next spoke. "Have you served Lord Elrond yet, Melpomaen?"

"Served him? Why, I serve him every day; I copy scrolls and look after library books..."

"No, I meant *served* him..." Caegaran's smirk was nothing short of malicious. "In his bed..."

Melpomaen felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He heard a ringing in his ears as he stared at the other Elf in disbelief. "Wh... what?" This was madness, the other Elf couldn't possibly be serious, could he? He swallowed nervously and glanced at Caegaran, hoping to catch a glimpse of the amiable, laughing fellow he'd been talking to just moments ago. That Elf, it seemed, was no longer there. In his place sat an evil looking creature who seemed to delight in Melpomaen's discomfort.

"Or didn't you know?" Caegaran continued, undeterred. "Lord Elrond expects his advisors to serve him in every possible way." He smirked. "And I hear he's got quite the imagination, so I hope you've got an adventurous streak..."

"But that can't possibly be true, I mean, Lord Elrond is noble and serious, he wouldn't..." Melpomaen was grasping at straws. The thought that the kind and wise Elf he had talked to in the library just a few nights before, and whom he had instinctively trusted and admired, would harbour these secret perversions was appalling. Still, he had trouble disputing this horrible information when the source of that information was staring at him with such a knowing look in his eyes. Caegaran seemed so sure of what he was saying and *had* been on the border patrol for two centuries, whereas Melpomaen had only been in Imladris for such a short time... Maybe there were things no one had told him, things he was only meant to learn later... "Lord Elrond wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't he?" Caegaran's lip curled in a sneer. "I beg to differ, young one. He would. Why, even Lord Glorfindel shares his bed and serves him most intimately. I saw them myself."

"You did?!"

"Aye. I was walking in the corridor late one evening and Lord Elrond's door was slightly open. So I looked. And there was Lord Glorfindel on his knees in front of Lord Elrond, performing... well, let's just say that his performance must have been more than satisfactory, for Lord Elrond was quite vocal in expressing his appreciation." Caegaran smirked. "So if an ancient Elf Lord like Lord Glorfindel isn't above looking after the... personal needs of our Lord, I wouldn't think such service to be beneath you."

"But I.."

"I wouldn't worry too much, Melpomaen. I hear Lord Elrond is a skilled and inventive lover. I would think you'd rather enjoy the experience when he turns his attention to you... whatever he has in mind for you. And don't think I haven't noticed the way he looks at you."

This was almost more than Melpomaen could bear. He felt his head start to spin and blood rise to his cheeks. "The way he looks at me?"

"The way he stares at you at mealtimes or when you walk by, his eyes lingering on your body, appraising your every line and curve. Haven't you noticed?"

"No..." Melpomaen's voice was almost a squeak.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he summoned you to his chambers before long." Caegaran gave Melpomaen a sly, significant look. "And then... I hope those long fingers of yours are skilled in more than just calligraphy..."

Melpomaen was beyond trying to formulate a reply. He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair in the process, and bolted from the room.

****

Glorfindel sighed with pleasure and lifted his face up to the sun. He took a deep breath, luxuriating in the sweet scent of the air, and let the golden rays warm him to the core. He so enjoyed these relaxing strolls in Elrond's private gardens... «I must remember to do this more often,» he thought to himself. An afternoon's rest in this peaceful green oasis did him so much good! He always came back to his duties refreshed, rejuvenated and calm. He turned a corner, walking past an elegant statue of the Lady Elbereth that Elrond had recently commissioned and which he found to be quite fetching, and took a seat on a low bench, party hidden by the shrubbery. No one would find him here. He smiled. Yes, that's exactly why he liked these gardens so much; he could lose himself here for hours and not deal with his duties as Elrond's seneschal. It was a rare luxury; one which he allowed himself only seldom and one which, he knew, Elrond did not begrudge him. Glorfindel leaned back against the bench, looking around him at the empty gardens, so peaceful, so quiet, so...

What was that? Glorfindel sat up, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, what he was seeing seemed real enough. One of the young apprentice scribes, Melpomaen, was practically galloping up the path, looking as if a troop of Orcs was after him. Melpomaen's robes were hiked up not to impede his run and his hair was in a mess about his head. One of his arms was flailing about wildly.

"Lord Glorfindel!" Melpomaen's voice held a distinct note of desperation. "Lord Glorfindel, please, I must speak with you!"

Glorfindel sighed, and reluctantly stood up from the bench. His afternoon of leisure would have to wait. The young Elf seemed truly distraught; whatever had upset him would have to be dealt with and dealt with immediately. Ah, well, Elrond's private gardens weren't going anywhere; he'd just have to come back another time. Glorfindel took a deep breath and schooled his features in a look of concern and understanding.

"What is it Melpomaen? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Judging by the way the young scribe was acting, whatever was ailing him was pretty serious. Glorfindel did not know Melpomaen very well, but he knew him well enough to see that his panicked demeanour was severely out of character. Melpomaen was usually controlled and reserved, and seemed reluctant to draw attention to himself. If anything, he was timid and seemed to have a hard time speaking to older Elves like Glorfindel unless his job absolutely required it. And here he was now, making a spectacle of himself in Elrond's private garden, asking, nay, insisting to speak to Glorfindel during the Elda's cherished afternoon off. Something was definitely wrong.

"Come here and sit down, Melpomaen." Glorfindel tried to sound soothing. "It can't be as bad as all that, now."

"I'm afraid it is..." Melpomaen sounded crushed. Glorfindel noticed with alarm that the young Elf was close to tears, his face flushed and his slender frame trembling.

Glorfindel sat back down on the stone bench and pulled Melpomaen down beside him. He brushed a stray lock of dark hair out of the younger Elf's eyes and gave him an encouraging smile. "Well? What sort of calamity has brought you here in such a state? You said you wanted to speak with me."

The young Elf took a deep breath. "Is it true what they say... what they say about..." Melpomaen's voice was shaking, yet he ploughed on with the resolve of someone determined to unearth the truth or go to his doom.

