Chapter 8:


Imladris, TA 1004


The stack of official letters was getting progressively higher, in proportion to the burgeoning cramp in Erestor's hand.  A messenger would leave early in the morning, and the state missives would slowly make their way to Thranduil's kingdom.  It would be a number of weeks before Imladris received a response to its correspondence, and it was far from certain that the answers sent by the Woodland king would be those Elrond and his advisors hoped for, but that was out of Erestor's hands for the moment.  No doubt his diplomatic skills would eventually be called for, but they were not needed yet.

Sighing, he flexed his fingers and closed his eyes, allowing himself the luxury of thinking about what the evening would bring.  Glorfindel would come and find him in the library; they would have a light evening meal in the privacy of Erestor's chambers and retire to bed early.  Whether or not they made love mattered little, as long as Erestor could lay his head on Glorfindel's shoulder and feel safe.  He tried not to think about the somewhat pitiful fact that he -- a seasoned politician and negotiator -- now craved nothing more than the forgetfulness of a familiar embrace.

Footsteps rang out on the stone tiles behind him, heavy and self-assured, and Erestor smiled.  He turned to greet his lover -- and froze. For it was not Glorfindel who stood leaning against the doorway, casually running a hand through his golden hair: it was Gildor.  Gildor, who smiled as if he knew every last one of Erestor's thoughts and owned them, even after all this time.  Gildor, who looked as if he were coming to claim what was rightfully his.

'No' -- it was such a simple word, and usually so easy for Erestor to utter.  'No, Glorfindel, I cannot go riding today; I have too many matters that require my attention.'  'No, Elrond, I do not think this course of action is advisable; it is too rash, and the issue requires further study.'  Erestor had had much practice saying 'no' -- but not to Gildor.  And even now, when his body longed to run, he could not make the word pass his lips.  His throat only tightened and his tongue turned to wood, and he felt as if he were a young Elf again, on his knees before Gildor and saying all manner of things that were asked of him, but never 'no.'

"At last, a chance for us to be alone."

Gildor's tone was deliberate and slow, as if he knew that his presence alone was enough to paralyse Erestor.  Playfully he pushed himself away from the doorframe and walked closer, his mouth twisted into a smile with which Erestor was all too familiar -- not an expression of goodwill but a thinly veiled threat.

Erestor felt dizzy and cold.  His hands shook, and he quickly put down his quill lest he stain the letter paper with inkblots.  «Get up and walk away; just get up and walk away!» he thought frantically, but could not get his feet to move.  Gildor was close now, near enough to touch.

"I've much desired to speak with you since my arrival, Erestor." Gildor's voice was low, but penetrating, and Erestor felt it resonate through him.  Every syllable was like a violation. 

"I've... had pressing business to attend to."

"Come now, Erestor, you don't actually expect me to believe that, do you?  It is an untruth.  And there should be no falsehoods told between friends.  Friends like us."  He leaned over Erestor's shoulder, stroking his braids, and breathed into his ear.  "Good friends."

Erestor turned his head away, and suddenly felt it snap back into place, his hair pulled with a brutal yank.

"Don't turn away from me when I'm speaking to you.  You used to be better behaved in my presence.  Have you forgotten the meaning of the word discipline?  Mayhap I should remind you?"

"Please... I..."

"You once liked my discipline, Erestor.  You yielded to me so beautifully." Gildor tugged at Erestor's hair again, pulling his head back and exposing his throat.  He caressed the expanse of neck with a single finger.  "Wouldn't you like to do so again?"

Erestor wanted to scream.  He twisted under Gildor's oppressive touch, but his former lover's grip was strong.

"The blond warrior who guards you so closely and watches your every move...  He may look like me -- similar hair, similar build -- but does he give you what you need, Erestor?" Gildor tipped Erestor's head back further, looking into his eyes.  "Does he give you what you crave?  If he doesn't, you know that I could."

Gildor's hold on Erestor's hair was painfully tight; Erestor's eyes began to water.  He tried to blink back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, but the humiliation he felt only made them overflow.  Everything about Gildor -- his voice, his scent, his touch -- was evoking memories Erestor had striven to bury for ever.  He had spent centuries trying to forget, and here was Gildor, throwing the past in his face, forcing him to relive it.  Erestor closed his eyes, fervently wishing to be somewhere else.

Suddenly Gildor let go of Erestor's hair and stepped away.  "I won't take up more of your valuable time, counsellor."  Erestor's title on Gildor's tongue sounded more like an insult than an honorific.  "If you want me, you know where to find me.  And if you don't find me soon, I'll seek you out myself, lover.  I promise you that."  He lowered his voice to a whisper.  "I am not finished with you yet."

Erestor heard Gildor's footsteps recede past the library entrance and into the hallway beyond.  He was alone again, and yet he felt anything but safe.  Not when his fears seemed to lurk everywhere: in the corridors of the Last Homely House, in the library he had once believed to be his sanctuary, in the long-ignored corners of his mind. 

His scalp ached from the pull of Gildor's hands on his hair, and freshly awakened memories threatened to overwhelm him in their intensity.  He got up quickly and hurried to his chambers, desperate to break free of the unwelcome images and emotions but, even as his feet hastened down the corridor, he knew it was no use.  For it is impossible to outrun the past.


****


Ost-in-Edhil, SA 1078


Erestor is sitting on a narrow bed covered with a heavy brocade, his eyes fixed on the wooden door and his ears listening for the sound of footsteps in the hallway.  He is waiting for his lover, who is late.

His hands are in his lap and his hair is pulled back from his face, so tightly that his temples ache.  He is clad in a high-necked, dark robe whose cut he does not like.  He has, however, been instructed to wear it, and he knows enough by now not to disobey instruction.

He has been motionless for a long time and his limbs are stiff, so he shifts slightly to allow the blood to flow more freely to his feet, and winces in pain.  The welts on his back have not had enough time to heal.  They would normally be almost gone by now, but Gildor's treatment of him has been growing harsher of late.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of silence, the metal handle turns and the door creaks open.  Erestor feels a dizzying combination of exhilaration and dread at the thought that Gildor has come.

"Good, you're here," Gildor says.  Despite the fact that it is he who has kept Erestor waiting for the better part of two hours, his tone is not contrite.  But Erestor does not expect an apology; if he has learned anything over the past year it has been to curb his expectations.

"Let's get on with it," Gildor says nonchalantly. "I have other matters I must attend to tonight."

Erestor nods, his heart clenching at such obvious signs of his lover's indifference.  He gets up from the bed and begins to undress, feeling self-conscious under the critical eye of the other Elf.

'Beautiful' Gildor used to say, and 'sweet one,' but it has been a long time since Erestor has been addressed in such a manner.  Those innocent, loving days seem like a foreign country now, or a fanciful tale one tells without really thinking it to be true, so greatly have things changed since their liaison first began.  Erestor isn't certain which of his words or deeds made Gildor's affection turn chill, but he holds on to the desperate belief that the damage can still be undone.  Even now, as his hands slip the dark robe from his shoulders, he keeps his back straight and his movements restrained, quietly hoping that Gildor will be pleased.

An errant ray of the sun illuminates a strand of Gildor's hair, making it shine like spun gold.  Distant memories rise up in Erestor's mind and reverberate like ripples on the water.  His breath catches in his throat and, for a moment, he can almost imagine that things are the way they once were.  But, of course, they are not.

Gildor appraises Erestor's naked form and takes off his cloak and tunic, leaving his breeches and boots in place.  He rests his hands on his hips and smiles.

"Over there, by the window," he says, and Erestor feels a stab of fear.  This is the first time Gildor has asked for this; he does not know what to expect.  He is not certain if this means that his lover will be more careful or choose to give free rein to his more base tendencies.

Seeing Erestor's hesitation, Gildor takes him by the shoulders and steers him toward the open window.  He does not push, but Erestor does not need such blatant coercion; he lets himself be led willingly enough.  It takes barely a few steps to cover the distance, and soon they are close enough to feel the cool breeze and yet far enough not to be seen from below.

"Your clamour hurt my ears last time; today I wish to ensure your silence," Gildor says. "Brace your arms on the windowsill and look out so that those passing by may see your face.  If you do not wish them to know just what is being done to you, you will have to stay quiet and keep your expression neutral."

He strokes Erestor's face with his hand, and Erestor cannot help but lean into the caress.

"You are quite proficient at concealing your emotions in public; I've seen you in Celeborn and Galadriel's council," Gildor says, a note of approval and admiration slipping into his voice.  The touch of his fingers is gentle, not cruel, and Erestor's heart thumps in his chest, for here is Gildor as Erestor once knew him:  tender and kind.  Joy gripping his throat, Erestor has the conscious thought that he is willing to suffer much for the sake of moments like these –- moments when, in spite of everything, he feels loved.

But the moment does not last.  Moving efficiently, Gildor pushes Erestor forward so that his hands grip the wooden window frame.  He gets behind Erestor, nudges his legs apart and, freeing his erection from the confines of his breeches, pushes in.  Erestor has not been prepared properly, and so it hurts, especially since Gildor does not take his time but forces himself in roughly, with no regard for the body accepting his assault, and sets a rapid pace.

Jostled by the well-built Elf behind him, Erestor struggles to keep his body still and his face free of emotion.  There are soldiers in the courtyard below, some of whom are not strangers to him, and he does not want them to witness his humiliation; does not want anyone to know of his shame.  His hair comes free of its binding and falls around his face, and his cheeks burn.

A thought comes to him, unbidden as ever and, as always, he cannot push it away.  «It would not be as shameful if I did not enjoy it so,» he thinks, and knows this to be true.  For even now, through the guilt and the pain, what Erestor feels most keenly is the pleasure.  His abused body sings with the pure delight of being treated so roughly, shivering from the primitive thrill of being dominated.

Erestor feels Gildor tense behind him and hears the last grunt accompanying his lover's climax.  Gildor squeezes Erestor's buttocks painfully as he pulls out, then leans over to whisper in his ear: "Just what you craved, my lovely, was it not?"

Erestor does not answer.  He is shaking.

"You're fortunate I'm willing to give it to you, lover.  And fortunate I refrain from making your unnatural preferences known," Gildor adds.  He uses a cloth to clean himself, then quickly puts on his clothes.  In less than a minute, he is at the door and looking over at Erestor, who is still standing motionless at the window.

"See you again, melethron," Gildor says with a smirk, then he is gone.  The door closes behind him and silence once again reigns in the cramped room.

Erestor releases his grip on the window frame and moves to the side, out of the range of vision of those who might be watching from the courtyard below.  He rests his naked back against the wall, feeling the discomfort caused by his still-fresh welts rubbing against the cold stone and welcoming it as fitting penance for one so depraved.  Reaching down to his groin, he wraps his hand around his neglected erection and strokes quickly, eyes closed, face flushed with shame.  When he comes, the spasm of pleasure he feels is both bitter and sweet, and the face that appears before his eyes is Gildor's. 

Once his shaking legs are steady again, Erestor straightens up and walks over to the bed to retrieve his clothes.  He loathes himself, more so than ever before, but he will make no promises of 'never again.'  He has learned by now that such oaths have no authority over him.


****

Imladris, TA 1004


"Erestor?  Come now, what is the matter?"  Carefully closing the door behind him, Glorfindel slipped into the room.

Erestor was sitting in the centre of the wide bed, his legs drawn up to his chin and his eyes focused on a point in the distance.  Glorfindel could barely make out his face as the room was oppressively dark, but he could tell that his lover was hurting.  Erestor usually liked his living space to be bright and airy; that he had drawn the curtains down over the high windows could only mean that his anguish had reached new depths.  The heavy velvet drapes hung like a shroud, letting in barely a sliver of light and giving the bedchamber a tomb-like feel.

"Elbereth... What did he do to you?" Glorfindel settled down on the blankets and ventured a tentative embrace, half afraid that Erestor would flinch and pull away.

Erestor tensed for an instant before hesitantly laying his head on Glorfindel's shoulder.  "He has not done a thing to me in centuries, as you well know," he answered, his voice strangely hollow.

"And yet it still haunts you."

"Yes.  It haunts me still." 

It was a simple admission, not an accusation, and Glorfindel could think of nothing to say in reply that he had not said a hundred times before.  For a few moments he simply sat there, stroking Erestor's arm and listening to his even breathing.  But his nature demanded action, and he was not content to offer comfort in so passive a manner for long.

"I would show him the extent of my wrath, avenge your pain... You need only command it," he said, feeling as if he were pledging an oath.

