Title: Secondhand Happiness
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, 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.  Constructive criticism always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com,
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, just ask.
Summary:  Unexpected visitors to Imladris lead Melpomaen to make difficult decisions about his future and force Erestor to come to terms with his past.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  For those who've been waiting: thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy! 
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-writing) process were invaluable.

[Note that because of the size of the file, it has been broke into two pages. A link to parts 8+ of the story can be found at the bottom of this page.]
 
Chapter 1:
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004
 
 
Sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace, beside Elrond's chair, Melpomaen looked the picture of repose, his relaxed posture seeming to reflect the tranquility of his spirit.  And yet his thoughts were anything but peaceful and his heart far from calm.  Even his lover's hands, which gently stroked his hair, could not dispel the feeling of unease that plagued him.
 
A worry had weighed heavily on his mind for a number of weeks now, chasing sleep from his tired eyes each night.  No other resident of the Last Homely House had mentioned anything, and Melpomaen was unwilling to broach the subject himself, as his misgivings were rather private and involved the one person who was dearer to him than anyone else.  He had tried to convince himself that his anxiety was all in his mind.  But, try as he might, he could not shake the disturbing feeling that something was wrong with Elrond.
 
For the past fortnight Elrond had seemed distant.  His hearing had seemed attuned to inner voices, not Melpomaen's, and his gaze had looked off into the distance, unseeing.  On a number of occasions Melpomaen's questions had gone unanswered, having simply failed to break through the fog that clouded Elrond's thoughts.  Elrond had been introspective in the past, even preoccupied, but this was different.  This was unprecedented.  Melpomaen was frightened.
 
Desperate to chase away the shadows clouding his lover's mind, Melpomaen let his hand creep up Elrond's thigh, his fingers intent on caressing the one place that held the promise of forgetfulness and was almost certain to bring respite from heaviness of soul.  But Elrond's hand closed over Melpomaen's fingers before they had a chance to reach their destination.
 
"No, love.  Please... not tonight."
 
"What's wrong?" Melpomaen looked up at his troubled lover.  "Are you wroth with me?  Have I done something to displease you?"
 
"No, Melpomaen.  It isn't you." Elrond said, his hand gently caressing Melpomaen's cheek.  "There are other things that trouble me."
 
"Won't you tell me what they are?  For weeks now you've been taciturn and unwilling to share your burden with me... Isn't that what I'm here for, meleth?"
 
Elrond sighed heavily and closed his eyes.  He brushed his dark hair away from his face and looked down at Melpomaen again.
 
"Sometimes I fear..." he began, then abruptly stopped.
 
"What?"
 
"I fear I am being unfair to you."  Elrond closed his eyes anew, lifted his hands to his face and bowed his head, hiding his expression from Melpomaen's eyes.
 
"Unfair?" Melpomaen was astounded.  "Elrond, how could you think yourself unfair?  Your fairness and good counsel are extolled all over Middle-earth!  Of course you are fair..."
 
"But not to you."
 
Melpomaen rose on his knees and wrapped his arms around Elrond's shoulders.  Pressing insistent kisses to Elrond's hair, he poured all his love and devotion into his whispered assurances.
 
"You are more than fair to me. You've taken me to your heart and your bed, and gifted more happiness upon me than I ever dreamed could be mine. No one has ever loved me the way that you do. No one has ever held me so dear, given me so much..."
 
"Just what have I given you?" Elrond's voice was full of self-doubt.
 
"Your heart... and your body. Your attention, your understanding..."
 
Elrond sighed again, and returned Melpomaen's embrace with an almost desperate urgency.  His voice, though calm, was suffused with pain. "But is that enough?"
 
"Elrond, listen to me! Your arms are more of a haven to me than Edhellond ever was! You have brought more joy and beauty into my life than the very stars in the sky, and if you -- you, in your boundless wisdom -- now choose to question those priceless gifts... I... well, I will not allow it!"
 
Melpomaen clutched Elrond to his heart, willing his lover's cares to melt away into the still night air.  He felt Elrond's tense body relax into the embrace, the heaviness of his burden slowly coming to rest on Melpomaen's shoulders.  Melpomaen bore the weight gladly, relieved that he had brought one who was so dear to him a measure of comfort.
 
"Melpomaen..." Elrond pulled away from Melpomaen's arms and looked into his eyes.  "You know there are things I cannot give you..."
 
Melpomaen returned his lover's earnest look with steeled resolve.  "Those things do not matter," he said.
 
The fire crackled in the fireplace, flames insistently licking at timber and giving off a flickering light.  Shadows danced on the walls of the bedchamber, alternately casting corners of the room into obscurity and illuminating their dark secrets.  Elrond's long hair gleamed in the half-light, its velvet strands trailing over Melpomaen's hands. 
 
Melpomaen looked into Elrond's eyes and felt love and sorrow grip his heart like a tight mithril band.  «No,» he thought, «none of those things matter; not as long as I have you.» 
 
Gently he buried his face in his lover's dark hair, breathing in the scent he loved so much -- forest-green sweetness with a hint of musk.  "Come to bed, love," he said.  "It is late.  Let me ease your mind with my touch..."
 
But it seemed that Elrond's cares had quite a powerful hold on him, for not even Melpomaen's tempting offer would erase the lines of worry from his face. 
 
"Mel..." Elrond whispered, "does it not pain you that we cannot... be free the way others can?  That any joy we share must be behind closed doors?"
 
"We've talked of this before.  You know it does not matter."
 
"Yes, I know.  But you are young; others your age are free to choose mates for life.  Do you not mind that we can never..." Elrond broke off and traced the outline of Melpomaen's cheek with his thumb.  "...that *I* can never bind with you?"
 
There was little that Melpomaen could say to such a delicate question.  It was true; he *had* wondered what it might be like to walk up to Elrond in the middle of the crowded dining hall and simply take his hand, making his love obvious for all to see.  Such a simple thing... and yet so completely out of his reach. Once or twice his thoughts had even strayed to an image of himself and his beloved standing beneath the stars, surrounded by friends, exchanging gold bands in the solemn silence of the night... but every time he had quickly chastised himself, reining in his imaginings before they led him on more tricky paths and the inevitable realization of the impossibility of his wishes became too painful to bear.
 
And now Elrond was asking him the very question he had so carefully avoided considering.  *Did* he mind? 
 
«Of course I mind,» he thought with resignation, «but if that is the price I must pay to have you near, then pay it I shall.»
 
Closing his eyes, Melpomaen kissed his lover, intent on erasing all the doubt and distress to which Elrond had just given voice.  When he finally broke the kiss, Elrond remained quiet, his misgivings seemingly assuaged for the moment.
 
"What you have to offer me is enough," Melpomaen said.  "I do not ask for more.  I do not need it."
 
"But you are so young, Mel..." Elrond's grey eyes were once again uneasy.
 
"I'm old enough to know what I want."
 
"If you were not here with me, mayhap you would encounter someone else, someone who would be free to..."
 
"You would send me away?!"
 
Melpomaen stumbled backwards, the sudden contact with the hard floor painfully jarring the straight line of his spine.  "Please, love, no... I could not bear it..."
 
Elrond's eyes misted over with tears.  Slowly, he bent forward and, cupping Melpomaen's face in his hands, knelt on the rug beside him.
 
"I do not say such things to hurt you, Mel.  I would never do that.  Nor do I wish to have you far from me, for every moment in your company brings me happiness beyond measure."
 
"Then why?"
 
"It just... may be better this way.  At least for a while."
 
Melpomaen looked directly into his lover's eyes.  "I am not a child who needs to be spared the pain of bad tidings.  I never *was* spared such pain, even when I was an Elfling.  You have shared many of your secrets with me since you first claimed my heart.  Do not hide this from me.  Whatever it may be, please; let me hear it."
 
Elrond settled back on his heels, sighing deeply.  His fingers slowly rubbed his temples in a gesture of exhaustion.  "You are right, of course.  For one of your tender years, you are sometimes surprisingly wise..." he teased, but his light tone and jesting words failed to dispel the gloom in the air.
 
"Elrond?"
 
"Yes?"
 
"Tell me."
 
The room was quiet for a moment as the Elves stared at each other in silence, one carefully weighing his words, the other expectantly waiting.  Finally Elrond took a deep breath and spoke.
 
"I received a letter a fortnight ago."
 
Melpomaen regarded his lover calmly, managing to keep his face free of emotion, though his hands shook so much he had to hide them in his sleeves.
 
"From Celebrían," Elrond continued.
 
Melpomaen, kneeling before his Lord in an accidental gesture of supplication, suddenly felt like a true supplicant, waiting for the one who held his heart to pronounce his doom, and hoping beyond hope that it would not be so.
 
"She will be here in the spring, Mel.  I do not know how long she will stay.  I do not know why she has decided to come; she did not say."
 
Melpomaen closed his eyes and bowed his head, saying nothing, for what could he say?  Celebrían, as Elrond's rightful spouse, was entitled to come to Imladris if she wished.  It was Melpomaen who was the intruder, whose place in Elrond's life and bedchamber was secured by naught else but the fragile bonds of feeling -- private, ephemeral, fleeting.  He had built the hopes and joys of his heart out of stuff so gossamer that the delicate fabric might easily be torn by those whose claim on his lover was more solid.
 
"You know that while she is here we should not..."
 
Elrond's words trailed off into silence, but Melpomaen well understood what his lover meant.  Despite the feeling of fear churning in his stomach, his heart swelled with love.  Ever considerate and honourable, Elrond would never place his estranged wife in the uncomfortable position of having to look away and pretend not to see what must be obvious to many eyes. 
 
Looking up to meet Elrond's solicitous gaze once more, Melpomaen did his utmost to look strong, though the lump in his throat served as a palpable reminder of just how vulnerable he felt.
 
"Then I shall be naught but your advisor and scribe while she is here, and will love you only through the soundness of my judgment and the elegance of my pen, if that is all I am allowed," he said.
 
Seeing Elrond's hesitant smile, he added: "Though your bedchamber may be closed to me, I would still wish to remain in Imladris, meleth... Just to look at you and hear your voice.  You know I can be discreet."
 
"Mel, it may be distressing for you to see..."
 
"You forget I am stronger than I look."
 
Through tears that threatened to fall and contradict his brave assertion, Melpomaen watched Elrond's shoulders relax somewhat as the older Elf savoured the relief of sharing his troubles with another.  Moments later he felt Elrond's strong arms enfold him, the comforting warmth of his lover's body almost enough to erase the worry that gnawed at his insides.
 
"I would never send you away against your will, Mel.  You know that," Elrond whispered into Melpomaen's hair as his hands caressed the small of the young Elf's back.
 
Melpomaen only sighed in reply, and pressed closer to the invitingly warm body of his beloved.  Sensing the beginnings of a familiar heat between his thighs, he briefly felt ashamed of his visceral reaction to Elrond's nearness at a time when his lover required comfort, not passion.  Then he quickly reminded himself that comfort came in many forms, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a sly smile.
 
"You said it pained you that we could not love freely except in the privacy of this bedchamber." His lips found their way to Elrond's ear and traced its delicate outline.
 
"Yes..." Elrond's voice hitched in his throat and his hands tightened around Melpomaen's waist. 
 
"It need not be so."  Melpomaen slowly drew away from Elrond's embrace and smiled invitingly.  "I could show you."
 
Elrond's grey eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but the question hovering on the tip of his tongue never came.
 
Encouraged by his lover's half-stunned yet obvious interest, Melpomaen rose to his feet and extended a hand toward Elrond, who was still kneeling on the rug.
 