"About what?"

"About... Lord Elrond?" Melpomaen's eyes, fixed firmly on the ground until this point, glanced up at Glorfindel's face, wide and frightened. He looked so young, Glorfindel thought, so young despite the formal robes he was wearing, so young despite the serious manner he had tried to adopt all those times the Elda had seen him in Elrond's council.

"What about Elrond?" Glorfindel's voice, though kind, could not help betraying a note of curiosity.

"That he... that he... expects his advisors to..." Melpomaen lowered his eyes again and his voice dropped to a mere whisper. "To pleasure him... in bed?"

Glorfindel's sky-blue eyes widened as he stared at Melpomaen in disbelief. It was usually difficult to rattle Glorfindel; after countless millennia of experience and time spent in Mandos' Halls, he thought he'd seen and heard it all. But apparently not. This was something new.

"Wherever did you get that idea?" Glorfindel's voice was incredulous.

"Caegaran. He's a guard with the border patrol. He told me." Melpomaen sounded a little less shaky. "Are you saying it's not true?"

"What kind of establishment do you think we're running here, Melpomaen?" Glorfindel had broken out into a grin. "I have no doubt that you have many talents, but I assure you that the only ones that interest Elrond are those you are able to display in the library and in his council."

A blush coloured Melpomaen's cheeks. He glanced up at Glorfindel, relieved yet still not convinced. "But Caegaran told me that you..."

"That I what?"

"That you and Lord Elrond were..." Melpomaen let his sentence trail off, his meaning clear.

"Ah." Glorfindel paused, finally understanding. So this was the real reason for all the commotion. "Tell me, Melpomaen, how old are you?"

Melpomaen turned a deeper shade of red and looked at Glorfindel defiantly. "I'm almost eighty-six."

"Pen-neth..." Glorfindel leaned in closer and looked into Melpomaen's eyes kindly. "May I call you that? I *am* a good few millennia older than you..."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Pen-neth, no doubt you've noticed that Elrond is very beautiful. Even by Elven standards, he is exceptionally fair. Not to mention wise. And kind. And... powerful." Glorfindel paused, studying Melpomaen's expression. The young Elf was all eyes, drinking in every word that fell from the Elda's lips. Glorfindel continued. "Many are drawn to him, attracted by all those qualities. But Elrond is a very private person, and he tends to keep people at a distance. Do you understand?"

The blank look in Melpomaen's eyes told Glorfindel that the young scribe did not. "Melpomaen, when people feel rejected, or when they think that their heart's desire is beyond their reach, they sometimes get bitter... and lash out." Glorfindel could see a glimmer of comprehension in Melpomaen's midnight eyes. "That... border guard who told you all this nonsense, well, he likely has feelings for Elrond that are not returned and he thought..."

"That it might be amusing to hurt me instead." Melpomaen's voice was steady, if a bit sad.

"Yes, that's one way of putting it." Glorfindel gave Melpomaen one of his famous charming smiles. "As for Elrond and me, well... we've known each other for a very long time. We are close friends, Melpomaen. It's true that our relationship sometimes goes beyond friendship, but that is our own affair. And I can assure you that whatever activities Elrond and I choose to engage in, whether in the privacy of his chambers or mine, have absolutely nothing to do with my position. Er, my position as his seneschal, I mean." Glorfindel flashed Melpomaen a wicked look and the young Elf blushed fiercely once again.

"Feel better?"

"Yes." Melpomaen's voice was indeed full of relief.

"Good. Now make yourself comfortable and tell me exactly what this border guard told you."

***

Notes: pen-neth – young one

Chapter 3:

"Burning the midnight oil again, mellon?"

Elrond looked up, startled to see Glorfindel peering at him through the doorway. He smiled and beckoned his friend to come closer.

"No rest for the wicked..." He gave Glorfindel a conspiratorial smile. "Just finishing up some reports... Thranduil's recent delegation has brought us news of some pretty serious skirmishes with Orcs in the Greenwood. Nothing they weren't able to handle, of course, at least according to Thranduil – you know he's too proud to ever admit any sort of weakness – but worrisome nonetheless. Why, what was on your mind?" Elrond's voice held the unmistakable tone of fatigue.

"Just seeking out your company after a long day."

"Had a long day too?"

"You could say that. I had a rather interesting conversation with Melpomaen this afternoon."

"Oh?"

"Concerning you, I might add."

"Really?" Elrond's voice suddenly seemed to have lost some of its fatigue. "Do make yourself comfortable and tell me more. I'd like to hear this." The Lord of Imladris stepped aside and gestured for Glorfindel to move to the fireplace. With a mischievous smile, the blond sank down into a cushioned armchair. Elrond sat across from him and motioned with his hand for the Elda to continue his story.

Glorfindel needed little encouragement. He leaned forward and launched into his tale with the relish of someone who loves a good piece of gossip. "Melpomaen came to me today, rather in a panic. Apparently he'd had a disturbing conversation with one of the Elves assigned to the border patrol. This Elf told him..." Glorfindel had a hard time suppressing a snort of laughter.

"What? Don't keep me in suspense, meldir; come now, what?"

"He told Melpomaen that, in his role as one of your advisors, he'd be required to serve you in a rather... personal capacity."

"Huh??" Elrond's fair features held an expression of utter disbelief. "Melpomaen thought I expected him to..."

"To bed you, yes."

"But..."

"Don't worry meldir, I set him straight. The poor Elf. You should have seen him, Elrond, he looked so distraught, eyes all wide and frightened, hands twisting his robes – he nearly cried. It would have been rather a sad sight – if it hadn't been so amusing." Glorfindel chuckled as he regarded his friend.

Elrond still looked rather baffled. "But why would he..."