To his great surprise, the dark eyes that looked up at him, though still shadowed with grief, held a trace of amusement.

"My champion," Erestor said, his lips curling into a half-smile.

Glorfindel fell silent, remembering how reluctant his lover had once been to accept his assistance.  Although his natural urge was to do battle against all foes that threatened the one he loved, he knew there were demons that could not be slain by the sword alone and against whose slippery, obscure menace he was utterly powerless.

After a few moments, Erestor spoke again. "Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you, but..."

"But what?"

Erestor's face was serious and calm, if a bit grim, and only the determined line of his mouth told the tale of the internal struggle he had likely just waged.

"If there is anything to be done, it is I who must do it," he said.  "If I do not, I shall never be rid of these ghosts."

"Is there nothing I can do?" Glorfindel asked.

Erestor turned toward him, the proud expression he customarily wore gone, his dark eyes vulnerable. 

"Hold me."



****

Notes:  melethron - lover

Chapter 9:

Imladris, TA 1004


The door to the barracks office swung open, then shut with a clatter, the force of the wind making the hinges creak.  Caegaran, sitting behind the desk in the corner, flinched at the noise and swore under his breath.  Then he nodded to his visitor and pushed the ledger he had been examining to the side, clearly not averse to the unexpected interruption.

"Haldir.  Welcome."

"Caegaran, my friend.  There's a storm coming, and a fierce one; I can feel it.  I'm surprised you're not out riding through the woods.  You love this kind of weather."

Caegaran swore again, this time quite audibly.  "I would if it weren't for these damned accounts, Haldir.  I cannot go anywhere until the task is done, and just now it is more likely to finish me than the other way around.  Trying to make expenses balance out against inventory is... ah..." Another few curses rolled off Caegaran's tongue. 

"Your turn for office duty on the roster, I take it?"

"Yes.  Though I'm about as suited to it as you would be to a life of chastity. I should be out on patrol, where I belong, not rotting here in this Valar-forsaken office."

Haldir walked closer.  He lifted the cover of the ledger Caegaran had been working on, and thumbed through a few pages.  "My sympathies.  Although I must admit I am glad to find you here, and find you alone; I've been meaning to ask a favour. You have a good number of dressage whips and riding crops in your weapons inventory, do you not?  I'd like to borrow a few.  Strictly in confidence, of course."

"Why?"  Caegaran, who had been tilting his chair back and balancing it on two legs, now let it swing back to a horizontal position.  He narrowed his eyes.  "Were you planning on going riding?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Haldir's and Caegaran's eyes met.  For a moment both were silent, and the only sound in the barracks office was the tapping of a tree branch against the window.  The wind outside had grown strong.  At last, Caegaran said: "Well, regardless of your intentions, I'm afraid your timing couldn't have been worse.  Some of our riding crops have disappeared lately, and the mystery of where they have gone is still unsolved.  When I told Lord Glorfindel about it last week he seemed strangely irritated.  Really, I don't see why he should take such trivial trouble so very much to heart.  If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was taking it personally."

"Really?" Haldir lifted an eyebrow.  "How very interesting.  It makes me see the eminent Lord Glorfindel in a whole new light."

"Oh, honestly, Haldir, you have one thing on your mind.  Speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask about the seduction of the young advisor.  Shouldn't one of your reputation have made significant progress by now?"

Haldir's eyes flashed with a dangerous glint.  Then he regained mastery over his emotions, and gave a controlled smile.  "You cannot rush an artist like myself, Caegaran.  I am taking it slowly for now -- we do not want to frighten him away, after all, but to lure him.  You need not worry, however; it will be quite effective in the end.  Our young friend will experience an unforgettable night in my company, and as for the morning... well, that is not my concern, is it?"

"No.  How will you go about it?"

"I will not throw myself upon him like some callous Easterling, if that is what you're asking.  But he is no virgin maid, and I do not intend to treat him as such.  Besides, I have a feeling he will not object to being used roughly -- these quiet, repressed librarian types often enjoy that sort of thing -- and I do plan on indulging myself."  Haldir's smile grew lewd.  "I deserve something for my pains, don't you think?  Stretching a courtship over these many weeks does tend to whet the appetite."

The cares seemed to lift from Caegaran's face. "When will you do it?"

"I was thinking about midsummer night's eve.  The very air that night is a potent aphrodisiac, so I shall be doubly difficult to resist."  Haldir winked.  "Besides, did you not say that it was on that night that Elrond and the young one first--"

"Yes."

"Then it will be a fitting betrayal to crown a doomed affair.  Elrond will be most displeased to see his young pet sleeping with another on a night that's supposedly sacred to them both."

"How will he know?"

"Oh, I will see to that, as well.  I am nothing if not thorough."  Haldir straightened his tunic, evidently pleased with himself.  "You may leave the matter in my capable hands, Caegaran." 

"Be sure to put them to good use, then." Caegaran's face grew serious.  "I mean it, Haldir.  I have been humiliated and hurt, and I want the young one to pay. I want him to know the meaning of shame and regret."

Haldir's nodded solemnly.  "He will."

In the distance, thunder rumbled.


****


Gildor was accustomed to giving commands, that much was obvious.  He was also used to being obeyed and to having his instructions carried out with attention paid to the smallest detail.  Elrond could tell all this from his vantage point at the window overlooking the wide courtyard.  Below, the stablehands were scrambling to see to Gildor's horse, flinching as the horse's owner berated them for their laggard service.  Dark clouds were quickly gathering overhead, and Gildor, just returned from his daily ride, was more eager than usual to be back indoors.

A bright flash tore the sky in twain, bringing all the occupants of the courtyard into sharp focus, its ominous silence a prelude to the thunder that was to come.  One of the stablehands cringed and covered his ears.  Mere seconds later, the air was filled with a loud crash that rolled over Imladris, resounding in its fury.  The storm was close, very close, and it was coming quickly.

A cool wind blew in through the open window and ruffled Elrond's hair.  The first heavy drops of rain fell on the windowsill, spattering on the long sleeves of Elrond's robes as he reached over to close the panes of glass.  By the time the latch on the window was securely fastened the rain outside was coming down in sheets, the trees were bowed under the onslaught of the gusting wind and the sky was dark as night.

The stablehands, drenched to the bone, doubled their efforts to coax the shying horse into the stables, goaded by Gildor's angry cries.  His store of patience evidently exhausted, Gildor did little to keep his wrath in check.  Elrond was dismayed, though unsurprised, to see him slap a stable boy who had inadvertently let go of the horse's reins.  As might have been expected, this only frightened the animal further.  It bucked under the hands of its handlers, thrashing its head and neighing wildly, desperate to get away from the storm, yet not certain where to go.

Deciding he had seen enough, Elrond turned away from the window and walked toward the candles on the mantelpiece -- by now the room's only source of light.  The fact that Gildor had a hot temper was no shock; Elrond had witnessed it before.  The incident in the courtyard below only served to emphasize his impression of Gildor as someone who could be unkind. 

«Gil-galad would never have treated a frightened animal so, nor a well-meaning servant,» Elrond thought, his mind turning to events in the distant past and conjuring up images of the High King calming a horse in a similar storm. 

Gil-galad's gentleness was a sharp contrast to Gildor's abrupt ways, and it had always puzzled Elrond that the two of them had been friends.  After unsuccessfully trying to develop some sort of camaraderie with Gildor in the Second Age, more out of a sense of duty to Gil-galad than any particular desire for a close friendship with the unapproachable Elf, Elrond had finally turned to his lover and asked for an explanation of their strange affinity. 

Gil-galad had laughed.  "Ah, Gildor," he had said.  "There is more to Gildor than meets the eye, and more good than he is willing to show most.  His great weakness is his arrogance, and the fact that he loves strength and will not easily suffer those who are weak.  It can make him cruel, at times."  "Unlike you, my Lord," Elrond had replied, heart full of love, and the conversation had concluded in a passionate encounter on Gil-galad's wide bed.

Elrond smiled to recall that afternoon, then sighed.  Whether he liked it or not, he would have to speak with Gildor, both about his unnecessarily harsh treatment of Imladris' stablehands and the Wandering Company's travel plans.  Erestor's odd behaviour was beginning to worry him, and he strongly suspected that Glorfindel's recent early-morning visit -- prematurely interrupted by an argument -- had a great deal to do with the dark circles under Erestor's eyes. 

Though he had not been told anything directly, Elrond had pieced together enough clues to have a fairly good idea of the situation. The looks Gildor cast Erestor's way made it obvious that the two had met before, and Erestor's baffling nervousness seemed to indicate that he had somehow been hurt.  Elrond respected his chief advisor's privacy enough not to inquire into the matter, but he had heard enough rumours about Gildor's tastes to imagine precisely what manner of 'hurts' Erestor had suffered.

He shuddered at the thought, convinced more than ever that he would never understand Gildor, would never get past the wall of arrogance and behold the Elf whose company Gil-galad had seemed to hold dear.  Still, regardless of how he felt about Gildor, it was his responsibility to ensure the well-being of a loyal advisor and friend.  Elrond squared his shoulders and set off down the hall.


****


"Come in!" Gildor's tone was muffled, almost as if someone were holding a hand over his mouth. The uncomfortable feeling in Elrond's stomach grew, and he braced himself for whatever sight would greet him on the other side of the door. Gildor was adventurous, but surely he would not be inviting passers-by in if he were otherwise engaged? Elrond pressed down the door handle and held his breath, then released it in relief as the reason for the stifled quality of Gildor's voice became clear.

Gildor had his tunic half-off, arms raised above head, face trapped in between folds of wet fabric. His mud spattered clothes clung to him as only utterly sodden garments can, and it was taking him some effort to extricate himself from their grip. He grunted impatiently as he tugged at his sopping wet tunic, biceps straining in his struggle, chest and stomach exposed.  Elrond smiled at his good fortune; it seemed that his dreaded interview with Gildor had just begun with himself at an advantage.

"Yes?" Gildor yanked the tunic over his head and flung it on the ground, where it landed in a dirty puddle, sleeves sticking out at odd angles like the tentacles of some strange water beast. Gildor's golden hair had seen better days, yet its owner did not seem to mind, for he reached for a clean towel and immediately began to rub it dry. Apparently it would take much more than this to unsettle the leader of the Wandering Company.

Elrond sensed that this was no time for diplomatic intimations; he decided to be direct. "I saw the stablehands struggling with your horse just now.  I also saw you hit one of them.  I wanted to tell you that I thought it unwarranted."

"Well, if you ask me, I think they could all do with a good whipping. I have seen more efficient work done in squalid villages of Men, and by lame and blind servants no less. The ones here are slow and don't take well to instruction."

"They do not need instruction. They are perfectly capable of doing the work in which they have been trained." Elrond suppressed his irritation. It would not do to have this discussion disintegrate into a shouting match.

"Perhaps it is the training that is lacking, then. However do you run this realm, Elrond?" Gildor stopped towelling his hair and tilted his head in a challenging query. "Never mind. You never were one to rule with a strong hand. All conciliation to Gil-galad's resolve, always counsel before action."

Elrond took a deep breath, trying to make his words sound calm.  "Gil-galad and I did things somewhat differently."

"Yes." Gildor regarded Elrond speculatively, as if remembering something. He let the towel drop to the floor. "He seemed to value your ways, though."

'Although I certainly do not,' was the implication, left unsaid but coming across quite clear nonetheless. Elrond felt his annoyance turn to anger. It was true that Gil-galad was apt to act before thinking, and Elrond had often felt it necessary to temper his lover's deeds with advice, channelling all his bright intensity and ensuring that Gil-galad's fire warmed instead of burning. But Elrond's counsel had always been gladly received, and the High King had said on more than one occasion that it was a gift he prized above many others. Gildor's words now called into question Gil-galad's very judgment as a ruler, and, as such, insulted not only Elrond, but the memory of his beloved King.

Elrond drew himself up to his full height, righteous anger lending weight to his words.  "Let no one question my abilities lest they dishonour the name of the one who held them in high esteem."

The air grew hotter in the room, silence only adding to the tension. Gildor tossed his hair back and maintained the pose, watching Elrond from under slightly hooded eyes, as if from a distance. Slowly, a smile spread over his face. He relaxed his posture.

"I mean dishonour to no one," he said. "Least of all to one I once called friend, and whose strength I admired."

"And who is not here to defend himself."