"Come with me..." Melpomaen's seductive tone left no doubt as to the nature of the invitation.  Elrond grasped the proffered hand and let himself be pulled into an embrace.
 
"Are you leading me astray?"  Elrond's question was playful, and Melpomaen's heart felt glad to see the gloom finally lift from his lover's brow.
 
"Always," he replied with a mischievous grin and, stopping only long enough to grab a small bottle of oil from the mantelpiece, pulled an intrigued Elrond from the room.
 
****
 
Notes:
 
This story begins approximately two years after the end of "Sweetness and Gall."
 
Meleth – love (Sindarin)
 
"Your arms are more of a haven to me than Edhellond ever was" -- Edhellond translates as 'Elf haven.'  Yes, I'm being cute.
 
  Chapter 2:


Imladris, TA 1004
 
 
Moonlight filtered in through the frost-covered windows, painting glittering designs on the frozen surface of the glass.  The pale light bathed the room in a mysterious glow, making Elrond's office -- already deserted at this time of night -- seem even more serene and almost otherworldly.  The air was quiet save for the sound of hushed breathing and the rustle of silk, for though the room was an official one and usually stood empty after the day's administrative business was done, this night it hosted unexpected visitors.
 
Two figures were poised in the room's centre.  One was standing, his dark hair falling down his back and his open robe revealing bare flesh.  The other, completely unclothed, knelt at his companion's feet, tracing the curves of the other's body alternately with his hands and with his mouth.  The two barely moved, almost as if unwilling to disturb the perfection of the tableau they made, silhouetted against the silver light of the moon.
 
Elrond shivered in the cool night air, the light silk robe that had been comfortable in his fire-warmed chambers now inadequate in the unheated office.  He pulled at the fabric and attempted to wrap it around the figure kneeling at his feet, wanting to impart at least some warmth to Melpomaen, who looked so very exposed.  But Melpomaen barely noticed, so absorbed was he in his own efforts to warm Elrond from within.  Elrond felt fingers snake their way up his thighs as Melpomaen's tongue left a tantalizing trail of heat along his length.
He trembled again, this time from delight.
 
Letting go of his robe, Elrond tangled his hands in Melpomaen's hair, stroking the dark strands that were softer than any silk.  Black eyes looked up at him from beneath long lashes with an expression that was both coy and full of fire.  Melpomaen leaned his cheek into the caress and, still holding Elrond's gaze, let the tip of his tongue tease Elrond's hardening sex with such slow and deliberate ostentation that the gesture would have seemed lewd had his eyes not been shining with love.  «Elbereth,» thought Elrond. «How could I ever give him up?»
 
Though entranced by the sensation, Elrond nevertheless sought to ensure his partner's comfort. 
 
"Mel, you are cold..."
 
"Nay, I am fine."
 
"I can see you shivering; let me warm you."
 
Coal-black eyes looked up at him again, and Elrond read a hint of mischief in their depths.
 
"Very well," Melpomaen said, rising from his knees and pressing his naked form against Elrond's own. "if you insist."
 
Elrond wrapped his thin robe around them both, bringing their chilled bodies into closer contact.  He felt Melpomaen shiver and held him tighter to his chest.  The young Elf laid his head on Elrond's shoulder and kissed his neck.
 
"We could go back to my chambers you know; 'tis warm there..." Elrond ventured reluctantly.
 
"Nay!" Melpomaen took a step back and looked into Elrond's eyes with conviction.  "You said tonight that you wished we could be more free."
 
"Yes, but..."
 
Melpomaen's mouth curled up in a half-smile.  "I remember you saying once you wanted me here, in your office.  Well, here we are and... you are about to have me."
 
"And the cold?"
 
"It is of no importance." Melpomaen kissed Elrond softly, then began to steer him backwards.  "I have an idea."
 
"What sort of idea?" Elrond barely had time to ask the question before the backs of his thighs encountered a hard wooden surface.  His desk. "You cannot mean to..."
 
"Oh, yes I can." Melpomaen's naughty smile was obvious now, and in his eyes gleamed a strange light.
 
Elrond felt his lover's fire quickly ignite his own passion.  Despite the chill in the air, the unadvisable location of the act they were about to perform, and his millennia-old judgment, which would normally keep him from rushing into actions so imprudent, he did not protest as Melpomaen pushed him back onto the desk.  He did not stay his lover's hands as they swept parchments off the polished wood to land in a haphazard pile on the ground.  Nor did he object as Melpomaen clambered up onto the oaken surface after him and straddled his thighs.
 
Melpomaen looked so beautiful perched on the edge of the wooden desk that Elrond almost forgot to breathe.  The young Elf's body was luminous in the moonlight, dark hair a striking contrast to pale skin.  The muscles in his slim thighs flexed as he balanced astride Elrond's legs.  He was still cold -- that much was obvious from the goose flesh on his forearms and the tautness of his nipples -- but he did not seem to care.  Elrond pulled him in for a kiss, utterly under the spell of this dark-eyed beauty, who could be so quiet and proper in his library and council, and then turned into a sensual vision when night fell.
 
"I am yours, love; take your fill," Melpomaen whispered, guiding Elrond's fingers to the juncture of thigh and buttock.  He gazed knowingly into Elrond's eyes. "I've wanted you all day; do not make me wait."
 
Trembling with lust, Elrond gripped Melpomaen with one hand as the other blindly searched the desk's surface for the small glass bottle they had brought.  Finding what he sought, he kissed Melpomaen's mouth, hard, then wrenched the stopper from the bottle, not caring where it fell.  Oil coated his hands, warm and slick, anointing Melpomaen's body and leaving opalescent smudges on paper and wood. 
 
Melpomaen's flesh warmed under Elrond's fingers, his body yielding, eyes open, face beautiful.  "Yes," Elrond heard him whisper, and slowly pulled him down onto his lap.  Gazing up into Melpomaen's face, he watched as the young Elf's dark eyes closed in pleasure and his lower lip twitched at the sensation of being penetrated.  Though it was a sight he had witnessed many times before, Elrond found it no less potent in its familiarity.  
 
Their bodies now joined, Melpomaen leaned his forehead against Elrond's and looked into his eyes, black meeting grey. 
 
"I could never tire of this..." The words were more breath than speech.
 
"Of what, love?"
 
"Being the recipient of your... attentions."  Wide-eyed wonder and unabashed enjoyment battled for dominance on Melpomaen's face.
 
Elrond felt his heart beat faster.  "Do my attentions please you so?" he attempted to return the banter, though his voice shook slightly.
 
"Oh, yes," Melpomaen said, thighs straining in his movements, eyes fixed on Elrond's face.  "I count myself most fortunate to receive attentions of such... magnitude." 
 
"Aahh..." was all Elrond could manage in reply.  All his eloquence and self-possession melted away at the sight of Melpomaen's wicked smile.  Realizing that words would certainly fail him now, Elrond took his cue from his body, which wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by Melpomaen's heat and to fill him again and again.
 
He threw his head back, giving up all control, and let the wondrous creature that was his lover take him to a place where there were no fears, no regrets, no complications.  Just pleasure.
 
 
****
 
From the shadows of the entranceway, through a crack in the oaken door, angry blue eyes watched the two figures on the desk.  The silent shape, barely perceptible in the half-light, did not stir or in any other way betray his presence.  He simply stood there unmoving, as if frozen in place, and could almost be taken for one of the sculptures that adorned the hallway if not for the fury in his gaze and the fact that his hands were clenched into fists.
 
Caegaran of the border guard, ever-loyal servant of Imladris and its Lord, on his nightly patrol through the empty corridors of the Last Homely House, stood with his feet planted in a fighting stance and did what he had been trained to do and had dutifully done every single day of his life for the past two centuries.  He watched.
 
The keen eyes that had spotted many an orc hidden in the densest foliage and sent countless arrows on their unerring course to slay intruders now focused in desperate concentration on the scene before him.  Unable to look away, he took in every detail of an image he would give anything to eradicate from his memory -- that of the Lord of his heart being loved by another.
 
And loved quite well, by the looks of it.  Against his better judgment, Caegaran scrutinized the two naked forms entwined in the moonlit room, his heart crying out in silent anguish at every pleasure-filled sigh.  He watched in horror as Melpomaen moved atop his Lord -- *his* Lord -- with skill that made it obvious the young Elf had done it many times before.
 
So it was true then.  Rumours that Elrond had taken a young lover had flown around the barracks, spread by furtive whispers, raised eyebrows and the occasional wink, but Caegaran had refused to believe the malicious gossip circulating about his beloved Lord.  Now he had no choice but to believe.  The proof lay right before his eyes.
 
He felt a sharp stab of pain in his gut, not unlike the feeling of being pierced with an enemy arrow.  «Would that it were an arrow,» he thought bitterly.  Any physical wound would have been preferable to this sensation of being hung from a great height and slowly eviscerated, not by knives or swords but by soft images and hushed sounds: a hand tenderly stroking a hip, long hair trailing over a naked back, a pair of heels precariously balanced over the edge of the dark wood, an imploring "yes!" coming from the mouth of one for whom he would have happily laid down his life.
 
«Why?!» His heart grieved as bile rose in his throat.  «Why him?» His mind followed suit, rebelling at the thought of one as young and insignificant as Melpomaen holding favour with Lord Elrond.  A nightmarish haze swirled madly in his head until one clear question finally broke the surface of the painful muddle: «Why not me?!»
 
He tormented himself with speculations about when and how the couple before him had first come together.  Who had initiated the liaison?  As innocent as Melpomaen had been all those months ago, Caegaran could not picture him approaching the Lord of Imladris with a romantic proposition.  Still, resentful of the young Elf's proximity to Elrond, Caegaran had spoken to him back then, trying to frighten the mouse-like scribe away from seeing his Lord and employer in a more intimate light.
 
He recalled vividly how the dark eyes had widened in shock at his words.  He had not meant to upset Melpomaen so badly, and had even regretted the whole episode for a while, but no more.  Now he wished he had been more callous and direct in his warning, for his words had obviously not had the desired effect.
 
All those months Melpomaen and Elrond had spent working together had clearly borne fruit, for now Caegaran could plainly see that the young Elf moving so seductively on the wooden desk was no longer the self-conscious and timid newcomer he had once been.  Something had changed him.  Elrond's love had changed him.
 
Anger bubbled up inside Caegaran, red hot in its fury.  To think that this young pup, barely out of his swaddling clothes, with neither position nor noble parentage to recommend him, actually shared Elrond's bed... It was an outrage.  Why, Melpomaen had called Imladris home for scarcely more than a full turn of the seasons!  Caegaran had dedicated his whole life to serving the Lord of the valley, doing his duty with the kind of selfless constancy that only came from a deep and hidden love.  He had adored the Elven Lord from afar, had nigh worshipped his beauty, wisdom and grace, but he had never -- never -- dared dream he could take the kind of liberties Melpomaen was so clearly used to taking.  He simply did not feel himself worthy, and thought Elrond as far above him as the moon was above the earth.  And now Melpomaen...
 
Caegaran watched as Elrond reached out a hand to stroke Melpomaen's face.  The young Elf smiled at the caress, then arched his back in a gratuitous display of wantonness.  A single bead of sweat made its way down Melpomaen's chest, gleaming in the soft light of the moon like a pearl.  Elrond captured it with his tongue, closed his mouth around a dark nipple, then looked into Melpomaen's eyes and whispered words Caegaran wished he had not heard.  But he did hear.  They were words of love.
 
Feeling his head spin and his stomach threaten to bring up its contents, Caegaran finally closed his eyes.  He turned and limped away, holding onto the wall for support.  There was a buzzing sound in his ears, as if all his thoughts had run amok, and the world looked out of focus.  Slowly, with the cool stone under his fingers grounding him in the here-and-now, one certainty began to emerge in his muddled mind.  Melpomaen had stolen his love.  He would pay.
 