"Apparently someone told him of the closeness the two of us sometimes share and explained that my reasons for... keeping you happy had to do with my loyalty to you as my liege. And that Melpomaen, as one of your advisors, would be expected to do the same – out of loyalty to Imladris and a concern for your well-being." Glorfindel was nearly doubled over with laughter by this time. He clutched his stomach and gasped for air. "Forgive me, Elrond, maybe you don't find this as humorous as I do... Oh, but it is funny! You should have seen the look on his face!"

"Was the idea that distasteful to him?" Elrond's hesitant question stopped Glorfindel's laughter short.

"What?" Glorfindel looked at Elrond, puzzled.

"You said that he looked distraught and that he nearly cried. All this at the prospect of sharing my bed." Elrond's voice held a note of discouragement and his eyes carefully avoided the curious gaze of his friend.

"Elrond, don't tell me you're actually interested in the Elfling... Are you?" Glorfindel was stunned. "Whoever told him this crazy story also hinted that he'd found favour with you, but... I just assumed it was all part of some joke, some twisted game... No joke, huh?"

Elrond twisted one of his braids in his fingers, looking visibly uncomfortable. "He's... quite fair, Glorfindel." His eyes hesitantly sought out those of his friend, and then focused once again on the fireplace. "Not in a manner that's obvious or flashy, but... Melpomaen is lovely in his way... So tall and slim and dark... He's quiet and timid yet, when he speaks, the advice he gives is sound and the remarks he makes are sharp and witty. I... like him, Glorfindel. I think he reminds me of myself in some ways, back in the early days in Gil-galad's court, when I felt so out of my element and thought all eyes were on me and judging me. He looks uncertain, but there's much beneath that shy exterior." Elrond's grey eyes again met those of his friend, and his eyebrow arched. "What?"

Glorfindel regarded his friend and sometime lover with an amused look. "By the Valar, you are a rare sight. It has been ages since I last saw that kind of fire in your eyes."

"Oh, what's the use, Glorfindel? You said yourself..."

"Elrond, he only reacted that way because he thought he might be forced into something he would have no say in. Now that he knows he has a choice in the matter, he may..."

"He may what?"

"Well, he may come around..."

"Right. And Orcs will learn their manners and quit attacking our borders. Ever the eternal optimist, Glorfindel." Elrond ran his long fingers through his dark hair, sighed, and got up from his chair. "Enough of this talk. Would you join me in the kitchens?"

"If you can't have love, there's always sweets..."

"Oh, shut up Glorfindel."

****

Melpomaen looked up from the parchment he was copying and carefully dipped his quill in the elaborately inlaid inkwell on the table before him. The inkwell, like most things in the Last Homely House, was an object of great beauty. Much care and craftsmanship had gone into its making, and Melpomaen had to admit that he had never known the joy of working with such pleasing and well made tools before coming to Imladris. The Lord of the valley liked surrounding himself with beautiful things, less so for their material value – although his home certainly did not want for jewels or precious mithril – but rather because he found their elegance and charm delightful to the eye. The home of Elrond Half-elven was filled with masterfully carved wood, exquisite paintings and detailed tapestries, not all of them valuable, but all of them lovely. The very inkwell Melpomaen was using may not have fetched a high price – being inlaid not with jewels or gold but rather bits of glittering seashells – but it was beautiful to behold and made the young scribe's work that much more of a pleasure. On most days, that is. For this day, Melpomaen found it fiendishly difficult to focus.

Sitting on the other side of the library, bent over an ancient scroll in an attitude of perfect concentration, his long dark hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, sat the cause of Melpomaen's inner turmoil. Elrond. Blissfully unaware of the effect he was having on the young Elf in his employ, the Lord of the valley ran a manicured hand through his carefully plaited locks and frowned as he scrutinized the text before him. He then soundlessly pushed his chair back from the table, moved to a tall bookshelf in the corner and, picking up a heavy volume, made his way back to his chair and gracefully sat back down.

Melpomaen sighed and willed his thoughts to return to the text he was copying, but with little success. Glorfindel's words suddenly came back to him: «Elrond is very beautiful. Even by Elven standards, he is exceptionally fair.» After spending several months toiling in the vast libraries of Imladris, Melpomaen was just now beginning to see the truth in Glorfindel's statement. His employer, his Lord – Elrond Peredhel – was a true beauty. Nay, calling him a beauty did not seem adequate; did not quite do justice to his grace, elegance and inner radiance. Nor did it take into account his kindness and wisdom – qualities that only served to make him more desirable.

Melpomaen could only assume that he had hitherto been blind. How else would he not have noticed the way Elrond's grey eyes could peer intensely, staring right through the person he was talking to, only to twinkle in mirth when someone said something amusing? How could he not have seen the way Elrond's dark hair cascaded down his back, the way his voice was low, yet musical, the way his expressive, full mouth curved into a lovely smile?

The object of Melpomaen's admiration suddenly shifted in his chair, parting his long legs and leaning forward over the volume that lay open on the table. His heavy velvet robe fell open slightly, revealing just a hint of a legging-clad thigh while at the same time hugging the arch of his muscled back.

Elbereth! thought Melpomaen with alarm, forcing his gaze down to the parchment beneath his fingers. His face burned with the heat of a strange, suppressed excitement as his thoughts took a disturbing, though not altogether unexpected, turn. He could only imagine how Elrond's back, muscled from ages of fighting and training, would taper to shapely buttocks, how his chest would give way to a flat stomach, which in turn would... My, was it getting hot in here? All of a sudden Melpomaen felt thankful for the long robes customarily worn by the residents of Imladris. He hadn't liked them at first, finding them too formal, but now he had to admit that they had their uses. No other garment, he thought, would have successfully hidden the all-too-obvious and not entirely welcome evidence of his arousal. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced at Elrond again. The Lord of Imladris, just at that moment charmingly twisting one of his long plaits in his fingers, looked as comely as ever. Maybe even more so. Valar, thought Melpomaen, this was going to be a long afternoon...