"Ah, but his Herald comes to his defence quite well, ready as ever to stand by him and serve his interests." Gildor's smile shifted from approval to mockery. "Tell me... rumour has it you served much more than that, and for many years, too.  I've never been able to understand it: however did you manage to please an Elf as passionate as Gil-galad?  You, with your weighty tomes of lore, your calm and your reason -- I would think you'd be about as exciting to lie with as a slippery fish, and probably just as warm."

Fury blinded Elrond.  Before rational thought could hinder his instincts, his palm had connected harshly with Gildor face.

Gildor's head snapped to the side, but he did not hit back.  Instead, he caught Elrond's wrist in his hand and squeezed.  "Well, well." He lifted his eyebrows appreciatively, the mockery not quite gone from his face. "It seems I have been labouring under a misconception.  Behold the fire now!"

"Still your tongue!" Elrond jerked his arm away from Gildor's grip, but made no move to strike him again.

"You are presumptuous, Peredhel, to think you were the only one to love him." Gildor's smile waned, a bitter grimace taking its place.  "His star shone brightly, and many would gladly have revelled in its light, but he had eyes only for you."

Though acrimonious, Gildor's words were not hateful. There was a longing in them, a resentment that spoke not of ill will but of hopes denied. Elrond started at the sudden realization that the rivalry he had felt between himself and Gildor in Lindon might not have been entirely a product of his imaginings. How strange that the very thing that had fuelled the rift between them centuries ago should now give rise to an unexpected connection.

"Do not think I don't know that his spirit was as mighty as the winter winds," Gildor continued.  "His love must have been a thing to behold."

"It was," Elrond answered honestly.

Gildor's upper lip twitched, as if in acknowledgement of Elrond's fortune and his own loss. He touched his reddened cheek, and rubbed at the mark. "You have a strong hand, Peredhel," he said.

"I have not spent all my time among books. You would do well to remember that."

Gildor nodded, his mouth once again twisting in a half-smile -- part conciliation, part menace. "And you would do well to bear in mind that I do not usually let those who strike me go unpunished.  My pride does not suffer insults lightly.  I may be a guest in your house, Elrond, but I am not yours to command.  I am no one's to command."

"Of course." Elrond extended his arm, bowing to his duties as host and peacemaker.  "Please, accept my apologies, Gildor.  I acted out of turn."  He clasped Gildor's shoulder and felt his own being clasped in return, though the tension in Gildor's muscles and his slight hesitation before responding spoke volumes about the true state of affairs between them.  This was a truce, not a gesture among friends.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" Gildor asked, decisively pushing the conversation onto other, supposedly less volatile, matters.

Elrond paused.  Though concern about Erestor was uppermost in his mind, he could well sense that voicing it would only make matters worse.  "Midsummer night's eve is nigh upon us," he said.  "I know that you and your Company will grace the festivities with your presence, and we are very glad of it.  But this is also the time of year when we begin to make preparations for the upcoming winter.  I wanted to ask you--"

"How long we would be staying."

"Yes."

"To tell you the truth, I have not yet decided." Gildor walked over to the large wardrobe, opened it, and pulled out a clean shirt.  "I have heard much of the pleasures of midsummer night's eve in Imladris, and I had hoped that I might have some luck in matters of the heart then.  Or... matters of the body, at least."  He gave Elrond a knowing look.  "So it all depends.  Should things go well, my Company and I may stay until next spring."

"You have someone particular in mind."  Elrond made his words sound neutral, though he was aware he had not phrased them in the form of a question.

"Yes.  And the pursuit promises to be a challenging one; it seems I have competition."

"If the rivalry is fair and honourable then I wish you the best of luck." Elrond forced the words through gritted teeth, calling on every last reserve of patience and tact to keep from speaking his mind.

"When have I ever been unfair or dishonourable?"

Gildor was toying with him in earnest now, the provoking stare and flippant tone goading Elrond into reacting, throwing him off balance.  «The Valar guide me to end this discussion quickly or, as Elbereth is my witness, I shall strike him again,» Elrond thought, clenching his right hand and consciously keeping it close at his side. 

As if in answer to his prayer, there was a knock at the door.  Gildor smiled, shrugged his shoulders and called: "Come in!"  Two servants hurried in with clean clothes and towels, and a tray filled with food.

"I will leave you now." Elrond took the Valar-sent opportunity to make his exit.  "You are still soaked from the rain, and that food looks inviting.  You must be famished after your ride."

"Pity our conversation should end so soon.  We were just getting started." Gildor picked up a cup of wine from the tray and lifted it in a toast.

"Yes, pity.  Good day, Gildor."

"Good day."

Walking slowly toward the staircase, Elrond loosened the collar of his robe, utterly drained.  When he reached the stone balustrade, he paused and leaned on it, trying to bring the disordered impressions of his conversation with Gildor under some sort of control.  He closed his eyes.

"My Lord?"

The voice sounded timid yet urgent, and Elrond opened his eyes.  The Elf who stood before him was one of his own border guards, though Elrond could not remember his name.  He stood with head bowed, some sort of ledger held under his arm, clothes wet from the rain. 

"Yes?" Elrond asked.

"Are you well, my Lord?"  The guard bowed lower.  "Forgive me for interrupting, but I thought you might need assistance.  If there is anything--"

"Nay, I am fine."  Elrond straightened up and smiled.  After an encounter as trying as the one he had just had with Gildor, such a demonstration of devotion to duty gladdened the heart.  "Thank you for your concern."

"It is nothing."

"Imladris is fortunate to have warriors like you looking after its interests."  Elrond saw the guard's cheeks redden.  Amused, he added, "What is your name?"

The Elf hesitantly met Elrond's gaze, his face earnest.  "Caegaran, my Lord."

"Caegaran."

"It is an honour to serve you, my Lord Elrond, now and always.  If ever you require anything, anything at all--"

"I will be sure to ask." Elrond gave a kind, dismissive smile and turned toward the stairs.  He needed the solitude of his chambers now; his stores of patience had nearly been exhausted.  He walked up the winding staircase slowly, lifting his long robes and stepping with care.  When he reached the top, he looked back.  Caegaran was still standing down below, head bowed and hand over his heart.  Elrond shook his head, impressed and a little mystified.  Such dedication was rare indeed.



****

Notes:  For some insight into the relationship between Gil-galad and Elrond, and the rivalry between Elrond and Gildor, see my story "In the Bleak Midwinter."

Chapter 10:

Imladris, TA 1004


-- Morning --

Erestor had the power to be maddeningly alluring -- something Glorfindel certainly did not mind; indeed, it usually brought him much thrill and enjoyment. What Glorfindel did mind was the fact that this gift of Erestor's tended to manifest itself in the most inconvenient of situations. Like now. Seated in Elrond's private council room, engaged in a small, informal meeting, Glorfindel struggled to focus his attention on his lover's words -- but to no avail. For how could he possibly heed the advice that fell from Erestor's lips when the mouth that uttered it was so ripe for the kissing, and the graceful, gesturing hands fairly begged to be gathered up together, bound behind Erestor's back and...

"Glorfindel?" Elrond's matter-of-fact tone snapped the thread of Glorfindel's daydream. "What do you think of Erestor's proposal?"

"Uh..."

"Would it not solve the dilemma we have been grappling with for the past few days?"

"Yes. Yes, naturally." Glorfindel fumbled for half-recalled phrases that might give him a clue as to the nature of the proposal on which he was supposed to pass comment. Unfortunately, his mind seemed entirely preoccupied with images of Erestor in various stages of undress. "Which dilemma would that be, exactly?"

"There are so many of them, after all. However is one to keep track?"

Erestor's sardonic tone sent chills down Glorfindel's spine. Oh, how he adored it when Erestor let his sharp instincts take over! Glorfindel did not mind being thought a fool at these councils if it meant he was the target of such sweet goading.

"As Erestor was saying, if the east wing is opened to guests coming for the midsummer night's eve festivities, then the renovations on the corridor leading from the dining room to the currently unused guest wing may be put off for another year -- until such a time as the Dwarf Lords of Moria can send us their finest stone carvers, who have for the past few seasons been busy crafting the new throne room in the Greenwood." Elrond's face fell, and the proud tone of his speech lost some of its pomp. "Thranduil's request for their services was accepted before ours, as you know."

Glorfindel suppressed a smile and saw Erestor do the same. So this was what the morning's long discussions had been about: finding the ideal way of presenting Imladris in the best possible light while hiding its few imperfections, and avoiding all opportunities for disunity between the Elven realms. It was a difficult task, and one Erestor was performing with his usual grace. Glorfindel glanced at his lover again, and felt his face grow warmer.

"My Lord Elrond?" The door opened slightly, revealing a frazzled servant. "If I could just have a moment of your time... I'm ever so sorry to interrupt, but--"

"That's all right; we were just about to pause in our discussions. Your interruption is most welcome." Elrond rose with relief.

The door closed quietly behind him, and Glorfindel and Erestor were left alone. Almost instantly the tension in the room mounted. Erestor turned to face Glorfindel, a challenge in his eyes.

"Did you not think the suggestion involving the main staircase merited further consideration?" he asked.

"The main staircase?"

"Personally, I would have preferred it if the second-floor balcony idea were discussed in more detail. Didn't you find it was dismissed somewhat prematurely?"

"I..."

"Glorfindel?" A strange light lit up Erestor's face. Slowly, he walked over to where Glorfindel sat wedged in between his hard wooden chair and the oak table. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?"

"No." Glorfindel looked down.

"Why is that, my love?" Erestor's tone was teasing. "Why can you never keep your mind on the content of the speeches I make or the counsel I dispense? Are my words so foolish that they do not bear hearing?"

"Of course not! You know your counsel is always wise."

"Then why do your eyes not focus on the papers before you? Why are they always trained on my person?" Erestor leaned in closer, his voice low. "You weren't perchance imagining me... unclothed, were you?"

Glorfindel glanced up. The words had shot straight to his groin. "What?"

Erestor had the advantage, and he knew it. He raised a slim hand to the collar of his robe and undid the top two buttons. "You weren't picturing my body bare, here in the council room? Stripped of all garments, save perhaps... this sash." His fingers played with the black strip of silk. He smiled. "This sash, tied about my wrists?"

Glorfindel's mouth dropped open, though no sound came out. His heart beat fast and he could feel his erection press against the underside of the tabletop. How was it that his Erestor -- such a wondrously unpredictable creature -- knew the very content of his fantasies? How much more did he know?

It seemed Erestor knew a great deal. "Did your mind's eye see me spread out on this table, every inch of my flesh revealed? Or was I kneeling on the rug beside the window, pleasuring you with my mouth?" Eyes locked with Glorfindel's, he deliberately traced the curve of his bottom lip with his thumb. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me, Glorfindel, was I willing? Or did you have to grasp my hair and--"

"Erestor!" Glorfindel shot up and out of his chair, nearly overturning it in the process. His voice had come out as more of a croak than a warrior's baritone, but he cared little. Reaching out, he tried to grab his lover by the waist, but the lithe figure deftly stepped out of his reach.

"Perhaps I have underestimated you, my love," Erestor continued, clearly very amused. "For surely one of your legendary prowess would not be satisfied until he had pinned me under his bulk and pierced me with his--"

"Erestor!  Don't tease me like this..."

"Is it not true? Did you not picture me leaning over this table, open to your hands' advances, welcoming you into my body's heat? Did you not want it?"

By this time Glorfindel was nearly out of his mind with need, his desire burning so brightly that he feared touching the parchments on the table lest he spark a real flame. He wanted Erestor as much as it was possible to want another in such a fierce, carnal way; he longed more than anything to have him, here and now. And knew he could not.

At least not here.  Wasting no more time, he grabbed Erestor by the sash of his robe and pulled him nearer. Their mouths were so close that their breath mingled.

"Come upstairs with me, love, just for a little while. Don't deny me this now."

"Glorfindel, this is hardly the time."

"Please, Erestor." Glorfindel was not above begging. "It need not take long..."

"Is that supposed to convince me?" Erestor raised an amused eyebrow, ever in control, though a measure of lust shone from his eyes. "I'm afraid your invitation leaves something to be desired."

"Oh, you cruel Elf!" Glorfindel shook with frustration. His hands grasped Erestor about the waist, the tempting flesh beneath that dark robe driving him to distraction even through the silk fabric. "You would goad me with your words and then leave me wanting you? Have you no heart? Can you not see how I burn?"