 
****
 
Notes:
 
Caegaran is an original character who caused Melpomaen some trouble in the early chapters of "Sweetness and Gall" (and will no doubt cause Melpomaen more trouble in the future.)

Chapter 3:


Imladris, TA 1004
 
 
A warm wind ruffled Glorfindel's formal robes as he stood on the front steps of the Last Homely House, awaiting the official arrival of the Lady of Imladris.  Those gathered around him, all dressed in their ceremonial best, fidgeted impatiently or shifted from foot to foot, for the day was warm and pleasant and the heavy velvet robes most had donned for the occasion itched mercilessly under the hot noon sun.  Glorfindel smiled at the thought that Erestor had suggested he wear silk for that very reason.  As usual, his lover's counsel had been sound.
 
His eyes seeking out Erestor's figure, Glorfindel crossed his arms behind his back and decided he was quite happy to while away the long wait by feasting his eyes on the most beautiful Elf in the valley.  He didn't often get the chance to watch his lover from a distance, engaged in the performance of his official duties.  Knowing he might not get the chance again for a long while, he resolved to take full advantage.
 
Erestor stood at Elrond's right hand, poised and proud, his face betraying no sign of emotion, strands of his coal-black hair fluttering around his shoulders.  As always, he was the epitome of grace and understatement.  It never ceased to amaze Glorfindel how his lover could make a simple black robe look so regal.  Then again, there were many things about Erestor that Glorfindel found amazing.
 
Ever attentive, Erestor leaned over and whispered something in Elrond's ear, his demeanour all coolness and composure.  Elrond closed his eyes, listening intently, then nodded in thought.
 
Glorfindel did not have the faintest idea what manner of observation his lover had just made to their Lord, but he did not doubt for a moment that it was something profound and insightful.  He was well aware Erestor was unparalleled in his capacity as advisor.  Even after knowing the serious Elf for many centuries, he still found himself in awe of Erestor's intelligence and perceptiveness.  It made him proud of the dark-haired beauty's talents.  It made him marvel at the subtle power veiled beneath that cool gaze.  It made him feel... aroused.
 
Slightly irked by his lack of composure, he glanced around him to ascertain whether any of the Elves assembled on the stone steps were looking in his direction.  Fortunately, they were all far too preoccupied with gazing into the distance and trying to catch the first glimpse of Celebrían and her Lórien escort.  Exhaling with relief, Glorfindel discreetly rearranged his robes.
 
Glancing back at his lover, he greedily took in Erestor's still profile, the darkness of his hair, all his quiet loveliness.  He felt a familiar sensation of vertigo begin somewhere beneath his rib cage and then spread its pleasant tendrils up his body, making his scalp tingle with its creeping thrill.  Right on its heels followed a wave of such sweet tenderness that moisture gathered in his eyes, turning the sun's rays filtering through the trees into glimmering streaks of multicoloured light.
 
He had an urge to fall down on his knees and worship his lover's pale body; with his words, his hands, his mouth -- giving expression to the adoration with which his heart overflowed.  He ached for the welcoming ceremony and dinner festivities to be over, so that he and the lovely dark-eyed Elf could retire to their chambers and take their fill of each other's flesh.  Glorfindel well knew the one on his knees that evening was most likely to be Erestor, as that was the position the quiet advisor usually preferred -- the master of control willingly unburdening himself of all authority in the freedom the darkness afforded.  Still, as much as it thrilled Glorfindel to have all that beauty kneeling at his feet and to feel the hot caresses of the very mouth that had uttered such sage counsel, he could not help wanting to bow down before Erestor and honour him.
 
The shrill sound of trumpets brought Glorfindel out of his trance.  He straightened up, took in a calming breath and focused his attention on the Lórien convoy, which had just then come into view.  The Elves around him were chattering with excitement, hurriedly smoothing their robes and craning their necks to get a better look.  Many of them were young and had likely not witnessed such pomp and commotion before, as Imladris did not host illustrious guests often.  Glorfindel smiled indulgently.  He could hardly remember being that impressionable himself, though he knew there had been a time when he had reacted just as they, moved to awe by the sight of such splendour.  Now the only sight that made his heart pound was that of a lean figure dressed entirely in black, motionless at Elrond's side.
 
Casting one last quick look in his lover's direction, Glorfindel suddenly felt his heart stop in his chest.  Erestor's shoulders were hunched and his muscles tensed as if he wanted to curl in on himself and disappear.  His already pale complexion had turned an unhealthy shade of white.  His eyes, usually so discreet in their glances, were fixed on the approaching entourage quite openly, and seemed to be filling with panic.  Something was very, very wrong.
 
****
 
Melpomaen's heart sank ever deeper with each step that brought Celebrían and her escort closer to the Last Homely House.  He had already felt it drop through the bottom of his stomach when he first caught sight of his lover's wife and yet, though he could hardly believe it possible, lower and lower it plunged, its wild shudders beating time with the sound of her horse's hooves.  Desperately anchoring his eyes on the ground before him, he had a bizarre vision of his poor heart tumbling down to his feet, to be crushed by the Lady's steady approach.  Unable to bring himself to look up, he did not raise his eyes until the sound of horses' hooves was replaced by that of neighing, only a few feet away, and he heard Elrond's beloved voice speak formal words of welcome.
 
He dared to look then, and immediately wished he had not. 
 
He had heard talk of her great beauty, and had braced himself for the sight of her golden hair, her fair face, her bright eyes.  He had even been ready for the aura of authority and self-assurance she projected -- he knew she was used to commanding and being obeyed.  What took him completely by surprise and nearly knocked him to his knees in its unexpectedness was the air of entitlement, ownership even, that radiated from her.  It was obvious that she belonged here.  Though she chose to make Lórien her home, Imladris *was* her rightful place and Elrond *was* her husband.  Valar-sanctioned, until the end of Arda.
 
In that moment Melpomaen had the painful epiphany that, beside her, he amounted to nothing.  For all the love his heart held for Elrond, for all their closeness, Melpomaen's place his lover's life was precarious at best.  He was an intruder.  She was the great Lady of this realm come back to stake her claim.
 
Taking Elrond's proffered hand, Celebrían dismounted and was greeted by a formal kiss on the cheek.  The spouses exchanged a few quiet words, Elrond's face schooled in the mask of pleased tranquility he usually wore in the presence of official visitors.  His hand cradling his wife's elbow, the Lord of the valley gestured toward the well-wishers gathered on the front steps and led Celebrían toward them.
 
He guided her along the long row of Elves lined up on the steps, like a commander inspecting his troops.  One by one, he introduced the members of his household to Celebrían, giving each one's name and position in the valley's hierarchy.  Watching the Elves bow before their Lady, Melpomaen could do naught but wait, dreading his turn, yet knowing it must come.
 
Finally the rustle of silk drew closer and Melpomaen heard his lover's voice say: "This is Melpomaen; a junior advisor and scribe who works under Master Erestor."  Knowing he could put the inevitable off no longer, he bowed low and respectfully, then straightened up and looked into Celebrían's face.
 
Her eyes were cool, her gaze serene and impassive, yet, when she looked at him, Melpomaen felt himself the object of such intense scrutiny that he nearly squirmed.  She did not smile, did not say a word; she merely watched, but Melpomaen nearly burned under her icy stare.  Instead of moving on, she lingered and proceeded to examine him from head to foot, almost as if trying to decipher some great puzzle.
 
Barely stifling the urge to run and hide, Melpomaen gradually felt his suspicions turn into certainty.  «She knows,» he thought, looking down at the ground. «She's known all along.  That is why she has come.»  The inevitability and hopelessness of it all hit him full-force, nearly choking him.  He had loved and been loved by Elrond for nearly three years now.  He should have known his happiness could not last.  It had been a prize too readily won.  Now it would be taken away.
 
As Celebrían's steps gradually retreated and the next Elf in line was presented to her, Melpomaen nearly slumped onto the stone surface under his feet.  His muscles, held rigid and still by pure force of will on his part, now began to shake.  Despite the bright sun shining down on him, he felt quite cold.  «Courage,» he thought. «This will be over soon.» 
 
He raised his eyes and looked around, in an attempt to focus his mind on more neutral matters.  And that was when he noticed something that had hitherto escaped his attention. 
 
The Lórien convoy was somewhat larger than he had expected, elaborate though he knew it would be.  «That is no single escort!» he realized with amazement, for indeed the Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's warriors were not dressed in the uniform of the Galadhrim.  They seemed to be a separate group, and at their head stood an Elf whose beauty, manner of dress and noble bearing signalled to all that he was a Lord and leader in his own right.
 
As the last of the introductions on the steps of the Last Homely House was made, Melpomaen saw Elrond turn and walk over to welcome the mysterious Elf, his greeting familiar.  «They know each other,» Melpomaen thought with surprise, then quickly chastised himself for the absurdity of his observation.  His older lover had, after all, millennia of experience; had fought for the good of Middle-earth probably long before Melpomaen's parents were even born.  It was no remarkable thing that Elrond and the stranger would be friends of old.
 
Or were they?  Melpomaen found himself reconsidering his last thought as he watched the two Lords interact.  He knew his lover well enough by now to be able to judge his measure of affection and trust for those in his presence.  Elrond's demeanour around the noble visitor may have been informal, but trust was noticeably absent from his face.  Although pleased, the expression Elrond wore was guarded and not free of reservations.
 
«I shall have to ask him about it tonight, when we are alone.» Melpomaen's thoughts followed a well-trod path, only to be brought up short by the brutal recollection of reality.  He would not be able to ask his lover any private thing tonight or any other night, for long weeks to come.  They would not be alone.  Celebrían was now in their midst, and their lives had begun to undergo a frightening and painful metamorphosis.  Melpomaen felt as if he were sinking into a familiar nightmare, only, this time, Elrond's arms were not there to hold him fast.
 
****
 
Out of the corner of his eye, Glorfindel saw Melpomaen blanch and steel his resolve under Celebrían's careful inspection.  A few paces away, Elrond looked somewhat less than comfortable.  Glorfindel felt a pang of sympathy for Elrond and his young lover -- the situation they found themselves in was not to be envied, and would likely deteriorate further before Celebrían's visit had run its course. 
 
He would normally have given more attention to his friends' plight, but just now his concern was focused elsewhere.  Erestor's stiff shoulders had not moved an inch since the courtyard had filled with visitors, and Glorfindel could see it was not merely proper etiquette that kept his body so still.  The advisor's eyes, instead of following the welcoming formalities with interest, were inspecting the stones beneath his feet, only occasionally glancing sideways at the source of his distress, as if to verify it was still there. 
 
The next time Erestor hazarded a guarded look in the direction of his supposed bane, Glorfindel followed his eyes and found himself staring at a group of Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's convoy.  He recognized them, of course, as he had had dealings with them in the past, and he was only mildly surprised to find they had joined with Celebrían's escort and accompanied it to Imladris. 
 
«Gildor Inglorion and his Wandering Company must have encountered the Lórien warriors on the way,» he thought, still perplexed as to why the sight of golden-haired Gildor and his small troop of followers would cause Erestor to react so alarmingly.
 
Then he saw Gildor catch Erestor's eye and send him a knowing, slightly mocking smile.  Gildor's eyebrow was raised, as if he were asking Erestor a question.  This gesture, although not overtly improper or threatening in any way, nevertheless had the power to immediately rivet Erestor's gaze back on the dust under his boots. 
 