****

Melpomaen was on his hands and knees and Elrond was behind him. Elrond's hands were on the young scribe's shoulders and his dark hair fell in silky strands against his back. The Peredhel's breath felt hot against Melpomaen's pointy ear and his hardness moved deep inside the younger Elf, filling him with such a sweet ache that he thought he would burst with the joy of it. Melpomaen wanted more, wanted it so badly... "Please..." he longed to whisper, but found that he could not coax any sound from his tightened throat. Elrond's hand traced patterns down Melpomaen's chest as the Elven Lord rocked inside him. The older Elf's fingers moved to circle Melpomaen's erection and began stroking it in time with his thrusts. His movements became more feverish as he neared his own completion. His breath in Melpomaen's ear became more laboured, and his hand on the young Elf's shoulder tightened its grip. Melpomaen could only close his eyes and feel the Half-elven fill him so completely that the rest of the world receded in comparison. As Elrond's hand stroked harder and faster, Melpomaen felt himself lose control and spiral into a sweet abyss as a shower of light exploded behind his eyes.

Melpomaen awoke with a start as he spilled himself between his sheets. Pleasant sensations still coursing through his body, he lay back, closed his eyes and groaned in frustration. Great. Now he was going to have to change the linens, and Elbereth only knew what he was going to do with the dirty ones. Why did this have to happen to him now? He thought he'd been done with it; he hadn't had a dream like that since his body had first awakened before his majority. It had been a terrible nuisance and embarrassment to him then, waking up wet and sticky in the middle of the night, but he thought he'd been done with all that business for good. And now his old predicament was back with a vengeance, and over Elrond no less! Elrond, his employer, his Lord, his liege...

Oh, but Elrond's touch had felt so good in his dream... Elrond's hands, his breath, his... especially his... Oh, Valar, thought Melpomaen, would it really feel like that? Would Elrond be gentle and slow or would he take him roughly? The Lord of Imladris seemed so kind, he really was kind, but Melpomaen had heard that those who carried the burden of office and kept up a constant appearance of control sometimes took their frustrations out in the bedchamber... He shivered, from fear or excitement, he did not know. Don't be ridiculous! Melpomaen checked his wild imaginings. As if Elrond would really be interested in him! Elrond had Glorfindel, after all; the Elda himself had admitted as much to Melpomaen. «Our relationship sometimes goes beyond friendship.» That's what Glorfindel had said. So what Caegaran had said may also have been true. A sudden image of Glorfindel on his knees in front of Elrond, taking the Peredhel's length into his mouth, flashed into Melpomaen's mind. And he found himself growing erect again. Oh, would that it were he on his knees in front of Elrond, not Glorfindel! He would use his nimble, scribe's fingers to undo Elrond's lacings, he'd free that velvety hardness he remembered from his dream, he'd nuzzle in the soft curls he found there... That thought made his desire twitch against his belly, and Melpomaen slipped his slim fingers under the covers and took himself in hand. The sheets were already a lost cause; he may as well take advantage. He closed his eyes and began the long, measured strokes that always brought him release. And his thoughts continued.

What would Elrond be like as a lover? Would he be silent, betraying his pleasure only with hitched breathing and the occasional quiet whimper? Or would he give voice to his body's enjoyment, moaning his pleasure aloud and calling out at the moment of climax? Would he... would he call Melpomaen's name? Sweet Valar, thought Melpomaen, to hear that low voice call his name aloud in a moment of passion would be pure bliss. His hand stroked faster under the sheets. His back arched up, his thighs flexed, his fingers gripped harder and, closing his eyes tight, Melpomaen came.

He relaxed against his pillow again. Ridiculous Elfling, he thought. What would the Lord of Imladris want with you when he has countless others pining away for him, a beautiful wife – who may be away a great deal and seems rather cold and distant, but is beautiful nonetheless – and a lover like Glorfindel? Why, Glorfindel was practically a legend! Not to mention attractive, charming and... experienced. Wistfully, Melpomaen remembered how the Elda had joked with him, sexual innuendo rolling off his tongue with the practiced ease of many an age. Oh yes, Glorfindel would know how to please Elrond, he'd know exactly what to do. He would be just as commanding or submissive as the situation required, and wouldn't be embarrassed at all. He would look Elrond in the eyes as he displayed that golden, sun-kissed body, he would be as wanton as the Half-elven liked him to be... Melpomaen could never compete with that... Why, he'd never even had a lover before...

Melpomaen couldn't help but cringe as he thought back over the few sexual encounters he'd had over the years. There really hadn't been many, just a hesitant kiss or two, a few hurried touches in darkened rooms, and... well, of course, there had been that one time... The reason he'd ended up in Imladris in the first place... But he could hardly call that an encounter, after all, nothing had happened in the end. The young Elf he'd met at the summer festival in Edhellond had seemed nice, had told Melpomaen he was beautiful, had held his hand... and then suggested they go someplace more private... Melpomaen had agreed, half-drunk on the idea that someone wanted him, drawn to the other's knowing eyes, his lilting voice, the warmth of his skin... The Elf had smelled nice too, Melpomaen remembered, smelled like a summer day, something that made Melpomaen think of sand and wild grass, and it was that scent that Melpomaen recalled most vividly whenever he thought about what had happened next. They had ended up in an empty storeroom, Melpomaen cornered between a shelf and a wall, the other Elf pressed up against him, his lips on Melpomaen's neck, his hands on Melpomaen's body... The Elf's touch had felt so nice, his presence so comforting, his whispered words so soothing... Melpomaen had closed his eyes and imagined he was lying among sand and wild grass, that he finally belonged to someone, and he felt happy... And then, suddenly, the dark room was full of light, the other Elf was scrambling away from Melpomaen, fumbling with his clothes, and someone was screaming... And Melpomaen was left huddling in a corner, embarrassed, his leggings around his ankles...