Erestor brought his mouth even closer to Glorfindel's, hovering on the edge of a kiss. "I do have a heart, and it belongs to you," he said. "And though I enjoy making you burn, I would much rather that we glory in the flames together." He brushed Glorfindel's hair away from his face, and caressed his cheek. "Come to my chambers this evening, after the day's work is done. I will not taunt or tease then; I will be yours, in any way you want me."

"Tonight?"

Erestor nodded, but did not elaborate, for the cadence of Elrond's voice outside the door signalled that the impromptu conversation in the hallway was about to end. Quickly, Erestor disentangled himself from Glorfindel's embrace and moved to the front of the room once more. The door swung open, and Elrond walked in.

Erestor's hands smoothed his robes and rose to his throat, instinctively wanting to fasten the two buttons they had earlier undone. They hovered for a moment, then undid a third. He met Glorfindel's eyes and smiled.

"Hot?" asked Elrond, unaware of the erotic tension in the room.

"A bit. Summer is nigh upon us." Erestor's controlled tone revealed nothing. His lean figure was once again still and graceful.

Glorfindel settled deeper in his uncomfortable chair, hoping its sharp angles would cool his ardour, unlikely as that was. He reached for a cup of water and raised his eyes to look at Erestor, resigned to let the sweet torture begin anew.


****

-- Evening --

The day, though filled with countless tasks and hardly idle, passed much less quickly than Glorfindel would have liked. The summer sun inched across the sky with excruciating slowness, its light and warmth seemingly eternal, the promise of night's dark cover far out of reach.

When evening finally fell Glorfindel did not bother with the communal meal but headed straight for Erestor's rooms. He passed no one in the empty hallways; all were gathered in the dining hall. By the time his hand reached for the door latch his body was humming with anticipation.

Erestor was already there, tidying up various papers on the side table, a few candles casting a warm glow across his face. He looked peaceful.

Glorfindel let the door click shut behind him, waiting for Erestor to turn about and meet his eyes. Then he walked closer, took Erestor's face between his hands and kissed him deeply. Honey on the tongue, silky hair beneath his fingers, hot breath on his face: how little it took to trigger that imperceptible shift from emptiness to belonging. One touch of Erestor's willing mouth -- and he felt peace pervade him, as if by magic or divine design.

"Have you eaten?" Erestor's tone was as warm as his words were practical.

"Not yet."

"I could have some food brought up."

"Maybe later, love. Right now all I want is you." Glorfindel hesitated.
"Unless you're hungry?"

Erestor shook his head. "No, not hungry." He kissed Glorfindel's neck, smoothing back his hair. Then he asked outright: "How do you want me?"

There it was again: that directness, the boldness that had the power to turn Glorfindel from seducer to seduced. Glorfindel pulled away to look at his lover's face. Erestor's eyes still had a mischievous glint in them, though the day's long labours had muted it somewhat.  He seemed eager to relieve tension with physical intimacy; the long weeks of preparations for the festival must have taken their toll.

"Any way I can have you."

"No, I meant... do you want me on the bed or on the floor, on my back or on my knees, and with my hands bound, or--"

"You certainly waste no time," Glorfindel said, leaning in for another kiss. Then, just because he wanted to and because he loved the feel of it on his tongue, he repeated his lover's name: "Erestor."

Erestor smiled. "I think I have kept you waiting long enough. At this morning's council I thought you would storm out and seek release in private; you looked ready to burst into flames. I... might have been a little cruel to you then."

"A little. You are shameless sometimes."

"Only around you."

"Yes." Glorfindel's breathing had grown quicker.

"Let me show you how shameless I can be," Erestor said, and took a few steps back. His hands untied his sash and then unfastened the buttons he had tormented Glorfindel with earlier that morning. Inch by inch, his pale body was revealed, aglow in the warm light of the candles like deep drifts of snow under the fiery caress of the sun. Only, Glorfindel knew that the delicate skin wasn't cold to the touch, but burned with the strength and passion of the heart that beat beneath it.

The dark silk robe dropped to the ground. Erestor ran his hands over his chest and down to his navel, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. His fingers untied the lacings of his leggings and pulled at the soft fabric, tugging it down, over his thighs and lower. Soon he stood naked in the candlelight: tall and proud, and even more beautiful than he had been in Glorfindel's imaginings that morning.

Glorfindel, who all day had had longed to possess Erestor's body, suddenly found his desires changing course. "Let me touch you," he said.

"I am yours." Erestor held out his arms in invitation. With his hair falling sleekly down his back and his feet placed carefully side by side, he looked like a diver about to leap off a cliff and trace an elegant arc into the water below.

"Mine." Glorfindel's arms pressed Erestor close, mouth tasting a pale shoulder, hands cupping a taut behind. "Mine. Come this way."

Taking Erestor's hand, he led him to the side of the bed. He sat down, and pulled a standing Erestor toward him, in between his thighs, like a harbour welcoming a ship. Then he ran his hands up along that milky skin, over the hipbones, and brought his face closer.

"Glorfindel, what are you doing?" Erestor took a half-step back. "I thought you wanted--"

"I want to honour your body. You don't often give me the chance, Erestor. Tonight you will."

"But--"

"Shh... don't talk." Glorfindel closed his eyes and let his other senses guide him. He pressed his cheek to Erestor's erection, delighting in how it felt next to his skin: silk-covered steel, a fragrant manifestation of Erestor's masculinity. He buried his nose in the curls beneath it, then sought out its length with his mouth. Erestor's hips bucked forward, and Glorfindel steadied them with a firm grip of his hands.

Since Erestor usually preferred the submissive role in their encounters, Glorfindel rarely got the chance to enjoy this particular pleasure. Not surprisingly, the delights his tongue now explored tasted almost like forbidden fruit -- all the sweeter for their rarity. He gave himself up to the sensation, his mouth full of his lover's prowess, the muscles in Erestor's belly tensing with unconscious effort. The act was lovely in its intimacy, and Glorfindel would not have objected to spending the entire evening in such a way. But tonight he had other plans.

When Erestor's sighs grew louder and his hips more difficult to still, Glorfindel pulled his mouth away and glanced up. Erestor looked half-drunk, his face flushed and expectant. Glorfindel undid his robe, then untied his leggings. When he was nude he lay back, pushing the discarded clothes out of the way.

"Lie with me, Erestor," he whispered. "Have me."

"What?"

"You never do, and sometimes I crave it so."

Erestor hesitated for an instant, then rested a knee on the edge of the bed. He looked at Glorfindel, uncertain, the seductive swagger of some moments ago forgotten. He seemed to be thinking.

"The oil is in the drawer," Glorfindel supplied, and Erestor's face coloured.

"I know," he said. "You used it on me many times."

"Your turn, then."

"I don't see why you insist that I--"

Instead of answering, Glorfindel grasped Erestor by the waist and pulled him down on the bed. "Because you are beautiful and strong, and I want to feel that strength within me." He reached over to the drawer and pressed a bottle of oil into Erestor's hand. "Come, don't deny me."

Erestor's eyes flicked up briefly, and, for a moment, Glorfindel saw the depth of insecurity hidden there. Then Erestor uncorked the small bottle and slipped a hand between Glorfindel's legs. Smooth oil on cool fingers -- Glorfindel closed his eyes and let sensation overwhelm him.

Glorfindel had never been an inhibited lover, his self-confidence serving him well in the bedchamber. None of his previous partners had ever had cause for grievance; he was always ready to give as well as receive, unconcerned about seeming foolish and secure enough in his virility to give up control. The same was true now: as Erestor's body slowly covered his, Glorfindel gave voice to his enjoyment and lifted his knees to allow for deeper access.

Erestor moved slowly, flexing his hips and keeping his eyes closed. His hand gripped the bed sheets, the white linen bunched up into a ball beneath his fingers.

"Erestor." Glorfindel lifted a hand to his lover's face. "Look at me."

The eyes that met Glorfindel's seemed strangely young in their apprehension. How was it that Erestor -- so competent in all other spheres of his life -- could be so filled with doubt when taking pleasure from another: one who loved him, no less?

Glorfindel's legs tightened around Erestor's waist, pulling him closer. "Can you not see how much you please me? How your spirit burns brightly, holding me in its grip? How I love being in your power... ah!" He threw his head back and clenched his teeth as his lover's hips moved more urgently. "Valar... yes. Oh, yes."

Erestor pressed forward with more assurance. His eyes were open now, his hands touching Glorfindel's hair and face. His body was slowly acquiring the ease it displayed in the exercise yard: sleek and sure, filled with purpose.

Glorfindel's hands travelled down over the shifting muscles of Erestor's back and firmly cupped his behind, encouraging him to thrust.
"When you're inside me like this, I can scarce remember..." His hands squeezed, inviting Erestor deeper.  "Oh, like that... Elbereth!" He arched his back. "Oh, Erestor, I am yours..."

Something changed in Erestor's eyes then: a glint appeared that had not been there before. His mouth, too, twisted into a more aggressive shape, and his hands tightened in Glorfindel's hair, possessively holding the head immobile. His hips moved faster.

"Yes," Glorfindel breathed, closing his eyes again. "Yes, more." He felt Erestor's fingers release their hold on his hair and move lower down his body, caressing his buttocks and squeezing, lifting his hips. The hands that usually dealt with quill and parchment, and held a sword but rarely, were surprisingly strong.

Slowly, Glorfindel sensed the delicate balance of power between him and his lover shift. Though Erestor's lovemaking had not suddenly grown more forceful, something in their bodies' striving had changed, the way tension mounts in the summer air just before a storm, not exploding outright but crackling in its potential.

Aware of the sudden difference, Glorfindel looked up at his lover's face, and -- for the first time in all the times they had made love -- saw Erestor's eyes shine with awareness of his own power.

The transformation was awe-inspiring. Eyes alight, Erestor seemed to have grown, both in stature and in mastery. Incredulous, Glorfindel felt the hands on his body grow more sure, the hardness within him, more rigid. Assailed from all sides by a might too great to withstand, he hovered on the edge of a precipice, then went over, his pleasure reaching its peak. Erestor followed moments later.

They drew apart, Glorfindel barely conscious of what he was doing. When the breeze from the window began to cool his bare skin, he looked over at his lover. Erestor was glowing, the novelty of what he had just experienced colouring his face.

"Did that just happen?" His eyes shone with wonder.

"Yes."

"You didn't mind?"

"Mind?" Glorfindel turned on his side. "You were glorious. You should do that more often."

"Maybe." Erestor's smile was both timid and coy.

Glorfindel shifted closer. "Why would you hesitate to take me, love? Did you not take pleasure from it, too?"

Erestor tensed. "You know I did," he said. "It's just that Gildor..."

The words would not come, but Glorfindel had long ago divined the reasons for Erestor's reluctance. Gildor's presence was still there -- always there -- hovering like a poisonous cloud, hurtful even from a distance.

This night, however, Glorfindel was determined to make Erestor forget, to make his eyes shine once more. "Gildor would be shocked beyond measure to see you act the way you did tonight." He smiled broadly. "Shocked and regretful, to see what he had missed."

For a moment, Erestor looked startled. Then he laughed, and relaxed into Glorfindel's arms once more.

The candles on the mantelpiece were slowly burning out, their tiny flames flickering and dimming. Outside, the light of day had long gone, and the first stars were appearing in the black expanse of sky. The room was darker now, but it felt neither menacing nor dreary.

Glorfindel brought his mouth close to Erestor's ear. "You said something about having food brought up..."

"Glutton."

Erestor's tone was amused and carefree. Glorfindel let his arm tighten its hold on Erestor's waist, hoping the shadows that had been chased out of his lover's heart that evening would not return.

Chapter 11:

Imladris, TA 1004


-- The night before midsummer night's eve --

Glorfindel turned the corner in the hallway and froze, staring at the creature making its way in his direction. "What in Manwë's name?"

It had the legs of an Elf, to be sure, and certainly arms as well, for Glorfindel could see a pair of hands clutching the burden it carried.  Its head, however, was completely obscured by a mountain of papers, stacked so high they cast a looming shadow over the wall. The papers were loose, and the whole heap swayed so precariously that it seemed the pages were destined to be scattered all over the floor before long. Glorfindel could only presume that the being buried underneath all that work was an Elf, and an overburdened one at that. «Who would be toiling so late, and on the evening before the festival no less?» he wondered.

He did not wonder for long. Unable to gauge its path, the creature tripped on an uneven floor tile and crashed to the ground, papers and all.  Its startled exclamation was accompanied by the swish of falling pages, which twirled like autumn leaves and settled on the floor. At last, Glorfindel was able to ascertain that the Elf in the middle of the picturesque heap was Melpomaen, although the irate look on the young scribe's face was at odds with his usually good-humoured disposition.