Glorfindel, already dismayed at the alien sight of his proud lover falling prey to intimidation so easily, noticed with further dread that Erestor's face had now gone completely ashen and his nails were digging into his palms. 
 
«What manner of sorcery is this?» he thought with anger.  Erestor was anything but craven, so why would a mere look from Gildor Inglorion have him cowering in fear like a child?
 
Suddenly awareness dawned on Glorfindel, simple and clear, yet terrible in its simplicity.  There was only one who had ever had such oppressive control over Erestor's heart and mind; only one who had caused the proud advisor to cry from shame.  Glorfindel had once sworn he would cut this Elf's throat if he ever came across his path, but he had never believed such a thing would actually happen.  It had seemed to him that Erestor's past was just that:  the past -- a memory that would never cast fresh shadows over their shared future.  And yet here was this very memory made flesh -- in the form of Gildor Inglorion's haughty smirk -- and there stood Erestor shaken to his very core.
 
Glorfindel cast a furious look in Gildor's direction.  «If you cause one more tear to fall from Erestor's eyes you will rue the day your mother and father begot you; I swear it,» he thought, suddenly feeling fiercely protective of the competent diplomat who usually required no one to come to his defence.
 
Gildor's eyes were still fixed on Erestor, as if daring him to look up.  The intensity of his gaze was such that Erestor could not help but meet it once again; unwilling, yet drawn as if by a magnet.  Gildor smiled broadly then, the disdain that almost dripped from his smile making his fair face take on a cruel aspect and sending a chill through Glorfindel's sun-warmed flesh.
 
«Elbereth help me,» Glorfindel thought with desperation.  «The Valar stay my hand and let his visit be brief, or I may do things I shall later regret.»
 
 
****
 
As the sun's heat gradually lost its fervour, the courtyard slowly emptied of visitors.  All the important dignitaries had been escorted to their rooms to rest after the long journey, and even the less high-ranking of Celebrían's and Gildor's people had been shown to their quarters, where they could enjoy the comforts of the Last Homely House.  Those in Elrond's employ who had assigned responsibilities were busy carrying out their tasks, while those whose less eminent positions gave them no special duties to perform found there was naught left to gawk at, and so went about their regular business.
 
After the furore of the mid-morning, the courtyard looked strangely empty, filled now with nothing more than grooms seeing to the travellers' weary horses, whose hooves filled the air with fine dust.
 
A keen observer who looked closer, however, would have seen two figures engaged in private conversation, leaning up against a wall in an out-of-the-way corner.  Both were blond and had a warrior's build, though one was slightly taller than the other.  The tall one was dressed in the colours of Imladris' own guard, while his companion wore the distinctive grey uniform of the Galadhrim.  Their heads were bent together in the manner of old friends and their voices were quiet enough to signal to anyone watching that the topic of their discussion was of a distinctly private nature.
 
"Which one was he?" the Galadhel asked.
 
"The young one, dressed in blue.  The one who looked so frightened."
 
"Yes, now I remember.  I can't fault him for looking frightened.  I, too, would tremble before the daughter of the Lady of the Wood."
 
"His lover's wife," the Imladris guard added with bitterness.
 
"His lover's wife..." the Galadhel laughed, more out of bewilderment than amusement. 
 
"Why do you laugh?"
 
"His boldness is to be admired; to share the bed of Elrond Half-elven..."
 
The Imladris guard flicked the hair out of his eyes in a gesture of annoyance.  "Enough!  Now will you help me or not?"
 
"Patience my dear Caegaran, please.  Of course I'll help you."  The Galadhel paused and lowered his voice.  "What do you need me to do?"
 
"Only that for which you are well known, Haldir." Caegaran smirked. "Seduce him."
 
"Seduce the youthful advisor?" Haldir's laughter rang through the courtyard.
 
"Shh, quiet!  Someone will hear."
 
Haldir checked his exuberance, once again lowering his voice.  "But that is no challenge, Caegaran.  He is barely more than a child!  I would have him in my bed within a week, if not sooner, and where is the sport in that?  It is hardly worth my time."
 
"You are overconfident, Haldir."
 
"What do you mean?"
 
Caegaran raised a sceptical eyebrow.  "I am not certain you will manage to seduce him at all.  He and Elrond have been exclusive for many seasons now.  The young one has never been with another, nor do I think he wishes to be, for he is utterly faithful and devoted to his lover."
 
"Ah." Haldir's eyes widened with understanding. "I think I see now why you need me.  After he has been used by another -- especially one of my reputation -- Elrond may not find him as appealing."
 
Caegaran's face lit up with a menacing glow.  "Elrond will cast him out of his bed like a common harlot."
 
Haldir regarded his friend's face carefully.  "I have never known you to be so devious, Caegaran."
 
"I have never before been so grieved and offended."
 
Haldir extended his hand and clasped his companion's forearm.  "You may rely on me, meldir.  Both on my talents and my discretion."
 
"Thank you."
 
"And I do not think the task itself will be so very unpleasant.  The young one is quite comely, if a bit thin..."
 
Caegaran snorted with scorn, turning away from his friend's face.  Haldir laughed once again and, grasping Caegaran's shoulder, leaned in close.
 
"You never told me his name," he whispered.
 
"It's Melpomaen."
 
 
****
 
Notes:
 
Galadhel – singular form of Galadhrim
meldir – friend (male)
 
For reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the last chapter of "Sweetness and Gall."   :)

Chapter 4:


Imladris, TA 1004
 
 
The welcome banquet was even more uncomfortable than Elrond had feared. Conversation at the head of the table was strained and sparse, the air heavy with unmentionable subjects.  Even the exquisite meats, pies and pastries, prepared with care by Imladris' best cooks, did little to lift the spirits of his uneasy dinner companions. Elrond watched as more than one unsettled guest took refuge in cup after cup of potent red wine. Though he dearly wished he could do the same, his obligations as Lord, host and husband prevented him from following their example.

He had initially hoped Gildor Inglorion's unexpected appearance would enliven the meal or at least take its focus away from the tension between him and Celebrían. Though he himself was not especially fond of Gildor -- for reasons which were both personal and deeply rooted in the past -- he had thought the leader of the Wandering Company would find common ground with others at the table. News from faraway places was welcome, after all, and Gildor and his retinue had seen a great deal in the course of their travels.

Unfortunately, as the evening wore on it became painfully clear that Gildor's presence, instead of easing the nervous mood, inexplicably served to heighten it.  His usually imperturbable advisor, Erestor, kept his eyes focused on the food gracing his plate –- and yet ate very little, if at all. For his part, Glorfindel seemed intent on compensating for his lover's strange lack of appetite, for he consumed copious quantities of wild game and fowl, all the while casting menacing looks at the Elf seated across from him at the table -- at the very same Gildor who Elrond had wished would make the night easier to bear.

Elrond hardly dared to glance toward the foot of the table where, seated among advisors of lower office and lesser import, Melpomaen bravely suffered through the many-course dinner. Though his plate was nigh untouched, his wine goblet was quite empty and had probably been frequently refilled. Careful not to gaze too long at his unhappy lover, Elrond nevertheless detected an unnatural flush on Melpomaen's cheeks and perceived the deep red colour of his wine-stained lips. 

«Valar... Please let this torturous night come to an end,» Elrond sighed to himself, and felt Celebrían's cool fingers touch his hand.

"Is the stuffed quail not to your liking, my Lord?"

Elrond turned to look at his long-estranged wife, still unused to her presence beside him after so many years spent apart. She was smiling and her eyes shone not with guile but with amusement. It appeared she found the uncomfortable mood at table a matter for laughter rather than vexation.

Elrond felt relief pervade his body and smiled back at her.  "It *is* somewhat dry and has an unfortunate tendency to stick to the palate," he replied.

"Nothing that a good draught of wine would not remedy."

"Aye, but it would hardly befit the Lord of the Last Homely House to overindulge in front of his guests."

"Once the guests have retired for the night, however..." Celebrían's voice held a note of mischief and her eyebrow was raised playfully.

Elrond could not help but laugh. He was suddenly reminded of just how much he had once enjoyed his wife's company, back in the early days of their marriage, when he still had the hope they might one day come to love each other. But his laughter died down as the pleasant memory was supplanted by a sense of loss.  In the end, they had never been more than companions, tied together by a complicit separateness. Beside him sat his wife, but she was a stranger.

Celebrían's smile waned somewhat, and her features looked strained. She leaned in closer, her eyes focusing on Elrond's own.

"I believe we are both in dire need of whatever forgetfulness and relief a strong bottle might offer," she said. "Do not think me blind to the upheaval my arrival has wrought."
 
"I have never thought you blind, my Lady, though I must admit I had forgotten just how candid you could be."  Elrond smiled.
 
"You know diplomacy was never my strength.  I do not believe in speaking in riddles."
 
"Speak plainly then. We are husband and wife, after all; there should be no secrets between us." 
 
No sooner had the words left Elrond's mouth than he realized how falsely they rang.  But they could not be taken back, and all he could do was cringe inwardly and watch Celebrían's lips curl up in a smirk as her eyebrow rose up in question.
 
"No secrets?"
 
Elrond felt his face grow hot and cast his eyes down to the starched linen tablecloth.  His fingers twisted the napkin in his lap. 
 
"Celebrían, I--"
 
"I have not come here to cause you distress, Elrond, nor to cast blame." Her words were quiet, but effective.  Reaching out for his hand, she gave it one gentle squeeze, then let go.  "There is much that we do not know about one another, and that is not surprising, considering the nature of our situation."
 
Elrond could not help but feel saddened to hear this long-unacknowledged reality at last uttered so bluntly.  He looked up at his wife, seeking to gauge her reaction to her own words, but her face was as cool and impassive as ever.  He let his eyes wander back to the ivory linen crumpled on his knees.
 
Celebrían reached forward and, picking up a large flagon of wine, filled Elrond's cup to the brim.  She lifted it from the table and placed it in his hand.

"Your guests will not mind," she said.

"I daresay they will not," Elrond said, accepting the cup and cradling it in both palms. "Many of them have been enjoying the heady charms of this wine for quite some time."

Celebrían laughed, her voice rising and then falling like a splash of clear water. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond saw Melpomaen cast an uneasy glance in their direction, then quickly look away again and reach for his drink. His heart clenching, Elrond followed his lover's example and brought the wine up to his lips.

"Will you not have some?" he asked.

"Perhaps later.  I had hoped we might... speak privately after the banquet."

"I think there are still a few bottles of the raspberry wine -- the one you once liked -- in one of the cellars. I could bring one to your chambers once the guests are abed."

"That is a most welcome invitation," Celebrían replied. "And one I shall be glad to accept. I have some messages for you from old friends, not to mention a stack of letters -- personal, not official. One from Arwen."

Elrond smiled. "Is she well?"

"She is better than well; she is quite happy and more beautiful than ever. But you will be able to read for yourself in an hour or two."

"I look forward to it."

"As do I. Only..."

"What is it?"

Celebrían shrugged her shoulders and, though her smile was impish, her eyes were sad.

"Two bottles might serve us better than one. There is much that we need to discuss."
 
 
****
 
 
The door closed behind Elrond, shut quietly and with care. Celebrían lingered a while with her fingers on the metal handle, listening to the sound of her husband's footsteps slowly receding down the hallway. His stride was measured and weary, as if his feet were loath to carry him to his chambers for his nightly rest. «Of course he is in no haste,» she thought, smiling sadly. «He will have naught to keep him company this eve but his empty bed.»