Melpomaen's foster-mother – for it was she who had inadvertently walked in on the two Elves – had been indignant and, after hurling a number of choice expletives in Melpomaen's direction, wouldn't speak to him for a week. And then she'd made it painfully clear that Melpomaen was no longer welcome in her house. Not that he'd ever really felt welcome there... It was almost a relief to leave, especially after he'd managed to secure a position as scribe-in-training in the famous libraries of Imladris. It hadn't been an easy task, the Last Homely House being a choice destination for all aspiring scholars and archivists, but Melpomaen had finally succeeded with the help of a few enthusiastic recommendations from his teachers and mentors, who believed him to be both bright and talented. When he arrived in Elrond's realm a few months ago he felt like a brand new chapter in his life had begun. Here was his chance at a fresh start, a chance to make something of his life, to finally stop feeling like a burden... He hadn't bargained on the Lord of Imladris being such a distraction...

Melpomaen slipped from his high bed and gathered the soiled sheets in his arms, taking them to the small adjacent bathroom and dumping them in a heap. He retrieved a blanket from the tall chest of drawers in the corner and curled up on the bed again. This madness would have to stop, he told himself. He would not mess up his life again over an idiotic attraction; his life in Imladris was far too precious a prize to risk for the desires of the body. What he felt for Elrond would pass, he was sure of it. It would just take some time, but he was an Elf; he had all the time in the world. He would simply have to wait it out and try to make the best of a bad situation. He smiled to himself as he thought that making the best of a bad situation was something he'd become very good at, something he'd been doing all his life.

****

Notes: mellon – friend

meldir – friend (male)

Chapter 4:

"Could you hand me that volume, Melpomaen, the one I was looking at before?" Glorfindel dipped his quill in the inkwell, determined to finish the task at hand before the afternoon drew to a close. He watched as the young Elf carefully climbed the ladder up to the highest shelf and handed him the book in question. "Thank you, pen-neth." He smiled at Melpomaen. Since their memorable conversation in Elrond's garden, Glorfindel had continued to use that endearment to refer to the young scribe and, surprisingly enough, Melpomaen hadn't seemed to mind.

Glorfindel watched as Melpomaen neatly stacked a pile of parchments on the corner of his desk and, rolling up the sleeves of his robe, prepared to attack another, messier, pile. "Are you planning on staying here all night, pen-neth? Why don't you go on and get ready for the festivities. Leave me here, I won't be long. You must be eager to enjoy all the fun they have planned for this evening, especially after spending the whole day in this dreary place." Glorfindel winked at the younger Elf. Melpomaen smiled, nodded, and quietly slipped from the room.

«Ai,» thought Glorfindel, «I hope this one at least has a good time tonight. He works far too hard for one so young. And so serious too.» He sighed and turned his attention back to the weapons inventory he'd been working on. But, try as he might, his gaze kept wandering to the window and his thoughts kept lingering on Melpomaen.

Nearly a full cycle of the seasons had passed since Glorfindel had comforted a terrified Melpomaen in Elrond's garden and, in that time, the Elda had had plenty of opportunity to observe both the young scribe and the Lord of Imladris. Really, it was rather painful to watch. Initially, Melpomaen had seemed relieved that no perverse favours would be required of him, as he'd been led to believe. But, as time went by, Glorfindel could see the young Elf's eyes watching Elrond, seeking him out, drawn as if by a magnet. First Melpomaen's gaze had been full of curiosity, then curiosity had turned to admiration, and lately his look had been filled with such longing that, had the ridiculous story concocted by that border guard been indeed true, Glorfindel was sure Melpomaen would not have minded at all.

But if Melpomaen's quiet worship of Elrond had been painful to watch, Elrond's own growing attachment to the dark-haired scribe was no less distressing to witness. Glorfindel had initially been surprised that his old friend would be interested in an Elf as young as Melpomaen. There was no accounting for taste, the Elda told himself, as he patiently waited for his friend's infatuation to pass. But it hadn't. Elrond's heart, so long accustomed to nothing but duty and responsibility, had seemed to blossom in the presence of the young Elf. The Lord of the valley left him alone, of course, convinced as he was that Melpomaen would find his advances distasteful, but his feelings hadn't diminished; had grown, if anything. Elrond, after centuries spent alone, or as good as alone, was in love. He was distracted. He lost sleep. And he spent as much time as he could possibly manage in the presence of his beloved – without making his feelings known. That had proven quite challenging, as Elrond did not like to resort to deceit. Still, he kept coming up with more excuses to visit the libraries, and kept thinking up more reasons why his personal correspondence just had to be copied out in Melpomaen's fine hand. Which only served to make Melpomaen gaze at him with more longing.

What Glorfindel found the most infuriating was that both Elves seemed completely oblivious to each other's feelings, each convinced that the other couldn't possibly be interested. It was enough to drive one mad! Glorfindel didn't know if Melpomaen's sleep was disrupted, as his chambers were located in a completely different wing of the Last Homely House, but he often found Elrond's light on, even quite late at night. Once he had even gone to his old friend, determined to help him relax, and offered what had sometimes given Elrond comfort in the past – himself. But Elrond had only smiled a sad smile and said "thank you, mellon, but you're not the one I want." They had spent the rest of the night curled up in armchairs in front of the fire, drinking copious quantities of miruvor. It had given Glorfindel some measure of comfort to think that Elrond had finally managed to rest that night – curled up on the rug in a drink-induced haze.

Giving up on the weapons inventory at last, Glorfindel straightened up his papers, left the library and headed up the stairs to his rooms. The preparations that had been going on all week were soon to culminate in an all-night celebration, and the Elves running to and fro were almost delirious with excitement. Midsummer night's eve was one of the biggest festivals of the year; certainly the most frolicsome. Even the more staid, serious Elves usually found themselves laughing and joyful as Imladris welcomed the coming of summer. None would sleep this night – the shortest one of the year – for their time would be occupied with feasting, dancing, merrymaking and love. The only Elves doing anything resembling work would be the healers gathering herbs in the woods, for it was said that the healing powers of medicinal plants collected on midsummer night were strengthened by the magic of the evening.