Indeed, the words that next came out of Melpomaen's mouth were better suited to an army barracks than the genteel hallways of the Last Homely House. "To Mordor with this damned inventory! I hope the fires of Mount Doom consume every last bit of this blasted paper, until there is nothing left but ash, and--"

"Melpomaen?"

Melpomaen looked up. "Glorfindel! I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"Likely the fact that you are trying to do the work of three people, pen-neth.  Who assigned this unreasonable task to you, anyway? It wasn't my Erestor, was it?"

"No, I took it on myself." Melpomaen straightened out his robes and began the tedious task of gathering the pages back together. "Everyone else is too preoccupied with tomorrow night's festivities. I am the only one left who does not seem to mind working late."

"Can this not wait?"

"Probably.  But the work will still be here a week hence, and I cannot face the prospect of sitting alone in my chambers just now."  He efficiently shuffled the pages he had gathered into their original order.

"Of course." Glorfindel knelt down on the floor beside Melpomaen and turned his attention to the disorderly mass of documents. "Let me help."

On closer inspection, the pages were not as white or uniform as they had appeared from a distance. They were, in fact, quite colourful: covered in brilliant red, purple and green illuminations, with delicate golden detailing gracing their edges. The sheet in Glorfindel's hand contained a very realistic representation of a plant, with every stem, leaf and flower clearly labelled.

"Healing plants?" Glorfindel asked.

"Yes, drawings from the medical archives. We are moving them to the main library for the moment." Melpomaen pointed to the pile of papers he had been patiently putting back together. "These, on the other hand, are nature scenes drawn by a handful of Second Age artists. Most were used as sketches for paintings, and are little more than rough outlines of the final work. We keep them for archival purposes." He stilled Glorfindel's hand, which had been reaching out for a sketch. "You must be careful not to get the two mixed up; it would hardly help the healers researching their potions to find a drawing of a waterfall instead."

"Don't worry, I can be meticulous when the need arises," Glorfindel said, trying to ignore the sceptical look on Melpomaen's face. For some moments, he applied himself to his task, carefully sorting the bright plants from the monochromatic sketches. Then a familiar riverside scene caught his eye. "I know this one!" He held the page up for Melpomaen's inspection.

"Yes, the full-scale painting hangs in the dining hall.  You probably see it every day. This is an early, rough study for the piece. See how the trees are not shaded in, the perspective is a bit off, and the lines seem hesitant here on the side."

"Oh, I remember it now.  But the final work is much more beautiful and impressive.  The sketch can hardly compare to the painting's brilliance."

"You're right, of course.  Still..." Melpomaen's words trailed off into silence.

"Melpomaen? Is something wrong?"

"I was just thinking." Melpomaen let the pages slip from his hands. They fanned out around his knees like a vibrant bunch of flowers. He looked up at Glorfindel, dark eyes wide and full of a strange kind of understanding. "I've always preferred the sketch to the painting, you know. Flaws and all, I find it somehow truer, more honest. It is imperfect, and yet it is lovely."

"You talk in riddles, my friend.  I am not Erestor, who can decipher the meaning behind cleverly coded words."

"I'm sorry." Melpomaen shook his head as if waking from a dream.  "I did not mean to confound you, and I would speak plainly if the matter were simple.  But I barely know what I am thinking these days, and shaping the words to suit my muddled mind is a difficult task."

"A perilous affliction for an advisor, I'd say."

Though Melpomaen did not go so far as to laugh out loud, he made an amused sound, and smiled.  Glorfindel was relieved to see him find some pleasure in the teasing.  Such a sober young Elf he had seemed of late: hiding behind his work and yet apparently finding little comfort in it.

"Shall I help you gather these up and carry them to the library, pen-neth?"

"Yes, thank you.  The load will be much lighter when carried by two." Melpomaen reached for the pile of papers on the ground before him, then stopped mid-motion.  He looked at Glorfindel, his face again filled with that strange half-awareness.  He held his hand out for the riverside sketch.  "May I?"

"Of course."

He took the page from Glorfindel's hand, and stared at it, unblinking. "I do like it," he said.  "Though some may call me foolish for not choosing more suitable works as the objects of my admiration.  Still, what does it matter what others say?  This one speaks to my heart."

"Melpomaen?" Glorfindel regarded the younger Elf with curiosity, aware that the subject of their conversation had transcended the sketch Melpomaen carefully held between his fingers.

"Sorry.  Speaking in riddles again."  Melpomaen gave a calm smile, his agitation gone. "Glorfindel?"

"Hm?"

"I would have a favour to ask of you tomorrow, before the festivities begin.  There is something I mean to do, and I will need your assistance."



****

-- The following night --

"The crimson and gold tunic," Glorfindel decreed, appraising Melpomaen.  "Yes, definitely the crimson.  Don't you find, Erestor?"

"I much prefer it to the green," Erestor agreed.  "The crimson is dark enough to be understated, and yet nicely complements your complexion.  And the gold accents set off the ribbons in your hair."

Melpomaen turned around once more, studying his reflection in the large mirror.  He had to admit that Glorfindel had proven more than capable of the task he had undertaken.  When Melpomaen had asked the older, and decidedly more experienced, Elf to help him look appealing for midsummer night's eve, he had not expected such astounding results.  Surely the radiant creature in the looking glass couldn't be him?  Where were the modest advisor's robes?  Where was the severe hairstyle?

"You look beautiful, pen-neth," Glorfindel said.  "You will have many eyes on you tonight, not least those of the person whose attention you seek."

"Do you think so?"

"He would have to be blind not to notice your charms.  You are sure to make an impression."

"Good."  Melpomaen looked himself over in the mirror once more.
"And you're certain that these garments aren't too... tight?" he asked, feeling timid about the way the dark leggings hugged his thighs and accentuated the curve of his behind.

"Can you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Can you move?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"Then they're perfect."  Glorfindel smiled.  "You are not going to a state reception tonight, after all; there is no need for you to look authoritative.  As it is, you look positively sinful.  I might be tempted to try for you myself if I weren't certain Erestor would flay me if I ever did."

"Rake." Erestor suppressed a smile. "What makes you so confident that Melpomaen would welcome your advances?  His tastes run more to the dignified and serious, not to philanderers like you.  Not every Elf you gift with your attention will readily fall into your arms, you know."

"You did."

"Ha! I think 'readily' would hardly be the appropriate word."

Glorfindel quieted for an instant, his smile giving way to a more serious expression.  For a few heartbeats, the depth of his feelings for Erestor was plainly visible on his face.  Melpomaen looked away, so private did the moment seem.   

By the time he looked back, Glorfindel was grinning again. "True.  You certainly made me work to gain your trust." He moved across the room toward Erestor and embraced him.  "Yet I am rewarded for my pains a hundredfold every time you look at me."

"Glorfindel... " Erestor lowered his eyes to the ground. "That's enough.  Melpomaen did not come here for a demonstration."

"It's all right!" Melpomaen lifted both hands in a placating gesture.  "I do not mind.  Tonight is a celebration of love, after all.  Besides, I had better take my leave; you two need time to get ready, too, and I can see that the bonfires are already being lit in the clearing.  Thank you for everything."  He moved toward the door.

"Wait just a moment!" Glorfindel intercepted him and steered him back toward the mirror.  "We aren't finished yet."

Strong hands pushed down on Melpomaen's shoulders.  Compliant, he sat down on the chair in front of the looking glass, and gazed ahead.  Behind him he could see Glorfindel moving about, reaching over for a small glass jar Erestor was handing to him.

"I like what Erestor has done with your hair, Melpomaen.  The braids hold it back from your face and show off your ears to good advantage.  I wonder, did anyone ever tell you that your ears are exceptionally well formed?  Elrond must have noticed, he has a keen eye for beauty."

Melpomaen caught Glorfindel's suggestive look in the mirror, and saw his own face redden.  He could well understand Erestor's reluctance to show affection in public.  Truly, some things belonged behind closed doors.

"Never mind," Glorfindel grinned again.  "The look on your face tells me everything I might want to know."  He gathered Melpomaen's hair in one hand and set the jar on the nearby table.

Melpomaen looked into the mirror with interest.  "What are you doing?"

"Simply making the most of one of your assets. It's a little trick I learned long ago, and one that has served me well in matters of seduction.  Now, I am about to do something that may feel a little too... intimate for comfort, but don't be alarmed.  My intentions are pure, and this will be over in but a moment."

"What do you mean?" Melpomaen barely had time to speak before he felt Glorfindel's fingers deliberately stroke the sensitive point of his ear.  He gasped and instinctively pulled away, feeling his body tighten at the erotic caress.

"Sorry about that, pen-neth. I know it feels a bit odd, coming from me.  But we're almost done.  I just need to do the other ear."

Melpomaen was better prepared for the touch of Glorfindel's fingers the second time around, and paid more attention to the reason for his friend's bizarre actions.  It seemed that some sort of shiny powder was being applied to his ear points.

Glorfindel hastened to explain.  "It is nothing but a mixture of ground pearls and fragrant oil -- precious and quite expensive, and therefore not in wide use.  When applied directly to the skin, it gives it a shimmering effect." He paused. "It also gives those who gaze upon you ideas as to what they might want to do to those beautiful ears of yours."

Melpomaen had never before dwelled on the depth of Glorfindel's knowledge in these matters.  Evidently it was quite extensive.  The thought flustered him so much that he rose and turned to leave. 

"Melpomaen." Glorfindel stepped in between him and the door, and put a hand on his elbow.  The look on his face was sincere.  "There is one thing I want to say before you go.  All these preparations -- the clothes, the scented oils -- they are nice, and Erestor and I are glad to help.  But they are not necessary, pen-neth, you should know that.  You do not need these ruses to impress him.  He loves you already.  Very much."

Glorfindel squeezed his elbow.  Across the room, Melpomaen could see Erestor silently nodding in agreement.  Despite everything that had gone so wrong over the past few months, Melpomaen felt fortunate.  He stepped closer and kissed Glorfindel's cheek.  "Thank you," he said.


****


The door opened and Melpomaen stepped into the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to smile at the occupants of the room. Celebrían quickly retreated into the shadows.  It would not do to be seen skulking about the Last Homely House, watching her husband's lover.  She had no idea what she would say should he notice her, for how could she possibly give reasons for actions she could not even explain to herself?

Humming quietly, Melpomaen began the long walk toward the main staircase. Celebrían followed at a distance, taking every opportunity to hide behind thick stone pillars.

He looked well tonight, she had to admit.  It was evident he had taken special care with his appearance, abandoning his modest advisor's robes in favour of garments bolder in cut and richer in colour.  They suited him, though a certain residual awkwardness in his movements betrayed the fact that he was not accustomed to clothing quite so revealing.

Celebrían watched as Melpomaen's hands travelled to the hem of his tunic and pulled, trying to cover what he thought too exposed.  She smiled.  For all his seductive airs, he was just an innocent: a youth gripped by the kind of fierce love that is usually the sole prerogative of the young, and willing to do almost anything to hold on to what was dear to him.   

The curved staircase was just ahead, and when Melpomaen reached it Celebrían halted.  She would go no further.  Her pursuit was pointless, really, for what could she hope to accomplish by merely observing?  Sudden epiphanies were unlikely; she was old enough to know that this dilemma would not be solved by a flash of insight.  And yet something inexplicable had compelled her to shadow his footsteps -- something about the way the ribbons twisted in his hair, and the way he looked:  eager, nervous, and so much in love it nearly hurt to watch.

Melpomaen had nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when one of his ribbons came loose, fluttering to the ground in a golden serpentine.  He stopped and bent down to retrieve the satiny strip of cloth.  From her spot on the top landing, Celebrían watched as he walked toward one of the large stained glass windows and, using the reflective surface as a mirror, began to plait the thin golden band into his hair.  Arms raised, his hands worked deftly, gold flashing amid black, his head tilted to the left.

Memories are strange, unpredictable things.  Once their immediacy has faded with the years, they remain muted: mere echoes of the vibrant events they represent -- the way parchments stored on archive shelves tell vivid tales of events long past, but only to those who will listen.  And yet all it takes is a few words, a certain scent or a brief image, and their power grows and swells, crashing against the well-ordered present like a powerful wave.  And it is as if no time has passed at all.