Moving to the fireplace, she absentmindedly picked up the empty wine bottles and glasses from the tiled floor, placing them on the small side table. The maids would clean them up in the morning; there was no need to trouble anyone this late. Half of the Last Homely House was likely already deep in reverie: the household staff exhausted after a long day spent catering to the guests, and the visitors finally relishing the comforts of a well-provisioned realm. It would be best to let those who knew no grief enjoy their peaceful slumber. Not all were that fortunate, she knew.

Carefully she blew out the candles lining the mantelpiece, leaving only the fire's dying embers to light the room with a soft glow. She struggled with the latch on the window for a moment, then opened it wide. It was so hot here, and the air inside the house so confining. Were she in Lórien, the moonlight would shine on her bed and the soft breath of the wind caress her cheeks as she slept.

«Less than a day, and already I miss home,» she thought, unsurprised. She had expected it, had had no illusions about feeling at ease in the place she had once left by choice. And her expectations had thus far been confirmed. Really, it was uncanny how effortless it was to fall back into old feelings and habits, as if no time had passed at all. She and Elrond had spent a whole evening drinking wine to help loosen the tongue and calm their frazzled nerves, and yet neither had had the courage to broach the subject they both knew was uppermost in their minds. They had said much, but had shied away from speaking the crucial words that had the power to either hurt or heal. It was like groping in the dark and failing to grasp the hand of the one reaching out to you; like trying to make out the features of a face hidden behind a thick pane of glass. Things had changed very little indeed.
 
They had talked of their children, had exchanged news of mutual friends and acquaintances, had even laughed about old times -- those that brought back memories of pleasures shared rather than mutual recriminations. But neither dared mention their current situation or the reason for Celebrían's visit to the valley, though it was obvious from Elrond's guarded looks that he thought of little else and feared her motives.
 
He would do right by her, that much she knew. He always had. If it broke his heart and tore his joy to shreds, he would grant her any requests she, as his rightful spouse, was entitled to make. He had once bowed to her wishes with hope, trusting the promises they had made to each other would hold true. Now he would do it out of duty, and the young pair of eyes she had glimpsed at the end of the banquet table, nervously regarding her as the powerful rival she was, might overflow with tears.

She had been curious about the young one ever since rumours of him had first reached her ears, and had taken every opportunity this day to look her fill –- though she was unlikely to determine his reasons for becoming involved with her husband by sight alone.  She was well aware that he could sense her eyes on him -- the tense set of his shoulders and watchful glances sent her way told her that he likely thought her a formidable foe -- but she did not avert her eyes or in any way try to ease his discomfort.  He may have been young and possibly quite amiable, but she did not owe him a thing.
 
He probably thought she was angry, maybe even vengeful, but she was not -- at least not anymore.  When the malicious gossip had first seeped into the Golden Wood Celebrían had seethed and cursed her husband's indiscretion.  But the anger had subsided, soothed into a more manageable form by time and logical persuasion.  Had she and Elrond not agreed to live apart, after all?  How much self-denial and seclusion could reasonably be expected of an Elf-man in his prime?  Would a heart left in the cold not naturally reach out for companionship?
 
Wearily undoing her braids, she sank down onto the lace-covered bed.  She would probably be seeing a great deal of Melpomaen in the coming weeks, for the Last Homely House, though impressive, was deceptively small.  Their paths would cross in the corridors or walkways, and she could already see him trying to shrink into himself, desperately wishing to blend into the walls to avoid her eyes.  If she were to walk up to him and take him by the shoulders, no doubt he would shudder, waiting for her to unleash her wrath.
 
What Melpomaen did not know -- could not possibly know -- was that her indignation had been replaced by a sort of morbid curiosity: the fascination of someone who had for years gazed at one of the mysteries of life through an impenetrable screen.  There was a burning question on her tongue, and yet how could she possibly ask it?  How could she turn to her husband's lover and say, "What is it like?  Do you love him?  What do you see when you look at him?"
 
She knew what she saw, and imagined that most people saw the same.  Elrond was beautiful, wise and kind.  Most who looked upon him were amazed that an Elf who had witnessed so many sorrows could still glow with such vitality and passion.  He was a patient and considerate spouse, and Celebrían knew that, in marrying for the good of her people rather than her own, she had fared much better than most in her position.  Elrond was a good person; there was not a shred of doubt in her mind as to his worth.  And yet she looked at him and felt... nothing.
 
Elbereth knew she had tried, as had he.  He had been so careful with her from the very beginning, seeming to understand her fears and reservations.  He did not touch her for almost two months after they were wed, for he could tell that she did not wish it.  When they finally did lie together as husband and wife, his fingers were gentle, his elbows heedful to keep his weight off her, his hips restraining their urge to push.  She looked at his strong, naked body and knew that there were some who would give nearly anything to be lying beneath him the way she was.  There were those who trembled at the mere sound of his voice, let alone a more intimate caress.  And yet she did not.
 
She would sometimes look at Elrond, over a shared breakfast or across a crowded hall, and wonder just why it was that she felt numb.  They were friends, after all -- of a sort.  She knew he took pleasure in her company, and she in turn appreciated his.  And yet she could not help feeling that she was enveloped in a clear membrane which, for all its transparency, could not be punctured.  After a while, it simply became easier to be alone, and Elrond gradually learned not to ask for explanations she was unable to provide.  When she finally announced she would be moving back to Lórien he was not surprised, although his eyes did look at her with more sadness than he usually allowed himself to show.
 
Tonight those same eyes had observed her with apprehension, even a hint of fear -- an expression which had taken her aback at first, used as she was to thinking of Elrond as a master of his emotions.  But it seemed that not all matters in the valley had remained untouched by the hand of time.  Her long-estranged husband had at last placed his heart in the keeping of another:  someone he cared about -- quite deeply, it seemed.  She wondered whether his trust was well placed and, if so, whether she was big-hearted enough not to begrudge him his new happiness.
 
Celebrían leaned back on the soft pillows and drew the fresh cotton covers up to her chin.  The night stretched out before her, infinite in its stillness, tempting in its anonymity.  The bed was wide and empty, and she felt strangely comforted by the thought that none but she would rest in its embrace, tangling in the crisp sheets by dawn.  Silence whispered in her ear, and she welcomed it as the dear friend it was.
 
Chapter 5:


Imladris, TA 1004
 
 
Glorfindel welcomed the dimness of the hallway with relief. The shadows cast by a few flickering candles accentuated the emptiness of the narrow corridor, making it feel like a haven. They were walking quickly, eager to get away from the oppressive mood of the dining hall, Erestor clutching Glorfindel's hand as if he were afraid to let go. Glorfindel had tried to catch his lover's eye a number of times, eager to offer comfort, but Erestor kept staring at the ground. The demons chasing him were frightening enough to keep him from even looking over his shoulder.

«Dinner must have been torment for him,» Glorfindel thought, the memory of Gildor's scornful smile making his blood boil. He took a few calming breaths; if he gave his anger free rein, he would be of little use to his lover, whose distress was clearly greater than his own. Erestor had made no scene, had barely spoken a word throughout the whole meal, but Glorfindel saw him grip his fork just a little tighter and down his wine with just a little more urgency than usual. Though his erect posture never wavered, toward the end of the banquet his hands had started to tremble.

The most Glorfindel could offer in the way of reassurance was the warm pressure of his leg against Erestor's thigh throughout the meal. The banquet table did not lend itself to private conversations. He wished he could at least have had a chance to speak to his lover after the troubling events of the morning, but the demands of Erestor's position had whisked him away before Glorfindel could reach him.

At last they came to the doorway they sought, and Erestor drew out his key with shaking fingers. He fumbled with the lock, turned the handle and, throwing his full weight against the wooden surface, forced the door open with his shoulder. Quickly, they made their way inside. When the door had shut behind them with a comforting click, Erestor leaned against it, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders sag.

Glorfindel tentatively placed his hand on Erestor's elbow, waiting for him to speak. In response to the touch, Erestor's dark eyes opened and he attempted a half-hearted smile, although it seemed more like a grimace.

"He is here," Erestor said.

"I know."

So the words had been spoken, unnecessary though they were. And yet the cloud of apprehension that seemed to hang about Erestor did not dissipate or even lessen, for how could it? The source of his distress had not vanished but at that very moment sat in the dining hall contentedly sipping wine. Erestor's heart, already bearing Gildor's bitter imprint, had just been branded anew, and though speaking the words aloud may have eased his hurt somewhat, this was not the kind of tale that would be rendered painless simply with the telling.

"Are you alright?" Glorfindel asked, already knowing what Erestor's answer would be.

"No."

Glorfindel moved closer and enfolded his lover in an embrace. He felt the tension in Erestor's back under his fingers: muscles tightened to knots after the day's ordeal.

"It galled me to see that smug look on his face, and his eyes -- always on you, always taunting... How I longed to wrap my hands around his throat and--"

"Glorfindel, you know you can do no such thing."

"I know. But I hate to see you suffer."

Erestor brought his lips up to Glorfindel's ear. His voice held a note of desperation. "Then ease my suffering."

"How?"

"Make love to me. Touch me. Show me I am yours."

Glorfindel's eyes opened in shock. He pulled away from the embrace and scrutinized Erestor's face.

"You're certain? After the memories today must have awoken in your mind? You want me to--"

"Yes."

There was no hesitation in Erestor's voice, and so Glorfindel took him at his word. His hands wandered down Erestor's body, fingers gently kneading, careful not to push too hard or startle.

"Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

Erestor shifted in his lover's arms and looked up. His eyes, black and burning, held a silent plea.

"I am not made of glass," he said.

Glorfindel hesitated, his hands still handling Erestor's body with care. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I need to feel your hands on me. Please, I need to feel your strong hands on me."

Glorfindel's heart began to beat faster at these words. Erestor had asked this of him before, had wanted Glorfindel's hands to treat him harshly and mark his pale skin with bruises. Although their lovemaking wasn't always so, there were days when Erestor craved this, days when he revelled in being mastered and taken without ceremony. At first Glorfindel had reluctantly obliged, moved by love and wanting only to please. But, as their time together wore on, Glorfindel found he enjoyed the role more than he had at first expected. There was nothing that roused his lust as much as the sight of Erestor completely and willingly in his power, nothing that made the blood rush to his head as much as the feeling of dominating his lover. Hearing Erestor's rasping voice call out his joy at the fierce grip of Glorfindel's hands on his body was a thrill Glorfindel had come to savour.

"Are you sure?" he asked, still unwilling to abandon himself to his desires without thought for Erestor's fragile state.

Erestor nodded in response, parting his lips and arching his back so that his groin came into direct contact with Glorfindel's, teasing and tempting.

"Yes," he said, and closed his eyes.

"Very well. If you wish it."

Taking his time, Glorfindel untied the black silk sash knotted at Erestor's waist, reached around in a wide embrace and carefully bound Erestor's hands behind his back. Erestor sighed, a shiver of anticipation making his mouth tremble.

"Come this way," Glorfindel said, his voice slightly huskier than usual.

Slowly he steered Erestor farther into the bedchamber, to a low armchair beside the curtain-draped window. The chair's back was waist-high and usually helped cushion the neck and shoulders of the one who sat in it, reading by the light of the afternoon sun. Today it would serve a different purpose.

When Erestor's rear came into contact with the armchair's velvet upholstery, Glorfindel halted. Then he forcefully grasped Erestor's hips, turned him around and bent his body over the back of the chair. Yanking up the black robes, he grasped hold of Erestor's leggings and pulled them down in one swift tug, exposing his behind to the dim light of the candle-lit room.

Erestor gasped, his voice muffled by the soft upholstery, thighs parting in invitation. He looked so beautiful in the warm glow of the candlelight, buttocks pale and taut, raven hair falling all over the seat of the chair in disarray, that Glorfindel wondered for a moment why he should be the fortunate one to lay his hands on this lovely creature.