Glorfindel smiled as he thought of the upcoming festivities. There would be food and wine aplenty, of course, for Imladris' cooks would certainly rise to the occasion. There would be music and dancing, with the valley's Elf maidens taking each other's hands and skipping lightly in circles in the forest glade. There would be bonfires blazing, with Elves leaping over the flames to ensure luck in the coming year. Young girls would weave flower garlands and then place them in their hair, and with the coming of the morning those garlands would be tossed into the Bruinen, to float briskly downstream and carry the joy of the celebrations to the rest of the valley. All that made for a truly enjoyable night, but it wasn't what Glorfindel found most fascinating about the festival.

Midsummer night's eve being a celebration of life and love, the pleasures of the flesh reigned supreme on this one night of the year. Couples hoping to conceive a child would leap the flames together to enhance fertility and then lie with each other in a secluded spot beneath the trees. Hopeful lovers would often choose this time to confess the desires of their hearts, and bodies, to the object of their affection. And even those Elves who were unattached, and were content to remain so, rarely found themselves without a pleasure partner on this magical eve. Glorfindel smirked at the thought that the woods of Imladris on midsummer night were fairly filled with soft sighs and cries of delight, and one had to be careful where one stepped lest one trip over a couple locked in a passionate embrace.

Having dressed in dark leggings and an azure embroidered tunic that brought out his sky-blue eyes, Glorfindel paused in front of the mirror to braid his hair. His hand lightly caressed the strands of ribbon on his dresser as he hesitated on which one to choose. There was one midsummer's night eve custom that he found particularly intriguing. It was unique to Imladris, and Glorfindel was not quite sure how and when it had originated, but it had taken deep root and was now as much a part of the festival as the bonfires, music and food. All Elves taking part in the celebrations would braid ribbons into their hair, ribbons of either gold or silver. Silver ribbons meant that the Elf in question was open to a romantic tryst that evening, either actively looking for a partner or simply waiting for an offer or invitation. Gold ribbons signalled the opposite, and were worn by either those in serious relationships, who would naturally spend the night with their chosen committed partner, or those who, for whatever reason, wished to remain alone. Glorfindel's hand hovered over his dresser for a moment, then picked up the silver ribbons. «There are so many beautiful Elves around at the festival,» he thought, «it would be a shame to waste the opportunity.» Though there was no particular Elf that made his heart beat faster – even Elrond, for all the times they had lain together, was simply a cherished friend and nothing more - maybe tonight he'd find someone to make other parts of his body thrum with excitement. Oh yes, thought Glorfindel, this was definitely one of his favourite holidays.

****

Elrond smiled magnanimously as he slowly made his way through the crowded forest clearing. The sun had long set and darkness had descended over Imladris, but the clearing was filled with the light of dozens of bonfires blazing in the night. The atmosphere was festive, and the Elves filling the woods this night were clearly enjoying themselves. Long tables had been set up under the trees, and they sagged with the weight of various Imladris delicacies. Huge barrels of mead stood close to the tables and, judging by the unsteady gait of some of the revellers, had proven quite popular. The music of flutes and drums could be heard above the din of exuberant conversation, merry laughter adding to the mix now and again. The joy in the air was almost palpable, and Elrond could not help but feel a twinge of regret.

Alone. Always alone. He would give much to switch places with one of these carefree Elves just for one evening. As it was, he would go through the motions of playing gracious host, smile his wise ruler's smile and retire to his bedchamber when the celebrations began to get more heated. There would be no warm body to hold him, no welcoming arms to sink into, no comfort to be found in a loving embrace. His bed had been cold for longer than he cared to remember, and Glorfindel's sporadic presence in it did little to assuage his loneliness. Glorfindel was a friend; Elrond would not fool himself into thinking that there was love there. And sharing the caresses of one who did not have his heart, who was there simply out of physical need, only served to make him feel empty and rendered his loneliness more acute. He wanted more but was unlikely to get it; that much he knew.

Elrond weaved lightly through the crowd, smiling at his subjects as they greeted him with love and admiration, raising his cup in a toast every now and again. He did enjoy the duties of playing host, and had long gotten used to doing the honours by himself. It had been many years since his wife was at his side during midsummer night's eve, her beauty dazzling all those around her, her golden hair shining in the light of the flames. Celebrían now resided in Lórien and no longer even bothered to come home to Imladris for important occasions. They had kept up the pretence of a happy union for a while, but even that had proved a strain. Elrond still wasn't sure where he'd gone wrong, how it was possible that things had changed so much between them. They had been happy, or so he had thought, but he wasn't even sure of that anymore. *He* had been happy, that was certain. But Celebrían? He had never really known her mind, he realized that now. And she had floated out of his life just as impassively as she had drifted into it, never letting her guard down, never letting him past that wall she'd built around herself.

Elrond's heart beat faster as he glimpsed a slender, dark figure of an Elf standing to the side of the clearing. He watched as Melpomaen hesitantly joined a boisterous conversation and was handed a cup filled with mead. The young Elf drank a mouthful, then coughed and spluttered as the alcohol burned his throat. His companions laughed, amused, and patted him on the back in encouragement. Melpomaen drank another mouthful, this time with more success. He grinned, evidently pleased with himself, and said something that made his companions break out into laughter once again. Elrond could see Melpomaen visibly relax, tension lifting from his face and shoulders. The young scribe looked happy and Elrond was pleased that he had managed to overcome his shyness. The Elf Lord knew how difficult it was for Melpomaen to speak to strangers, especially in a social setting. His heart filled with something akin to pride, and he realized with some surprise that it was a feeling he'd often experienced on witnessing one of his children's accomplishments. So he felt slightly protective and paternal toward the young Elf, he thought to himself, amused. It certainly wasn't the only thing he felt...

Distracted as he was by the sight of the dark-haired, slim beauty raising a cup of amber liquid to his full lips, Elrond nearly collided with Glorfindel. He was caught by a pair of strong, warrior arms, and spun around to face the golden-haired seneschal.