So it was now.  Celebrían stared at Melpomaen, and yet it was not him she saw, but a young Elf-woman: the ribbons in her plaits not gold, but blue; the hair not black, but the colour of honey; the eyes not dark, but a dappled green, like patches of forest reflected in still water.  What she had long thought a dried-out bouquet suddenly exploded in a dazzling array of scent and colour, as memories held at bay for years flooded her senses.


****

Dol Amroth  TA 95


"Let me help you.  You'll only tangle it further."  Celebrían threads her fingers through the honey-coloured mane, shakes out stray grains of sand, and begins to weave in the blue ribbon.  The hair feels heavy in her palm, and warm as a stone that has sat all day in the sun.

Her lover leans back into her hands, and tilts her head.  The veil of honey falls to the side, revealing a neck as slim and graceful as a young pine.  Celebrían would gladly kiss her way down that neck, across the curve of the narrow, strong shoulders, and over the sharp collarbones, but the sun is already setting over the water, and she cannot linger.  She concentrates, efficiently braiding.  Before long, waves of honey fall down her lover's back in regular plaits, blue ribbon securely fastened.

Celebrían's beloved turns and smiles.  "Can you not stay?" she asks.

"I am expected back home."

Celebrían does not elaborate.  They have been over this too many times to count; she does not need to explain that her parents disapprove of this liaison and wish for her to end it.  Her lover already knows. 

"Can you not disobey them this once?"  The question brims with impatience.  "The night will be lovely; the sea is calm.  I would watch the stars with you."

"I cannot," Celebrían answers, wishing that she could.  She does not take easily to having her freedom curtailed -- she is strong-willed enough not to bend under her mother's influence -- but her parents' disapproval seems to have grown more serious in recent months, and she senses that openly going against their will would do more ill than good. 

"Have they said something else to you?"

"Nothing new."

"Nothing?"

"Just that they want me to marry."

She feels a twinge of guilt, for she has not been entirely forthright.  While it is true that her parents have been trying to persuade her to wed for some time, it is also true that their arguments have recently changed.  They no longer speak of her happiness and security, but talk rather of her duty to her people and the need for the line of noble houses to continue.  Celebrían has seen too many of her people die and watched too many white ships sail West from Dol Amroth's harbour not to feel a sense of responsibility to Middle-earth and the Elves left behind.  Though she is loath to admit it, her defences against the claim of such obligations are beginning to crumble.

"And have they found you a suitable mate yet?" The sarcastic tone masks an undercurrent of pain.

"They talk of Elrond Half-elven."

For a while, the only sound that can be heard is the rushing of waves against the sand.  Finally, the question falls, quietly: "What is he like?"

"Fair, wise and kind."

"As fair and noble as our people say?"

"Yes."

All this is true, of course; Elrond is all these things and more.  And yet, although he is beautiful, his hair is not the colour of honey and his eyes are not the green of sun-dappled leaves.  Celebrían hugs her knees to her chest, her sense of loss already acute, though the thing she fears losing has not yet been taken away.

Suddenly there is a hand on her shoulder and warm breath against her ear.  "He may be all those things, but he will never feel about you the way I do.  He will never need you as badly, or love you as sweetly.  You know that."  Insistent hands push her back against the ground, a warm mouth seeking her own.  She feels her knees nudged apart as her body is pressed into the still-warm sand. 

"You'll wreck your ribbons again," she breathes in between kisses, but does not protest as her lover's fingers travel to the front of her dress and begin to tug at the laces. 

For some instants, the world narrows to honey-coloured hair and flushed skin.  Then Celebrían's lover stills for a moment, and asks: "What right do they have to take this away from us?"  Her voice is angry, but not defiant, as if she knows this to be a fight than cannot be won.

Some questions have no answers, and so Celebrían says nothing.  Instead, she holds her lover close, offering reassurance and oblivion, at least for a little while.  The rhythmic whisper of the waves is comforting; if she tries really hard, she can almost imagine that all is well.  Dusk slowly falls over the beach.  Soon she can see nothing but stars. 



Notes:

The Erogenous Elven Ear™ is, of course, a fanon invention -- but one of which I wholly approve.  ;)

The gold ribbons Melpomaen wears in his hair indicate that he is not looking for a casual fling at the midsummer night's eve festivities.  For more info about this custom (invented entirely by yours truly), see "Sweetness and Gall."

Pen-neth – young one


Chapter 12:

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



"Have you tried the wine, my Lord? The vintage is excellent."

"I haven't yet, no--" A goblet full of dark liquid was pressed into Elrond's hand.  He sipped.  The flavour was earthy, with a hint of sweet, ripe plums; it tasted of sun filled vineyards, and was indeed delicious.

"In truth, I believe suffering the presence of the Greenwood guests is worth it for this pleasure alone," the wine bearer declared with a grin, swaying slightly.

Elrond almost reached out a hand to steady him, but held back.  The librarian was proud, and liked to think he could handle himself in any situation.  That, coupled with his aggravating habit of peppering his sentences with the phrase "in truth," made his company trying at times.  Especially when he had overindulged in potent beverages -- as he had tonight.

Sighing, Elrond manoeuvred himself to the librarian's side.  Judging by the speed with which the Elf's cup was emptying, his balance would soon become seriously impaired and, while the moss-covered ground in the clearing was soft to sit on, it would do little to break the fall of a full-grown Elven male.  Elrond freed his fingers from the wide sleeves of his robe, just in case catching his companion became necessary.

"It may be a good idea to keep those sentiments to yourself, my friend, especially out here.  Our Greenwood guests may not appreciate hearing them -- and may decide to be less generous with their gifts in future years."  Elrond kept his voice low, in the hopes the librarian would do likewise.  His hopes were in vain.

"Your words are wise, my Lord. As always, in truth. But I like to speak my mind!"  The nasal voice boomed among the trees. "One so seldom gets a chance to speak in the archives."  The tone turned sad.  "It is so quiet there.  No one listens."

Elrond made a conscious effort not to pull away from the alcohol-infused breath.  The evening was quickly spiralling downhill; now his companion was not only drunk and loud, but also maudlin.  It was time to steer the conversation onto other, more pleasant, paths.

"I see you've braided silver ribbons into your hair," he said.  "Maybe one of our guests will catch your eye?  They not only have fine taste in wine but are quite comely as well.  Don't you find?"

The ruse was evidently successful, for the librarian's face brightened instantly and his eyes began to roam over the Elves gathered in the clearing.  "Oh, yes, they are indeed.  Such lovely, fair hair, in truth.  Such willowy grace."  His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a growl.  "And I'm willing to wager that some of them have never known the skilled touch of an Imladris scholar.  Innocent flowers, just waiting to be plucked..."  He swayed again.

Alarmed, Elrond steadied him.  Valar, the new course their discussion had taken was hardly better!  "I would advise you to proceed slowly," he said.  "You do not want to frighten them away, after all.  Seduce them gradually, show them your subtle skill, impress with your sophistication--"

"Subtle.  Yes."  The librarian's brow wrinkled in thought.  "Sophistication.  Of course.  That's just what I was going to do, in truth."

"Good."  Elrond smiled.  "Now, why don't we go and sit under the big oak over there?  That way you can observe our Greenwood guests at leisure, and plan your approach."

"Very well."  The librarian turned in the direction of the oak, casting one more glance at the Elves gathered around the bonfires.  Suddenly he started, eyes widening in disbelief.  "It cannot be!"

"What?"

"That!  Why that's... But he looks so... I have never seen him so... Elbereth, but that really is him!"

"Who?"

"Melpomaen!"

At the sound of his beloved's name, Elrond felt heat suffuse his body as if he had gotten too close to the bonfires.  He followed the librarian's gaze, and nearly dropped his wine.  For the figure in the clearing did not resemble the prim, bookish scribe most residents of the Last Homely House were accustomed to seeing.  The Melpomaen slowly winding his way through the crowd was an erotic vision.

The deep red of his tunic cast a warm glow over his face, the gold detailing on the sleeves and hem sparkling in the light of the flames.  His dark leggings clung to his calves and thighs, emphasizing every curve, every shift of muscle.  He walked slowly, with a slight sway to his hips, as if challenging those around him to look.  His hair was pulled back from his face in an unfamiliar style, making his cheekbones look sharper, his eyes darker, and his ear-points...  Elrond suddenly had the urge to curl his tongue around those delicate points.  Melpomaen's shapely ears looked like they had been painted with the moon's own silvery rays, and glimmered in the dim light of the clearing.

It took a few moments for Elrond to realize he was openly staring.  He would have felt ashamed had he not seen that half the Elves around him were doing likewise.  As Melpomaen walked, the crowd parted before him and admiring eyes followed his every step.

"Why, that young rascal!"  the librarian continued.  "I never knew he hid such a fine physique under those loose robes of his.  Tell me," he added, his voice gaining a sense of urgency, "I cannot see from here, but... what colour are the ribbons in his hair?"

Elrond felt a brief moment of panic at the thought that Melpomaen had finally gotten tired of the uncertainty of their relationship and was taking advantage of the festivities to gain some much needed relief.  But then his eyes caught a golden gleam twisting among Melpomaen's braids.

"Gold."  He exhaled.

"He would not dress this way if he did not have pleasure in mind for the night," the librarian said.  "He must have a serious lover then.  I did not know he was spoken for."  He turned to Elrond, the drunken haze in his eyes fighting for dominance with logical thought.  "You wouldn't know who holds that young beauty's heart, my Lord, would you?"

Elrond's heart was pounding.  The sight of Melpomaen so arrayed -- and the thought that the young Elf had put on such a display for his benefit alone -- made him feel as if he were split into strange, disjointed duality: his body feverish with the need to caress and his heart chilled at the thought that he could offer so little, and Melpomaen deserved so much.

With difficulty, he averted his eyes from the tempting vision in the clearing.  "Yes, I do know.  And I think the young one merits someone a great deal better."  He pressed his still-full wine goblet into the librarian's hand and turned toward the forest at his back.

"My Lord?"

Elrond heard the surprise in his companion's voice, but kept on walking, needing to feel the trees' protective darkness around him. The oaks' tangled branches beckoned him nearer, promising solitude.  He hastened his step.

He was nearly there when the touch of a cool hand on his shoulder halted his escape.  He turned, only half surprised to see his wife's blue eyes gazing into his own.

"Taking a stroll?" Celebrían's face was unreadable.

"Yes."

Elrond saw her glance back toward the bonfires, eyes lingering on Melpomaen for a second too long.  Then she turned to him.  "Walk with me," she said, and took his hand.  He had little choice; he followed.  The silent shadow of the forest closed around them.

 
 
****

 
Making his way through the clearing, Melpomaen felt more exposed than he had in his entire life.  Not even when lying naked beside Elrond had he felt so unnervingly on display.  His clothes clung to him with an uncomfortably sensual insistence, and dozens of eyes followed his every move.  Normally he would have turned and fled long ago, but too much was at stake.
 
"Hello, beautiful!" a voice called to him.
 
"Are those gold ribbons for me?" someone else said, this time from the opposite direction, and Melpomaen came perilously close to abandoning the entire scheme.  Then he glimpsed Elrond's figure among the crowd, and kept on walking.
 
Elrond was looking Melpomaen's way.  There was a cup of wine in his hand, but he wasn't drinking it.  Rather, he held it as if he had forgotten it was there.  Suddenly the Elves around Melpomaen no longer mattered; he had an audience of one.  He slowed his walk and exaggerated the sway of his hips. 
 
Even from far away Melpomaen could see that Elrond's eyes -- those beloved grey eyes -- were riveted to him, watching his progress through the crowd.  With that gaze holding him like a tender embrace, he no longer felt timid or ashamed.  It was just the two of them now, and so he moved teasingly, every tilt of the head an invitation, every step a silent declaration of love. 
 
But then Elrond turned away.  In a moment, Celebrían was beside him, and the two were disappearing into the surrounding woods, heads inclined in private conversation.  Melpomaen felt his foot catch on something, and nearly went tumbling to the ground.
 
"Careful, meldir, you don't want to get those clothes dirty.  They look far too good to be stained with grass." Haldir had appeared out of nowhere and steadied Melpomaen by the elbow.  "Unless, of course, the staining is done in pleasant company, in some private, out-of-the-way glade." 
 
"Oh, it's you, Haldir." Melpomaen stepped out of Haldir's reach, once again painfully conscious of his appearance.  "No, I think I'd rather keep my garments clean."
 