«It is a shame to mark something so unblemished,» he thought briefly, letting his appreciative gaze wander over Erestor's backside.

"Glorfindel..." an impatient whisper came from the midst of the velvet cushions. "Please..."

Glorfindel looked around him, trying to find some object that might serve as the proper tool for the punishment he was to dispense. Seeing nothing appropriate, he decided that his palm would have to suffice, as it had many times before. Slowly he slid both his hands up Erestor's thighs, gripping the buttocks in his fingers. He dug his nails in, parted the firm flesh and, exposing the cleft, blew a stream of cool air across it.

Erestor bucked and gasped, but Glorfindel would not be rushed. "Patience, lovely one. I have other things in mind for you before you feel my caress where you crave it most."

Letting go of the yielding flesh, he flexed his large hand, brought his arm back to increase the momentum of his blows and delivered the first strike. The sensitive skin reddened almost instantly, a rose-coloured tint blossoming across Erestor's bottom like a modest blush. The shade looked so inviting that Glorfindel could not help but want to see it bloom and deepen its hue. He grabbed a firm hold of his lover's hip with one hand as his blows began raining down on the exposed buttocks in earnest.

There was a certain pleasure to be found in this act alone. The feel of Erestor's rear under his fingers, firm yet resisting, the gradual transformation of the skin's paleness to a ruddier shade -- all those things were appealing to the senses. But what really set Glorfindel's blood racing and made him grow hard with desire were the sounds that accompanied his hands' punitive deeds: the resonant smack of a palm against waiting flesh; Erestor's breath coming in short, needy pants; his encouraging moans, somewhat stifled by the velvet cushions.

When at last Glorfindel judged that Erestor had been sufficiently marked, he stilled his hand, fell on his knees, brought his open mouth to one of his lover's flushed buttocks and bit down forcefully. The delighted howl that emanated from Erestor's mouth only spurred Glorfindel on, and he sank his teeth in again. Breathing hard and gripping the advisor's backside with both hands, he exposed the tempting cleft once more and ran his tongue along it, hurriedly preparing the way, for he knew that he could hold back no longer.

The loud cries of rapture that were by this time coming from Erestor's mouth could easily be heard in the next chamber and probably halfway down the long corridor as well. Glorfindel wondered briefly whether the banquet was still under way or whether guests had begun to filter back to their rooms. He would normally have been more concerned by their lovemaking's lack of discretion, but at this moment he honestly cared not. All he could think of was burying himself deep in that eagerly proffered rump and thrusting until he had no more strength left to move.

Blood thumping in his ears, he fumbled with his own clothing and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Erestor's thighs, brought his length into position and slid inside. Then he stilled.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Yes!"

Erestor's answer was almost a scream, and Glorfindel took it as licence to forsake all caution. His hands gripped his lover's hips harshly as he arched his back and began pounding into the willing body. Somewhere at the fringes of his consciousness he could hear Erestor's euphoric shouts along with the sound of the chair's wooden legs scraping across the floor. If the Last Homely House had caught fire at that moment and required his immediate aid, he would have said, "Let it burn."

It did not take long for both Elves to reach their climax and collapse over the back of the armchair. Long moments passed in sweet, blissful insensibility as blood slowed and awareness gradually returned. As soon as Glorfindel had regained enough composure to be able to tell which way was up and which was down he stood up, not wanting to crush Erestor, and set about untying his hands.

Erestor flexed his wrists, allowing the blood to flow once again in his numbed fingers, and pushed himself upright. Not meeting Glorfindel's gaze, he quickly pulled up his leggings and smoothed his wrinkled silk robes over them. Tangled hair had fallen into his eyes, but he made no effort to brush it back, rather letting it conceal his flushed features.

"Erestor?" Glorfindel moved to touch his tousled lover, but stopped when he saw Erestor's shoulders stiffen.

Erestor turned away from Glorfindel's open arms, facing the window and hugging himself tightly. He hung his head.

"I cannot even keep my voice low, but shriek my disgrace all over Imladris. You must be so mortified to hear such sounds, Glorfindel, so ashamed of me..."

"Erestor, no!"

Alarmed, Glorfindel quickly closed the short distance between himself and his lover, enfolding him from behind. Despite Erestor's struggle to free himself from the embrace, Glorfindel would not let go, but held on until Erestor gave up all attempts at resistance. Smoothing the raven locks off Erestor's face, he brought his mouth up to a pale temple, alternately kissing and whispering soft words.

"I could never be ashamed of you. You make me proud."

"But my behaviour--"

"Only kindles my passions further and adds to my pleasure."

"You sound as if you speak true, Glorfindel, and yet how can I believe--"

"Erestor!" Glorfindel turned his lover around, looking intently into his eyes. "I am not Gildor."

Erestor's shoulders slumped and he leaned heavily against Glorfindel. For a long while his eyes remained focused on the stone floor as his uneven breathing returned to a normal pace. Finally he looked up.

"I know not how long he is staying," he said, his voice tired. "But even if his visit is only brief, I cannot see how I can bear it. It has been less than a day and already I feel as though I am going mad. Whenever he looks at me, it is as if everything I have learned or become since that time simply disappears, and I am left exposed and ashamed."

"It is he who should be ashamed, to have treated you so badly."

Erestor wound his arms around Glorfindel's waist and laid his head on the seneschal's shoulder, his eyes closed.

"The Valar have been kind to me, Glorfindel, placing you in my path," he said.

Glorfindel's heart soared so high that for a moment he felt light-headed. «I am the fortunate one,» he thought, and would have said the words aloud but for fear that his voice might break. Instead held Erestor close, glorying in the feel of the advisor's breath on his collarbone.

When at last he could trust himself to speak, he said, "However long Gildor chooses to stay, we will cope, Erestor, we will stand together. You are not alone."
 
 
****
 
 
Notes:
 
Again, for reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the last chapter of "Sweetness and Gall."   :)

 
Chapter 6:

Imladris, TA 1004 –- One month after Celebrían's arrival
 
-- Early morning --

Glorfindel hesitated for a few seconds before raising his hand to the door.  The rap of his knuckles against solid wood sounded disturbingly loud, almost rude, in the silence of the hallway.  He flinched.  He did not want to disturb Elrond in the sanctuary of his chambers -- not during the few morning hours that were uniquely Elrond's own -- but felt he had little choice.  Once the Last Homely House was fully awake and the official business of the realm commanded all of Elrond's attention, it was next to impossible to engage him in a private conversation.
 
And the matter Glorfindel was hoping to speak to Elrond about was distinctly private.  That night Erestor had once again woken abruptly from a fitful sleep, shaking and bathed in sweat.  Gildor's continuing presence was affecting the quiet advisor greatly, and it went against Glorfindel's nature to stand idly by and do nothing.  It was time to tell Elrond; Glorfindel was badly in need of his friend's wisdom and insight.

The door opened almost immediately. "Glorfindel. Come in."

"Elrond, it is barely past dawn.  I had expected to find you in your nightclothes or dressing gown, not in your official robes.  Is everything well?"

"I could not rest, that is all, so I decided to put my waking hours to good use." Elrond's voice sounded tired.

Glorfindel felt a twinge of guilt.  In his preoccupation with Erestor's well-being he had nearly lost sight of Elrond's quandary.  Now, looking at his friend's face, he could see that Erestor was not the only occupant of the Last Homely House who had found little solace in reverie over the past month.

Something clinked, and it was only then that Glorfindel noticed the sharp steel weapon in Elrond's hand.

"Polishing your sword?" he asked. "But we have expert bladesmiths who would be more than willing to do that for you.  You need only go down to the armouries..."

"But I prefer to do it myself.  I am quite capable, having learned the craft in my youth.  And I find it soothing." Elrond moved to the desk and carefully set down both sword and polishing stone, then turned to Glorfindel, the line of his back tense.  "What did you want to speak to me about?"

"It can wait. I think I would rather hear about what makes you leave your bed and seek your sword before even the sun has risen," Glorfindel replied. "Here, sit.  Let me rub your shoulders.  You look like you haven't slept in weeks."

Elrond pulled the desk chair toward him and straddled it.  Resting his arms on the back of the chair, he bowed his head and closed his eyes, letting Glorfindel's hands do their work.

For a while the room was quiet.  Elrond's breathing gradually slowed, to the point where Glorfindel thought his friend had finally succumbed to his fatigue.  But when Glorfindel moved his hands away, intending to let the tired Elf get whatever rest he could in relative privacy, Elrond looked up.

"Well?" Glorfindel asked. "Are you going to tell me what terrors the night holds for you or will you confide in none?"

Elrond took in a long breath and began in a low voice: "I have such dreams sometimes...  Last night I thought I heard Mel screaming, calling for me.  I woke and listened for his voice, but it was nothing.  Nothing but the fruit of an overactive, feverish mind."

"Have you talked to him?"

"I haven't spoken to him in weeks, Glorfindel; he avoids me and I have not sought him out.  What would I say to him if I did?  I know so little..."

"A strange admission from one renowned for his wisdom." Glorfindel smiled.

"I may know the lore and history of our people but I know nothing of the contents of my wife's heart."

Glorfindel moved around to Elrond's front, and sat down on a low stool.  He leaned forward, eager to catch every word.
 
Elrond continued.  "She knows, Glorfindel.  She hasn't spoken it aloud, but I can see it in her face.  She knows exactly what Melpomaen means to me."

"And?"

"She is deciding what it all means to her.  To her pride."

"She is deciding your doom."

"And his."

Elrond lowered his head into his hands and remained still, his bearing not that of a warrior ready to do battle, but of a prisoner waiting to be condemned.  Suddenly Glorfindel understood the reason for the dark shadows under his friend's eyes.

"You will do as she asks," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes.  I owe her that much."

Anger began to build in Glorfindel's chest. "She owes you much more."

"Do not start this argument again, my friend.  It led nowhere the last time."

"You expect me to hold my tongue and allow her to destroy your happiness like she did before?"

"There was no happiness to speak of, before.  And yes, I do expect you to hold your tongue."

Glorfindel rose to his feet and shook out the folds of his robe, incensed.  'What of Melpomaen and what you owe him?' he was tempted to ask, but held back.  Elrond had doubtlessly put the question to himself many times; there was no need to further torture a conscience already in pain.

Walking over to the side of the desk, Glorfindel glanced down at Elrond's sword, which lay beside its polishing stone.  He picked up the blade and held it up to the light, examining its straight edge and perfect symmetry -- the product of countless hours of concentration and single-minded focus.  A labour not of love, but of dread.

Turning to face Elrond once again, he laid the weapon back down. "How long until she speaks her mind?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"And so you wait."

Elrond nodded.  His long, unbound hair fell forward over his shoulders, framing his pale face.  Without his circlet of office or his elaborate braids, he looked younger, more exposed.  Glorfindel felt a vague ache in his chest at the sight of his old friend looking so uncharacteristically helpless.

"Elrond, I think you're carrying your misguided loyalty too far."

"Thank you for your opinion, but I will live my life as I see fit." Elrond's voice was louder than usual.

"We have had this argument before, when Celebrían first decided to leave all those years ago; do you remember?"  Glorfindel could hear his own voice rising in volume.  "She had her way then, and she is about to have it again."

"I could not keep her here by force.  And, besides, this is different."

"How is this different? In that she is about to trample on two hearts instead of just one?"

Elrond started as if he'd been slapped. "Glorfindel, watch what you say!"