"He'll be your undoing one of these days, you know, the way you act around him. I could've been an Orc waiting to ambush you, and you would not have noticed." Glorfindel tried to sound impatient, but Elrond could tell he was amused.

"You often remind me of an Orc, my friend."

"Touchy tonight, aren't we? It's all that pining and sighing, you know. Why don't you do us both a favour and just take the Elfling, Elrond? You know you want to taste those lips, feel that pliant young flesh beneath your hands..."

"Glorfindel, stop..."

"Or what? You'll get an embarrassing erection right here in the middle of the clearing? I'll wager you already have one... Thank the Valar for your stately robes of office." Glorfindel grinned.

Elrond shot his friend a look that could've annihilated a small village. It was true; beneath his burgundy robes he was uncomfortably hard, his member aching to be touched. But it still didn't give his friend the right to taunt him about this impossible situation.

"Oh, why don't you just go and find yourself a bed-mate or two, Glorfindel? Put those silver ribbons in your hair to good use?"

"I plan on doing just that, and so should you. Silver would have suited you better than gold, Elrond; I don't see why you persist in denying yourself the pleasures that can be had this night."

"It wouldn't do for one who has a spouse. Even a distant one."

"But so many would love to share their bed with you tonight."

"Not the one I want."

"I wouldn't be so sure." Glorfindel's expression suddenly turned serious, then tender. "Why don't you tell him, Elrond? His reaction may surprise you."

"I don't have the right to make one in his position uncomfortable by my advances. He works for me, Glorfindel, and Imladris is the only home he has now. I couldn't bear to disturb his peace, to make him feel like his presence here was conditional upon..."

"Elrond, you are impossible sometimes."

"So I've been told." The Lord of Imladris gave his friend a smug smile. "Now leave me to my musings and go enjoy the night. I wouldn't deprive whichever Elf you choose of the pleasures of the great Glorfindel of Gondolin. Go."

"Think about what I said, Elrond."

"I've been doing entirely too much thinking lately." Elrond smiled as he watched his friend disappear into the crowd, admiring glances following him as he went. Glorfindel certainly was beautiful; he would have no shortage of offers from those who dared approach him, and was unlikely to be turned down by anyone he propositioned. «Ah,» thought Elrond, «if only my own life were that simple...»

***

Notes: pen-neth – young one

mellon – friend

FYI: The midsummer's night eve customs described in this chapter were borrowed from various European cultures, except for the gold/silver ribbons, which are pure fiction.

Chapter 5:

Glorfindel weaved through the crowd of laughing Elves, catching eager glances cast in his direction. He was an object of desire, he knew; an object of desire and fascination. Admired from afar for his noble and heroic deeds, and lusted after for his perfect, golden beauty, Glorfindel usually didn't come into direct contact with those who wanted him. Midsummer night's eve, however, was an exception. Here, anything could happen, and often did. Elves of less noble birth and lower station, younger in years and experience, felt comfortable with openly showing their interest on this one night of the year. And so, as Glorfindel walked through the throng, he was met with many eyes issuing fairly obvious invitations.

Whom should he have tonight? he wondered. He had so many options, all of them tempting... Did he want a male or a female? Hmm... It had been a while since he had lain with a she-Elf, a long while since his strong hands had wandered over soft, female flesh... It might be nice... But the magic of midsummer had to be reckoned with, and the fact that the night was believed to enhance fertility could not be ignored. «No,» thought Glorfindel, «best leave that one alone.» A male then. But which one? Did he want a strong warrior's body, with powerful shoulders used to wielding a bow? One of his own border guards perhaps? «No,» thought Glorfindel with a frown, «that would lead to too many complications on the morrow.» A scholar maybe? Slim and straight, with delicate hands and pale skin? Hmm... Oh dear, Glorfindel smiled as a delicious shiver ran up his spine, midsummer night's eve was such fun.

His eyes wandered over the crowd of Elves willingly parting to let him pass and assessed their eager expressions. Too eager, perhaps... He really did enjoy a bit of a challenge, he realized, and these Elves presented none. All he would have to do was walk up to one of them, look him in the eyes, touch his chest lightly with his index finger and the seduction would be as good as over. «What seduction,» he thought with annoyance, «these Elves were seduced long ago!» What he needed was someone on whom he could work his charms tonight, someone who would put up some measure of reticence... The culmination, when it came, would be that much sweeter for it.

Glorfindel continued moving forward slowly, his eyes scanning the clearing. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. There. On the other side of the crowd, under a large oak, calmly sipping his mead and his face as stern as ever, sat one of Elrond's most trusted advisors. Erestor. Oh, Erestor was challenge personified! The dark, serious advisor was a skilled diplomat and seasoned warrior, and could handle himself in any situation. Glorfindel had never seen him lose his temper, even when deliberately provoked. Unlike Elrond, who sometimes flew into impetuous, if short-lived, rages, Erestor was always perfectly in control of his emotions. Some even speculated that he had none, but Glorfindel knew better, having seen him in a rare moment of vulnerability after the twins were born.

When Elrond had placed first Elladan and then Elrohir in Erestor's clumsy arms, the advisor's dark eyes had suddenly grown misty, his brow knitted with the effort of holding back unexpected tears. And then, just as abruptly as it had come, the moment was gone. Erestor handed the twins back to Elrond calmly, congratulating him graciously, his face as composed as ever. But Glorfindel had seen, and would not forget.

Glorfindel's connection to Erestor had always been distant, if respectful. They were different, though each admired the other's strengths and abilities. Glorfindel had even tried to bring their relationship onto a more friendly footing, but to no avail. Erestor apparently preferred to maintain his distance, meeting Glorfindel's affable overtures with his trademark sarcasm. Glorfindel had never managed to crack that façade or get beyond that mask of indifference. Well, now was his chance and, by the Valar, he would take it.