"A shame, that.  Your Lord and his wife seem to have the right idea.  Or didn't you see them slip away into the forest like a couple of newlyweds?"
 
"I saw."  Melpomaen thought grief might choke him, so violently did it seize him by the throat.  To think that Elrond and Celebrían were actually going to...  He felt a churning in the pit of his stomach, and was almost glad when Haldir's strong hand grasped his elbow once more.

"Whatever is the matter?  Those gold ribbons look at odds with the lovelorn look on your face.  Is the evening not going as planned?  Do not tell me all that finery you are wearing is to go to waste."

Melpomaen did not trust himself to speak.  He merely looked at Haldir and tried to compose his face into an expression that would give less away.  The guardian's hand slid up his arm.
 
"Come, my friend, you look badly in need of a drink.  Luckily I know just where to get the best vintage," Haldir was saying.  He steered Melpomaen toward the edge of the clearing, close to the large barrels of wine.
 
"I'm not certain I want to--"
 
"Oh, yes, you do.  Nothing like a glass or two to take the sting out of love's little disappointments.  Though I must say that whoever spurned you tonight is an utter fool."
 
The bonfires were as bright as they had been some minutes ago, and the guests laughed as loudly and sang with just as much merriment as when Elrond had stood with glass in hand and loved Melpomaen with his eyes.  But all the gaiety in the air now seemed hollow, the night's enchantment gone. 

Melpomaen sat down on a bench beside Haldir and took the glass that was handed to him.  The wine was sweet and strong; it made his head spin and numbed his body with a pleasant indifference.  He drank.  When offered more, he did not refuse.
 
 
****
 

Elrond and Celebrían walked hand in hand, strangely united, their footfalls cushioned by the forest floor. The wood, absorbed in its whispers, pay them no heed and let them pass unseen. They had come far, the laughter of revellers and the sighs of lovers now only distant echoes among the trees. They would not be disturbed here and could talk freely. And yet neither one had spoken a word.

Celebrían's hand felt cool in Elrond's palm:  foreign yet familiar, at once a comfort and a threat. Wife, friend, enemy -- she was all that, and powerful in her many holds on him. Though often gentle, she could be uncompromising in her honesty. What would her judgment be now? Elrond longed to speak and break the silence between them, and yet dared not begin. The quiet night stretched around him like a void, heralding pain.

"It is beautiful here.  I had almost forgotten."  Celebrían's fingers reached out to touch a leafy branch.  "I shall miss these woods when I am gone, though the ones in Lórien are certainly as fair."

Elrond's heart stopped.  Or maybe it was just his feet.  "You're leaving?"

"Yes, in a few days. After the festivities have come to a close and all my Galadhrim have recovered, that is. I'd like to make the journey before the nights turn colder." She smiled and, quirking an eyebrow, added, "Do not tell me my absence will be lamented."

Though said in jest, her words held enough barbs to wound, all the more so because they were true.  Elrond felt a tug of regret for all the things that lay broken between them.  "Celebrían," he said.  "You know I am sorry.  I never meant--"

"I know," she said quietly, fingers tracing the gold band he still wore.  "You did your best.  You always do."  She squeezed his hand and then let go.  "Anyway, it no longer matters.  My party will be gone within a week, and I with it.  If you have letters you wish to write, I will gladly deliver them.  I am certain many would be glad of news from you."
 
"I will write tomorrow, and give orders to have your company equipped with ample provisions for the journey.  Would you like an escort to accompany you at least part of the way?  Many of my guards would welcome the distraction from the monotony of patrol."
 
"There is no need.  My Galadhrim are numerous and more than competent, and might even take offence at being offered assistance."  She smiled at him, as if sharing a private joke, then gently touched his shoulder.  "In a few days, I shall be on my own again.  As will you."
 
Elrond fell quiet.  Indeed, in a few days things would go back to their natural course.  The emotional distance between them would once again find its outward expression in physical separation.  It was what he had wished for, practically since her arrival.  And yet some part of him now felt inexplicably sad. 
 
"Thank you for celebrating midsummer with us," he said.  "The people are always glad to see you.  Truly, you were the heart of the festivities this year, as in the past."
 
"You give me too much credit.  You have carried out your duties with grace and dedication for centuries now, and your people love you for it.  One small appearance by your wife could not have made that much of a difference."
 
"Still, it is always better not to toil alone."
 
Elrond had wanted the words to sound neutral, but the alienation he had felt over the past months could not help but colour their meaning.  He sensed something in the quality of the night's silence change then, as if a deeper stillness had bound him and Celebrían closer together. 

"That is true," she said.  "But you have friends here who care for you far too much to let you toil in loneliness and sorrow."  She held his eyes for an instant, then looked away, gazing over the tops of the trees.  There was a moment of silence.  Then:  "The young advisor, Melpomaen.  He is a great help to you, is he not?"
 
Elrond's heart lurched.  "Yes."
 
Celebrían's words were measured and careful, as if she had thought them over many times in her mind and wanted to ensure their accuracy.  "Then I am glad.  I have spoken to him only briefly, but I can see that he is bright and kind."  Slowly, she turned around and looked into Elrond's face, her expression solemn, almost shy.  "It gives me comfort to know that you are in good company -- if you and I can never be more than friends."
 
Elrond, whose speeches usually flowed with the ease of mountain streams and with just as much beauty, for once found himself utterly at a loss for words. 
 
Celebrían squeezed his hand.  "May your life be a happy one, husband.  May the Valar guide and keep you, and may the light of a hundred thousand stars shine upon you."  She kissed him softly, and finished in a whisper, "Upon you both."


****


Melpomaen's cheeks had more colour than usual and his eyes were brighter, but he still wasn't smiling, or talking much, for that matter.  Indeed, his lips, set in a horizontal line, were clamped as stubbornly together as reluctant virgins' knees.  Haldir poured another cup of wine and renewed his efforts.

"You know, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of your company for such a long stretch of time.  You always seem to hurry past me in those flowing robes of yours.  Flowing, *ample* robes of yours."  He took a sip of wine, conscious of the alluring red tinge it gave to his lips.  "I must admit that I always wished I might see more of you, so to speak.  And it seems my wish has been granted."  Smiling suggestively, he ran his eyes along Melpomaen's tightly clad form.  "Oh, I do love it when reality far surpasses the reaches of imagination." 

Melpomaen's expression did not change.  Haldir shifted closer on the bench; he would rouse the quiet scribe's interest if it took all night and an entire barrel of wine.  "Clever as you are, I bet you know exactly where every book is stored without having to consult those tedious indexes.  Will you not gratify a poor Galadhel's thirst for knowledge by taking him on a tour of the archives tonight?  You know..."  He slid his leg flush with Melpomaen's thigh.  Even through the fabric, the skin felt hot and yielding.  "I have it on good authority that the libraries here have an extensive collection of books of a... sensual nature.  Some with illustrations."

Melpomaen's eyes flitted up briefly.  His cheeks had turned a darker shade of pink, which only accentuated the silver gleam on the points of his ears.  Haldir felt his lust rise and swell until he could barely sit still.  The young one had better start responding to his advances soon; he could not wait much longer. 

"You might be interested to hear," he continued, handing another cup of wine in Melpomaen's direction, "that the artist who illuminated one of those erotic volumes did so while in the Golden Wood."  He dropped his voice and leaned closer.  "I was one of his models.  He said that my form was impressive and my ability to pose for extended periods... enviable.  If you like, we might find the book together, and I could show you--"

"That won't be necessary, Haldir."  Melpomaen shifted a full foot away on the bench.  "I have seen the books you speak of, and am familiar with their contents."

"Oh?"  This certainly was an interesting development.  Haldir closed the gap between them once more, this time lifting a hand to play with the hem of Melpomaen's tunic.  "Which pictures did you enjoy the most?  And did they inspire you to--"

"Haldir, really, I do not see why my reading habits should suddenly interest you so much."

If Melpomaen slid away any farther down the bench, he would soon wind up on the ground.  As tempting a visual as that presented, Haldir forced himself to stay still and try a different approach.  "It is only because I am concerned about your well-being."

"My well-being?"  Melpomaen looked thrown off balance. 

"Yes.  For one so young and tantalizingly beautiful -- don't disagree with me here; you are a charming creature," he added in response to a sceptical glance from Melpomaen.  "For one so obviously at the height of his sensual powers, you seem to be leading an exceedingly lonely existence.  It cannot but do you harm."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Haldir--"

"No, really!  You work with healers, so you are no doubt aware that the body's needs must be fulfilled regularly, and the consequences of suppressing such natural impulses for an extended period are dire."  He leaned in closer.  "You should do something to remedy that, my friend.  And what better night to give the body what it wants than tonight, hm?" 

Melpomaen's face had flushed a bit more, but he did not move away -- something Haldir took as an encouraging sign.  Maybe it was time to steer the conversation onto a more direct course.  The night, after all, was not infinite.

"Look around you, meldir," he said.  "Look at all the couples embracing, claiming kisses, slipping away into the woods.  Should we not take their example?"

As if to illustrate his point, Glorfindel and Erestor walked by just at that moment, mere yards away from the bench on which Haldir and Melpomaen sat.  So absorbed were they in each other that they did not notice Melpomaen's eyes following their progress.  Hand-in-hand they strode, heading in the direction of the trees. 

Haldir allowed himself a small smirk, his thoughts turning to the matter of Lord Glorfindel and all those missing riding crops.  Would Melpomaen...  But no, the young one would likely not be amenable to *that* sort of play.  Although, if he had a bit more wine...

Haldir poured Melpomaen another cup.

"You're wrong, Haldir.  That is... you're not entirely right."  The look in Melpomaen's eyes was earnest, and, though he had taken the wine cup handed to him, he was not drinking from it.  "Carnal pleasures are wonderful and very important, of course, but they should not be shared with just anyone."  His mouth trembled.  "They are best saved for someone, well... special.  Casual acquaintances can do more harm than good."

"Oh, come now." Haldir quickly gauged the feelings apparent on Melpomaen's face and decided to tread carefully.  A touchy topic called for expert handling.  "You say that because you are young and your experience is limited.  I assure you that one-time encounters can be just as, if not more, gratifying than long-term relations.  Certainly more exciting."  He raised both eyebrows, his look openly suggestive.  "And what about those poor souls who, for whatever reason, have been... jilted?"

The stricken expression in Melpomaen's eyes held just the kind of vulnerability Haldir had been hoping for.  Gently he placed his hand on the young scribe's knee.  "Should those who have been abandoned through no fault of their own remain alone, in their cold beds, with no hope of companionship?  Certainly not."  His hand squeezed.  "It wouldn't be fair.  They, too, deserve..." Here he dropped his voice to a husky whisper.  "The touch of warm hands and a skilled mouth.  The weight of a muscled chest pressing them into the bed sheets.  The sweet, incomparable feeling of having another's body enter their own..."

Melpomaen's mouth opened slightly and his hand clenched around his wine glass.  Haldir felt joy at such clear evidence of a seduction properly under way.  The young one was falling into his trap!  Another few minutes, and *he* would be dragging Haldir off into the forest.

"My dear Melpomaen.  Acts which are so natural -- and so deliciously pleasurable -- are everyone's Valar-given right.  And tonight is the perfect time to take advantage!  Why, just think..."

He was going to bring up the fact that chances of finding a pleasure partner were greatly diminished on nights other than midsummer night's eve, and that the year was long and lonely.  But, in an instant, Haldir found his time running out.  Elrond had re-emerged from the woods -- without Celebrían -- and was looking around, seeking someone: no doubt Melpomaen.  Haldir had to act.  Now.

Well, desperate times called for desperate measures.  He turned to Melpomaen and doubled over, as if in pain.  "Oooh," he moaned, gripping the edge of the bench.

"Haldir?"

"I... I don't feel well all of a sudden."

"But you were fine just a moment ago!" Melpomaen had moved closer and placed a comforting hand on Haldir's back.

"My head is spinning, and I feel cold. I think I need to lie down."  Haldir straightened up slowly, noting with satisfaction that Melpomaen did not take his hand away.  "Will you help me to my room?  I fear I might fall."

The bench they sat on was well away from the crowds and close to the path that led back to the Last Homely House.  Melpomaen, solicitously helping Haldir stand, did not have cause to turn around and face the bonfires.  He did not see Elrond anxiously scanning the clearing; he was far too focused on Haldir's supposed pain. 