"And allow her to leave your life in ruins again?  No!  Elrond, you are a strong, decisive leader, but that same quality sometimes makes you as stubborn as a mule."  Glorfindel took a deep breath, then another, willing his racing blood to calm down. "I have spoken as a friend.  Even if my words were harsh, you know I have your best interest at heart."

Elrond nodded but did not reply.  His eyes were looking past Glorfindel's shoulder, staring unseeing at a decorative fresco beside the door.

Glorfindel shook his head in exasperation, his patience at last worn out. "However, if you wish me to keep my opinions to myself, I am perfectly capable of doing so," he said.  Getting no response, he walked toward the door and reached for the metal handle, resigning himself to the fact that he would continue to encounter a dejected-looking Melpomaen in the corridors for weeks to come.

Before the door had even closed behind him he heard the clatter of a chair being shoved out of the way and the clink of Elrond's sword against its polishing stone.
 
******

-- Late morning --

Haldir was watching him again.  Melpomaen could sense the guardian's eyes on him as he slinked past the exercise yard, and instinctively picked up the pace.  If only the walkway wasn't so exposed...  The path between the main buildings and the medical archives in the healing house wound its way right next to the enclosure used by border patrol guards to keep their fighting skills sharp.  Here there were no arched doorways to duck into, no heavy curtains to hide behind.  Aside from a few sparse trees, there was nothing that a harassed scribe could use for shelter.

Melpomaen's feet hastened along the stone pathway, his arms full of papers.  His peripheral vision registered a number of silhouettes in swift motion, but he did not turn to look; the clash of metal blades and the occasional encouraging shout or grunt told him all he cared to know. A heated sparring match was in progress, pitting some of Imladris' finest warriors against a few of the Galadhrim.  Although the fight had presumably been initiated in the spirit of friendly competition, Melpomaen's ears had picked up a number of muted invectives originating from the spectators.  It seemed the honour of each realm lay in the sweaty hands of its duelling soldiers.

Haldir wasn't fighting this time, but stood to the side, observing the progress of the match with interest.  Melpomaen held his breath and hurried along; the last thing he wanted was to attract Haldir's full attention.  That piercing gaze had already been trained on him far too often lately.  Melpomaen was beginning to feel like a target.

"Melpomaen!" Haldir's voice rang out, easily carrying over the noise.

Melpomaen let out the breath he had been holding and reluctantly slowed his near-run.  Turning in the direction of the voice, he attempted a smile.

"Haldir. Good morrow."

"And to you, my friend.  Care to join the rivalry?  Imladris could use some help."

Melpomaen scanned Haldir's amused expression and decided that the guardian was definitely jesting, although whether he was laughing with him or at him was somewhat unclear.  Haldir's thin-lipped smile was kindly enough, but the look in his eyes was so intense that Melpomaen nearly looked away.

"I shall be of far more help if I keep off that field, Haldir.  My skills with a sword are notoriously inadequate."

"You do yourself a disservice.  I am told that few could match you thrust for thrust."

Melpomaen's arms reflexively tightened around his papers.  In spite of himself, he blushed and nearly took a step back.  Why was it that Haldir had the ability to throw him off balance so easily?  And why did he insist on doing it at every possible opportunity?

"I assure you, Haldir, I would do Imladris little honour with weapon in hand," he replied curtly.

"All the same, I should like to cross blades with you before duty calls me back to the Golden Wood.  I am certain we would both profit from the experience.  Even seasoned warriors can gain much in the practice of their craft, and I can sense that there is a great deal you could teach me...  I'm quite willing to learn, you know."

Haldir's voice would have been almost hypnotic had his words not been punctuated by the tapping of his sword against his boot.  Distracted by the sound, Melpomaen glanced down to where the metal blade made contact with polished leather.

Haldir's boots were tall, and had quite obviously been designed to show off their owner's muscular legs to good advantage.  The soft black leather hugged the curve of the guardian's calf and ended around mid-thigh, the boots' elegant line automatically drawing the eye's trajectory to the very place Melpomaen should not have been looking.

«Surely those boots are not part of the uniform of the Galadhrim,» Melpomaen thought, making a conscious effort to pull his eyes away and feeling furious with himself for the fact that such an effort needed to be made.  Every encounter he had had with Haldir over the past month had made him feel like a mouse trying to avoid a trap.  To his dismay, the trap was getting progressively more tempting.

"Perhaps another time, Haldir." Melpomaen hugged his papers to his chest and drew himself up to his full height.

"Another time then," Haldir said, inclining his head.  Smiling, he turned and sauntered away.

Melpomaen's eyes could not help but follow the progress of those entrancing black boots, though he felt a wave of loathing for himself at such evidence of his weakness.  Haldir's slow stride made admiration easy as his snug leggings flexed over thighs and buttocks.  He walked gracefully, like a large predatory cat, his every move radiating sensuality.  After a month of enforced celibacy, this kind of blatant display was the last thing Melpomaen needed.  He closed his eyes and conjured up an image of Elrond's face, feeling awful for having betrayed his lover even in thought.

Forcing his eyes back down to the dusty stones beneath his feet, Melpomaen turned and set out for the healing house once more.  This time there was no urgency in his step; he did not think he was in any danger of attracting Haldir's attention again so soon.  Some hunters enjoyed toying with their prey, taking sadistic pleasure in wounding and leaving the hapless creature to slowly bleed and weaken.  Melpomaen knew he had not seen the last of Haldir, but he could also sense that it would be a while yet before the Galadhel moved in for the final kill.

****

-- Early afternoon --

The healing house medical archives were kept in one large, many-windowed hall, which offered little privacy to those working within.  When Celebrían pulled back the curtain and entered, the first notable thing she saw was the tall figure of Erestor standing beside a table at the other end of the room, studying a scroll.  Briskly, she made her way over and stated her errand.

Erestor bowed his head in a polite greeting. "A book on sleeping draughts?  We have plenty of material on the subject, and the dried plants used to make the draughts themselves are kept in an adjacent room.  You have certainly come to the right place, my Lady, although I am perhaps not the best person to advise you."

The dark circles under Erestor's eyes seemed to lend credence to his claim.  Celebrían quickly put her doubts aside, however; whatever personal demons had kept Erestor from getting his proper rest had little to do with his knowledge about these matters.  "But you are practically Elrond's right hand; I know he relies on you for counsel on matters not only of politics but healing as well."

"You are very kind."  Erestor crossed his hands over his chest and bowed again, acknowledging the compliment.  "But, you see, we have recently begun re-cataloguing all our scrolls and volumes, and the bulk of the project has rested on Melpomaen's shoulders.  While I am still quite muddled when it comes to all the changes, he knows this archive like a good warrior knows his sword and armour; I daresay he could find what you seek blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back."

The temptation was too great; Celebrían could not help herself.  "That sounds most intriguing," she said. "However, I assure you that no such services will be required of him."  She smiled, amused to see Erestor looking somewhat flustered.  She had always delighted in throwing the dignified advisor off balance; to his credit, he usually reacted to these attempts with good humour.

True to his reputation, Erestor lifted both eyes to the ceiling and shook his head, though Celebrían could see him trying to suppress a smirk.  For a moment, the fatigue vanished from his features.  Then he looked over his shoulder and called out, "Melpomaen! Your expertise is needed.  You know I have a hard time finding aught in this archive without you of late."

Another curtain moved behind Erestor, and Celebrían realized she had judged the archive's lack of privacy inaccurately.  The bookshelves at the very back of the room were arranged in such a manner as to offer a good-sized working space hidden from prying eyes.  She managed to catch a glimpse of a desk piled high with papers before Melpomaen appeared beside Erestor, and the curtain once again swung closed.

Melpomaen smiled, apparently pleased at being complimented so, then saw who it was that required his assistance and immediately sobered.  "My Lady." He bowed low.

Though his show of respect seemed genuine, Celebrían remained on her guard.  She had received enough false praise and deference over the years to be wary of sycophants.  And she had still not had a chance to make up her mind about this one; despite the Last Homely House's relatively small size, Melpomaen had managed to successfully avoid crossing her path since her arrival.

"The Lady Celebrían has inquired about sleeping draughts," Erestor said.  "Is that not the section you recently re-organized?"

"Yes." Melpomaen nodded.

"I shall leave it to you, then; I need to carry these back to the main library." Erestor picked up the stack of scrolls he had been examining, bowed, and headed for the exit.  Melpomaen's eyes followed his progress across the spacious hall until Erestor had disappeared behind the heavy curtain.

Then the young Elf cast a nervous glance at Celebrían. "May I ask about the purpose of the sleeping draught you wish to prepare, my Lady?  Not all plants are equal, and not all draughts require the same concentration of herbs.  They must be chosen carefully, with the recipient in mind."

Celebrían looked Melpomaen squarely in the eye, but kept her expression neutral.  Though her primary goal in coming here had been to obtain the herbs she wanted, she saw she had just been given a perfect opportunity to test Melpomaen's mettle.  She was curious about how he would react when subjected to her scrutiny.  "It is to be used simply as a sleeping aid for someone who has been hard pressed to find rest lately," she said curtly.
 
"Very well." Melpomaen bowed and led the way.

They walked among the tall stacks, Celebrían neglecting to look at the titles of the volumes they passed, and using the opportunity rather to observe Melpomaen at his work.  Though he looked anxious in her presence, he was clearly comfortable amid the interminable maze of books and scrolls.  As they wandered in deeper into the forest of paper, his step grew progressively more confident and he seemed to relax.  At last they came to a bookshelf filled with meticulously organized volumes, and stopped.

Melpomaen reached up, retrieved a large book and opened it to a page filled with drawings of plants.  "For the most common kind of sleeping draught, there are several options."  He pointed to a picture of a green herb with a tall, slim stalk and bunches of small white flowers.  "Valerian is the most reliable and the quickest to take effect, but it has a tendency to cause headaches and restlessness if used too regularly or if combined with strong drink."

He hesitated, then flipped a page.  "Lavender oil is very effective in inducing sleep, and is therefore used quite widely."

"Yes, I have heard of it."

Melpomaen seemed to grow uncomfortable.  "When used in excessive quantities, however, its effect may be... stronger than was originally intended," he said, glancing up warily.

Celebrían had to keep her eyes from flying open in surprise as she realized the nature of his concerns.  «He's afraid I want to obtain a draught that will cause harm!» she thought, both with shock and not a small measure of amusement.  «I wonder who he fears would be the target of the potion.  Himself, perhaps?  Or my husband?»

Melpomaen's next question confirmed Celebrían's suspicions. "Is it for yourself, my Lady?  I mean, is the person in question male or female?"

Celebrían paused for a moment, then, watching for a reaction, said simply, "The draught is for Elrond."

Melpomaen blanched.  "Is he not well?" he asked, his voice louder all of a sudden, all shyness gone from his demeanour.

"He is well enough; I have simply noticed that he has been tired lately.  I thought to help."

"But he is a healer!  Surely, if he needed a draught prepared, he could do so himself--"

"Sometimes healers are slowest to look after their own concerns."

A look of understanding flitted across Melpomaen's face and, for a moment, Celebrían had the impression that he regarded her not as someone to be feared, but as a co-conspirator.  Then the timidity returned to his eyes.  "I see what you mean.  I think I know exactly what you seek."

He flipped a few more pages, then pointed to another drawing.  "Sweet Balm would be ideal, in my opinion.  It is mild and takes a healer's skill to prepare if the desired properties are to be achieved, but it works well and has no unwanted side effects."  He closed the book and placed it back in its slot, then looked at her again, his expression helpful.  "I could sort and mix the flowers for you, if you like.  That way the quality of the draught would be assured, and Lord Elrond would get the rest he needs."