****

Elrond cast one last look over the clearing and turned to head back to the Last Homely House. The festivities were now in full swing; Elves breaking away from the crowd in pairs and heading toward the privacy of the woods. That was Elrond's cue to leave the revellers and make his way to his room. Without the inhibiting presence of the Lord of Imladris, the celebrations were sure to get even more rowdy. «Just as well,» thought Elrond, «let them have their night of wild fun without their stodgy old Lord getting in the way.» If anything particularly memorable happened, Glorfindel would make sure that he heard about it in the morning. Somehow, Glorfindel always seemed to have access to the juiciest Imladris gossip.

Elrond was moving through the trees quietly, carefully stepping over jutting roots in the darkness, when the sound of suppressed sobs reached his ears. He stopped to listen, then moved towards it, his healer's instincts taking over. If anyone was hurt or in pain, the least he could do was find them and attempt to help. No one should be crying on a night like this. Slowly, he walked towards the sound, carefully pushing stray branches out of his way. The sight that met his eyes stole the breath from his body as his heart contracted painfully in his chest.

"Melpomaen!"

Elrond stared at the frail figure of the young Elf huddled under a large beech, his arms wrapped around his knees and tears streaming down his face, and wanted desperately to wrap his arms around him, comfort him, hold him... Instead, he settled himself down softly in front of him and peered intently into his big, dark eyes.

"Are you all right?"

"I'll... be fine."

"What's wrong?" This was all the Half-elven Lord was able to say, in spite of the hundreds of questions swirling around madly in his brain.

"N..nothing." Melpomaen's answer did not sound convincing.

"Come now, you wouldn't be crying over nothing. Please... tell me what's wrong..." The emotion in Elrond's voice was unmistakable.

The young Elf looked up, clearly surprised by Elrond's tone, then looked down at his hands again. "It's just that...I'm so... alone."

Elrond smiled sadly to himself, struck by the irony of the fact that he had just been dwelling on his own loneliness not two hours earlier. But his situation could not be helped; Melpomaen, on the other hand, was a young and attractive Elf. Surely he would have no trouble finding a companion...

Elrond swallowed determinedly, pained by the advice he was about to dispense. "Then why braid gold ribbons into your hair, meldir? Silver would suit you better, with your dark hair and pale complexion..."

"You mean I should..."

"Why not be open to the possibilities of this night? You are very fair; many would welcome the chance to get to know you better."

"You think me fair?"

The amazement in Melpomaen's voice brought a lump to Elrond's throat. «Yes, my love,» he thought, «I think you fair. I think you the fairest Elf in all of Arda...»

"Aye." Elrond said. He watched joy flash across Melpomaen's tear-streaked face, then fade as the young Elf again gazed down at his hands.

"But I couldn't..." Melpomaen's voice was, once again, hesitant.

"Couldn't what?"

"Braid silver ribbons... into my hair."

"Why not? You are young and unattached. If no one has captured your heart, then I don't see why you shouldn't..."

"But someone has!" The insistence, almost violence, in that statement made Elrond sit up, surprised.

"Has what?"

"Captured my heart..." The young Elf's voice had dropped to a whisper, but his dark eyes burned in his pale face.

"Oh." Elrond wished the earth would open up and swallow him, sparing him the pain of seeing this sweet young Elf confess his love for another. Still, his concern for the young one's well-being won out over his own jealousy, and he continued. "Then why not tell her of your love?"

"Him."

"Oh." Elbereth, but this was difficult. "Why not tell him then?"

"Because he doesn't love me. Could never love me." Melpomaen's voice trembled.

"You don't know that, Melpomaen."

"Yes, I do." It was the resignation in Melpomaen's voice that made Elrond's decision for him. He couldn't let the young Elf's misery continue. If it was at all in his power, he would help ensure Melpomaen's happiness, even if it broke his own heart.

"Melpomaen, listen to me. Go to him and tell him. Tonight. At worst... he'll reject you. At least then you'll know for sure. Otherwise you'll never know. And you may regret not knowing." Elrond sighed wistfully, thinking back to his own youth. He had loved Gil-galad for more centuries than he cared to count before he finally broke down and approached him, only to find out that his feelings had been returned all along. He did not regret the time they had together, bittersweet though it was. What he did regret, time and time again, was that they might have had many more centuries before his High King's bright flame was cruelly snuffed out. Centuries that could never be reclaimed.

"You think I should..." Melpomaen's voice was a blend of incredulity, terror and excitement.

"Yes, pen-neth."

Elrond was too stunned to react to what happened next. He saw Melpomaen hesitate for a second, his big dark eyes widening, and, before he could say anything else to reassure him, the young Elf had pounced, black hair flying, and pressed a heated, desperate kiss to Elrond's mouth. Then, aghast at his own boldness, Melpomaen staggered back and fled into the night, leaving Elrond with a surprising sweetness on his lips.

****

Emboldened by his newly found purpose, Glorfindel swiftly crossed the clearing, stopping only to fill a silver cup with mead and bring it to Erestor. The dark-haired advisor had finished his own drink and was calmly reclining under a large oak, far from the excited crowd surrounding the bonfires. He looked up and watched Glorfindel approach, his inscrutable expression betraying nothing of his reaction to the Elda's apparent intention to join him. Erestor's eyes regarded the tall, blond Elf with the sphinx-like serenity so typical of the dark advisor, and Glorfindel knew that, had he arrived in full battle dress and with a host of Elven warriors behind him or, better yet, wearing nothing but a smile, he would have been met with the same impenetrable look.

"Good eve to you, Erestor." Glorfindel smiled seductively.

"Glorfindel." Erestor's voice was composed, guarded even.

"I brought you some mead, as your own cup seems empty."

"How kind of you." Erestor took the proffered cup warily, gratitude conspicuously absent from his voice.

"May I join you?" Glorfindel gestured to the patch of grass next to the seated Elf, his eyes half-lidded in a fashion he knew from experience others had found utterly beguiling.