Celebrían inclined her head with a smile, and followed Melpomaen into the adjoining room.  She had noticed the gentleness and care with which he pronounced Elrond's name, and so was not surprised to see his hands take as much care with the measuring, chopping and sorting.  Every imperfection was carefully picked out from among the tiny flowers, and then the painstakingly weighed portions were placed in little cloth bags and tied with ribbons.

"You take pride in your work, I see," she said.

Melpomaen did not look up, focused as he was on his task.  "If something is worth doing, it is worth doing well.  Especially if it is a medical matter," he said, tying a ribbon around the last herbal sachet.  "If someone is counting on the potion I prepare to ease their pain or restlessness, then I am honour-bound to be diligent."

He looked up then, and smiled, his eyes meeting hers unhesitatingly. His face was open, without guile, and Celebrían could sense that, just then, he was not thinking of her as a rival or a hateful obstacle to getting what he wanted.  She could even guess at the images that filled his mind: dark hair spilling over a linen-covered pillow; grey eyes vacant from sleep; a beloved face, peaceful and at rest.

She took the herbs from him, her hand brushing his briefly.  "Thank you, Melpomaen," she said, then turned away.  Lost in thought, she walked toward the exit and pulled back the curtain.  It wasn't until the afternoon sun shone over her head once again that she realized she had actually spoken his name out loud for the first time.

*****

Notes:
 
I took a few liberties when describing the properties of the various herbal remedies listed in this chapter, and so Melpomaen's lecture on ways of treating insomnia should in no way be taken as valid naturopathic advice!  ;)  While it is true that Valerian, when taken too frequently, will have the opposite effect (headache, restlessness), I know nothing about its interaction with alcohol.  Lavender oil should not be ingested, as it is toxic; it is meant primarily for external use.  Sweet Balm (also known as Lemon Balm or Melissa) -- a personal favourite -- is indeed mild, although it is probably no harder to prepare than any other herb.  It makes a very nice, soothing tea, and is sold in teabags.


Chapter 7:

Edhellond, TA 934


"I still think you were somewhat harsh."

"Don't argue with me!  The boy needs to learn, and the sooner he is taught about responsibility, the better.  He is old enough now and should be more of a help to you.  And what does he do?  Play in the water all day or sit with his nose buried in books."

"His teachers say he is quite bright; he knows nearly all his Tengwar, while others his age--"

"Others his age have already been taught the rudiments of shipbuilding while he has yet to learn how to sand a plank.  It is high time he started earning his keep -- to repay us for our kindness in taking him in, if nothing else."

"He will, just give it some time..."

"He has had plenty!  I will not suffer a parasite to live in my house.  If he expects to eat my bread he will have to work."

Melpomaen nestled closer to the wall in the corner of the dark hallway, knees drawn up to his chest.  His skinny arms hugged his twenty-year old frame, but did not bring much comfort.  There was little warmth to be gained from his own embrace, especially when his empty belly rumbled as it did.  His foster-father had lost the argument as usual; Melpomaen would once again go to bed without supper.

Through the narrow crack in the door Melpomaen could see his foster-mother bustling about in the kitchen, clearing bowls and spoons from the table with a loud clatter.  Metal pots gleamed in the firelight, the aroma of their contents -- or what was left of them -- twisting Melpomaen's stomach into an envious knot.  Swallowing hard, he resolved to sneak into the larder after everyone had gone to sleep.

He had displeased them again, made them angry.  This was nothing new, of course, nor was his punishment a novel or inventive one, and so the harsh tone of his foster-mother's voice should really not have upset him the way it did.  But it did.  «Parasite» -- her words still rang in his ears, reminding him of just how useless he was. 

Even his foster-father was beginning to see him in this light.  Though he had spoken up in Melpomaen's defence, his usually booming voice had been quiet, his words lukewarm.  As soon as the argument was over, the broad-shouldered man had slunk out of the kitchen and gone straight to his workshop without stopping to ruffle Melpomaen's hair like he once would have done.  It was this that hurt more than anything.  Melpomaen pressed his fists into his eyes to stop the hot tears from falling.

«I will try harder,» he promised himself.  «I will work all day in the workshop, I will leave my books be.  I won't give anyone cause to tell me I am no good.»

«But you are no good,» a mocking voice in his head reminded him, and Melpomaen hugged himself tighter.  It was true.  In his foster-father's workshop he was about as useful as a Balrog in an archive full of parchments.  He dropped things and broke them, could not wield the saw properly and was not even fit to carry the long wooden planks.  They were heavy; he was small for his age and not as strong as the other boys.

«What kind of shipbuilder will I make?» he despaired, comparing his narrow shoulders unfavourably with the muscular bodies of the Elf men in the settlement.  Every passing year seemed to make the differences more apparent, bringing his dubious heritage into sharper focus.  It was no longer just his black hair and pale skin that set him apart from the blond Edhellond Elves.  As Melpomaen got older it was becoming clear that whatever abilities he had inherited from his unknown parents had ill equipped him for life in a seaside village.

«If only I could do something different,» he thought, remembering with longing the book-filled shelves in the house of one of his tutors.  But his foster-father needed help, and Melpomaen was not about to question the path laid out for him by his elders.  Who was he, after all?  Nothing but a foundling: the only survivor of a travelling party of Elves butchered in an Orc raid.  He should be grateful his foster-parents had agreed to take him in lest he starve in the woods.  It was not his place to make demands.

Melpomaen sniffled and wiped his nose with the cuff of his sleeve.  He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from the seat of his leggings, then moved toward the passage that led to the yard, intent on sneaking out and finding some peace.  Stopping by the door to the fire-lit kitchen, he peeked in.  And he could not look away.

His little foster-sister sat in a chair in the centre of the room, happily swinging her short legs, which did not yet reach the floor.  His foster-mother stood behind her youngest child, brush in hand and an indulgent expression on her face.  She was combing the little girl's hair; carefully stroking the blond strands and running them through her fingers in great, silky handfuls, as if they were a precious treasure.  "Pen-neth," she whispered.  The child leaned back trustingly into her mother's hands.

Envy flooded Melpomaen's entire being.  No one had ever combed his hair that way or looked at him with such affection; no one had called him "pen-neth."  Truly, no one took any notice of him beyond ensuring that he was fed, clothed and working.  He had never dwelled on it before, but now the realization came like a hammer blow between the eyes: no one loved him.  If he were to go away tomorrow, they would look on his leaving with relief; they would have one less mouth to feed. 

Blinded by his tears, Melpomaen ran out of the house, needing to feel the sea breeze on his face.  Night had already fallen, and so his mad dash toward the river went unobserved.  When he reached the familiar banks, he stopped and sank to his knees, relieved to be alone at last.

He dug his hands into the cold sand, feeling the tiny grains grind against his fingernails, and raised his face up to the sky.  "Elbereth," he whispered, his voice a desperate prayer.  "Fairest Lady, please let someone love me.  I don't want to feel so alone."  The river flowed by slowly, indifferent to the troubles of the boy crying on its banks.  No one was there to hold Melpomaen or comfort him.  It was the wind that dried his tears.


****

Imladris, TA 1004


Melpomaen surfaced from his troubled sleep like a swimmer coming up for air, throat constricted and stomach full of dread. He sat up quickly and tried to calm his breathing, right hand instinctively reaching out for someone who was not there. Encountering nothing but cold, empty sheets, his fingers tightened into a ball and withdrew. He cursed himself for being a fool; it had been many weeks since he had last shared his bed with Elrond, and yet his body refused to forget.

His mind knew better, however. When the cobwebs of sleep inevitably fell away, the grim certainty that things had changed was there, immovable like a rock.  Once awake, it was impossible to go on pretending that things were all right.  And now it seemed that even his dreams were not safe.  How could Lórien be so cruel?  Melpomaen shuddered at the painful memory he had just revisited.  Though many years had passed since that unloved child had wept on the banks of the Morthond, the thought of it still had the power to make Melpomaen feel as cold and lonely as he had felt that night.

Unwilling to stay in his bed a moment longer, Melpomaen lowered his bare feet to the floor. Quickly he pulled on the previous evening's discarded robe and ran a hand through his sleep-matted hair. Without even bothering to find a pair of shoes, he slipped into the corridor and made his hurried way to the library. His own chamber felt much too constricting for these mid-night vigils; the archives at least had books and scrolls, and those promised forgetfulness of a sort. 

As expected, the library was deserted. When Melpomaen stepped through the heavy double doors he found himself alone, surrounded by nothing but paper-filled quiet.  If not for the very real hiss of his candlewick, he might have thought he had slipped back into a dream.

He set his candle down and moved in the direction of the far wall, toward the high shelf housing part of the extensive history of the Second Age.  But before he had made his way across the tiled library floor, his eyes were drawn to a large volume propped open on a lectern in the corner.  He moved closer and saw that the book was actually a work in progress, the fine calligraphy filling only three-quarters of the page. 

«This is Elrond's work,» he thought, his fingertips hovering above the elegant script, careful not to smudge.  «And how fine do the letters look on the paper, how skilled the hand that wielded the quill...» He could almost see his lover's long, slim fingers holding the writing instrument with their habitual grace.  Elrond's face would be the picture of concentration, dark hair tucked behind an ear so as not to hamper his work...

With a strangled sob, Melpomaen gripped the book's bindings and kissed the edge of the page.  He could still sense the presence of the master scribe who had stood here and penned these lines.  How he longed to touch those beloved fingers, trail kisses along Elrond's hands, his wrists, and higher, up to his lovely mouth...  Elbereth, how long it had been since he had held that body in his arms, felt that warm voice rumbling in his ear...

"Melpomaen!"

Melpomaen whirled around and nearly fell over at the sound of his name being called from the library entrance.  But he had dared to hope in vain; the voice was only Glorfindel's.

"Do you make it a habit of frequenting the library in the middle of the night and kissing poor, unsuspecting books?"

Melpomaen found that, just now, he had little patience for being mocked.  He glared at Glorfindel, nearly bristling with annoyance.  "I was only--"

"Don't get angry, pen-neth -- I know how difficult things have been for you lately.  I know you cannot rest.  It is nothing to be ashamed of, you know; half of Imladris seems to be suffering from the same malaise.  I thought I might find Erestor here, as a matter of fact.  But, as it seems I have found you instead, maybe you wouldn't object to a bit of advice from a well-meaning friend, who--"

"I do not need advice." 

"Indeed." Glorfindel raised a sceptical eyebrow and walked closer.  "What are you reading?"

"It is... nothing, just an unfinished copy of a historical account."

"Which you have found to be of such great interest that you shower it with kisses.  Let me see that."  He reached out his hand and lifted a page to get a closer look.  "Elrond's writing.  Oh, pen-neth..."

Melpomaen flinched at the sound of sympathy in Glorfindel's voice and hugged his ribcage tightly, just as he had done when he was a boy. 

Glorfindel moved a step closer and picked up the book.  "I wonder what he has been copying in here, hour after hour.  He need not do the work himself with so many skilled scribes in his employ."  Looking down at the page, he read, "But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song."

Glorfindel fell silent.  Melpomaen could not see the expression on his friend's face, for he had shut his eyes when Glorfindel began reading, but he heard a muted thud as the book was placed back on its wooden lectern and sensed the air shift as a warm body moved closer to his own.  Moments later he felt himself enveloped in a pair of powerful arms and rocked gently as a soft voice whispered in his ear.

"Oh, Mel."

"He is unhappy."

"As are you."

"I..." The words stuck in Melpomaen's throat.  "I do not know how much more of this I can stand, Glorfindel.  I feel as though I am coming apart...  I would do right by him; I would leave if it would make things easier, and yet I cannot bring myself to do it."