As they walked toward the path, Haldir leaned heavily on Melpomaen, taking full advantage of their bodies' proximity.  He was bent forward, feigning weakness, and it wasn't until they had nearly disappeared into the forest that he looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the clearing.  He caught Elrond's eye then.  Tightening his hold on Melpomaen's waist, he gave a boastful, leering grin.



****


Notes:

meldir - friend (male)

Again, for the significance of the silver/gold ribbon signalling system (the simplified Imladris version of the handkerchief in back pocket code) see "Sweetness and Gall."

The annoying librarian first made his appearance in Chapter Eight of "Sweetness and Gall."  He was sober then.

The wine drunk in such copious quantities in this chapter is the Dorwinion vintage (the wine they drink in "The Hobbit").  The Greenwood Elves imported it and, for the purposes of this story, brought it with them as a gift to Elrond.  If anyone knows of a good red wine that sounds similar in flavour to this one, I'll gladly take recommendations.  Mmm, red wine.



Chapter 13:

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



Melpomaen had not previously realized just how high the Last Homely House's main staircase was, probably because he had never before ascended its interminable steps with a half-conscious Galadhel draped across his shoulders.  Haldir may have been lean, but he was all muscle:  not a light burden to bear.  By the time they reached the door to Haldir's room Melpomaen's arms were cramped and his back sore.

It seemed the effort had been worth it, however, for Haldir appeared to visibly improve the instant they were inside.  He sat down on the bed, belched, and said he wanted to splash water on his face.  Melpomaen helped him to the door of the bath, relieved that the drunken guardian no longer clung to him like a vine.  When the door closed, he wandered over to the window, determined not to leave until he had made sure Haldir was feeling better.

He spent some time pondering the evils of excessive drink -- what but the wine had made a warrior like Haldir so unsteady on his feet? -- and a few further minutes watching a party of Greenwood Elves revelling among the trees below.  When the inebriated group broke into its third consecutive Silvan drinking song and Haldir still had not emerged from the bath, Melpomaen walked up to the door and knocked softly.

"Haldir? Are you all right?"

There was no answer, and so Melpomaen put his ear to the door.  He heard shuffling sounds; presumably Haldir was moving around inside.  Then he jumped at the sudden clang of metal against stone.

"Haldir?"  Melpomaen pressed down on the door latch, and found it locked.  "Haldir, please answer me."

The metallic noise was replaced by the sound of water being poured.  Melpomaen was growing more concerned by the second.  Was Haldir trying to take a bath?  In his current state such an action was highly inadvisable; he could stumble, hit his head and drown!  Death by water not while fording an angry river in the service of the Lady of the Golden Wood but while drunkenly bathing...  It was highly embarrassing.  Melpomaen was determined not to let such an awful thing happen while the guardian was in his care.

He pounded on the door. "Haldir, let me in!  I demand that you let me in this instant!"

"Uh..."

Courage filled Melpomaen's chest. He had always preferred sober counsel to rash action, but this was no time for thinking.  "Haldir! Open this door or I shall break it down!"

Haldir said nothing.  Melpomaen took a deep breath and launched himself against the door, shoulder first.  Pain spread all down his side, but the heavy wood did not budge.  He drew back and kicked with all his might, still with little success.  He was about to kick the hard surface a second time when he heard the lock being turned at last.

The door opened.  Haldir emerged from the room.

Melpomaen took one look, and felt his relief turn to dread.  He had expected to see Haldir leaning heavily on the doorframe, swaying from lack of balance, pale, nauseous and weak.  He had not expected... this.

Haldir was nude.  Water droplets glistened on his chest and stomach, reflecting the moonlight and adorning his skin like jewels.  He stood straight and proud, head cocked to the side in a familiar challenge.  Though no candles were lit in the room and most of Haldir's face remained shadowed, Melpomaen did not need light to discern the ever-present smirk that graced the guardian's features.

But it was not Haldir's naked torso that made Melpomaen's stomach lurch in a helpless jumble of fear and desire.  The threat -- the trap -- lay lower still, and though Melpomaen tried valiantly to keep his eyes from straying, their downward course was inevitable.  Lured by the hint of something dark just beyond the edge of his vision, Melpomaen glanced down, and found that Haldir was not fully nude after all.  For the guardian's thigh-high boots -- the same boots that had taunted and tempted Melpomaen for months -- were still very much in place.

Melpomaen made a half-hearted attempt to move back.  The boots advanced.

"I am impressed, meldir."  All traces of intoxication were gone from Haldir's voice. "To think you wanted me so badly that you were ready to break down the door... Such ardour is rare.  It deserves to be rewarded."
 
"I was only concerned--"
 
"You were concerned I was not well.  I assure you, I have never been in finer condition."  He stepped closer, moving out of the shadows and into a beam of moonlight.  "Why not look and see for yourself?"
 
As if hypnotized, Melpomaen did as he was bid.  Haldir's broad chest and naked thighs were luminous, almost shining with an inner light.  Strangely, the boots he wore made him seem more exposed, turning his nudity from a pure, natural thing into a lewd provocation.  The sleek line of the black leather drew Melpomaen's eyes to Haldir's erection, which stood hard and unabashed, as if delighting in being on display.  It was clear Haldir wanted to be observed and admired.  To his shame, Melpomaen could not tear his eyes away.
 
"Do I please you?" Haldir's smirk was evident now.  "If you come closer, I shall please you better still."
 
Melpomaen took two more steps back and felt his shoulders came in contact with the wall.  Through an effort of pure will, he forced his eyes to focus on Haldir's face.  "I think I'd better leave."

"Why?  You just got here."

"Haldir, there are plenty of Elves down in the clearing--"

"So what?"

"Well, many of them are actively looking for an encounter tonight.  I'm not--"

"Aren't you?"  Haldir's eyebrows arched.  "What would you call the clothes you are wearing if not an invitation?  And the way you moved among the bonfires, with all those eyes upon you?  Don't tell me you didn't love every second of it: you did, I watched you.  You couldn't have been more provocative had you been stark naked."  He took another step forward. 

"But, Haldir, I didn't mean it that way."  Melpomaen shook his head in denial.  "I didn't mean--"

Haldir's eyes flashed with a predatory light.  "Oh, I think you did."

With the instinct of a stalked animal, Melpomaen felt the trap click shut.  In moments, Haldir was upon him, pressing up against him, hands pulling at clothing.
 
"Haldir, no--"

"Hush, now, don't fight me...  There, doesn't that feel good?"

"No, Haldir.  Stop!"  Melpomaen pushed Haldir away, yet could not help noticing that the muscles under his hands were firm, the skin hot and supple.
 
"Stop?  Come now, pretty one, you and I both know you do not mean that.  Your mouth may say the words..." Haldir traced the curve of Melpomaen's bottom lip with his tongue.  "But your body doesn't lie.  See how it betrays you?"  He slipped a hand between Melpomaen's legs.
 
Melpomaen closed his eyes.  He wanted to die.  He wanted the floor in the chamber to open up and swallow him whole.  How could this be?  He had just spent the whole evening wooing the one person in the world he would never wish to betray -- and yet here he was, with Haldir's hands on him, and all he could feel was overwhelming need.  Valar, it had been so long! 
 
Haldir moved his hand in slow, languid strokes.  "Your lover has been neglecting you, I know.  If I were he, I would not be so cruel."  His tongue licked a trail up Melpomaen's ear.  "I will not be so cruel."
 
"Haldir, wait--"
 
"I have waited long enough."  With that, Haldir brought his mouth down upon Melpomaen's, hard.  His hands ceased their gentle touching and tugged at the ties of Melpomaen's leggings, then pushed their way inside.  
 
"Haldir, stop!"

Instead of stopping, Haldir gripped Melpomaen's hip tighter with one hand as the other worked his shaft in forceful strokes.  He kissed sloppily, forcing his tongue into Melpomaen's mouth.

Melpomaen twisted aside.  "Take your hands off me!  I do not wish this!"
 
"Yes you do--"
 
"No!"  Melpomaen shoved the hands away, only to be rewarded with a hard slap across the face.  Cheek stinging, he looked up and saw Haldir's lips twist in an angry line. 

Through the fog of lust clouding his head, a chilling realization began to dawn on Melpomaen.  Haldir was strong:  much stronger than he.  If the guardian wished to have him, then have him he would, whether Melpomaen were willing or no. 

Fear snaked its way up Melpomaen's spine. 

"I had thought we would do this amicably, both taking pleasure from each other."  Haldir's voice was menacing.  "But I see now that you prefer a firmer touch.  Very well, if that is your preference..." Powerful hands gripped Melpomaen's shoulders and turned him around, slamming his chest and face into the wall.  "You asked for this.  Now you shall get it." 

Haldir yanked Melpomaen's leggings down, exposing his rear and probing his opening.

"Stop!" Melpomaen screamed, desperate to get away.  With his hands braced on the wall beside his head, he did the only thing he could think of:  he brought his elbow down sharply, aiming to hit whatever was behind him.  When he heard a gasp of surprise, he twisted about and used his knee to deliver a mighty blow to Haldir's groin. 
 
Haldir doubled over in pain.  Within seconds, Melpomaen was in the hallway, pulling up his leggings and straightening his tunic.  Though his legs were unsteady, he wasted no time in making his way back to the staircase.  It was unlikely that the guardian would come after him -- undressed as he was -- but Melpomaen's instinct told him to flee.

When he reached the stairs, he stumbled, and had to stop for a moment to steady his knees.  Then, clutching the balustrade for balance, he began to make his way down.


****

Elrond rushed through the hallways, the folds of his long robes gathered in one hand, hair streaming behind him.  Where once he would have cared for decorum, he now hurried past residents and guests alike, stopping neither to answer questions nor to respond to greetings.  Two thoughts rang through his mind like a warning bell.  Where was Melpomaen?  And had he come to any harm?

He had seen Melpomaen and Haldir leave the clearing together, and had thought at first that his lover, helpful and kind-hearted as always, was merely assisting a guardian who had had too much to drink.  But then Haldir had caught Elrond's eye and smiled so mockingly that it became clear at once his intentions were anything but pure.

The burden of office is heavy and its obligations often ill timed:  just at that moment Elrond was intercepted by an important Greenwood dignitary who spoke of matters that could not easily be dismissed.  Elrond did his diplomatic best to end the conversation quickly, but by the time the guest had at last moved on, Melpomaen and Haldir were nowhere to be seen.

Hastening through the clearing, Elrond paid no mind to the conversations going on around him -- until he heard Haldir's name mentioned by one of the Galadhrim.

"I'll bet you two gold pieces," the Galadhel was saying, "that our Haldir will have that pretty scribe out of his garments -- and on his knees -- before Rúmil over there empties his glass."  He pointed at another Lórien Elf, drinking about twenty paces away.  "And that he'll be down here to tell us all about it even before that boar is through roasting."

Two gold pieces was no mean sum, especially for a common soldier.  What's more, the odds seemed favourable:  Rúmil's glass was only half-full, and the boar had been roasting on the spit nearly all day; already the cooks were sharpening their long knives, getting ready to carve.  And yet none of the Galadhrim dared accept the wager.

It was then that Elrond broke into a run. 

The path toward the Last Homely House was neither crowded nor long, but Elrond felt he had never traversed a route more interminable.  Rounding a tree-sheltered corner, he nearly collided with the librarian who had kept him company earlier in the evening.  The Elf was now as far from sober as it was possible to get while still remaining upright:  weaving on and off the path, he sang loudly and hiccupped at regular intervals. 

Elrond did not stop to assist him.  Instead, he quickened his pace, all the while cursing himself for not having paid closer attention to the arrangements made for the Galadhrim's accommodation.  Where were Haldir's rooms?  They had to be upstairs, as that was where most of the guests were quartered, but which wing? 

He need not have fretted about the precise direction of his pursuit.  The instant he reached the large staircase in the main building he knew he need seek no further.

Melpomaen was stumbling down the steps, hand gripping the railing.  His face was whiter than the stone under his fingers, and on it showed two deep scratches and a burgeoning bruise.  His hair was half-undone, his tunic torn at the shoulder.  He was shivering.

For a moment, Elrond thought he would be ill, so deep was his horror at the thought of what had likely just happened.  Then he recovered his composure and rushed up the stairs.  He was just in time to gather a tottering Melpomaen into his arms and keep him from falling.

"Mel!"

"Elrond..."

"Oh, Mel."  Elrond's voice was hoarse; his throat seemed to have constricted.  Melpomaen's body in his arms seemed a fragile, priceless thing.  "Are you hurt?  Did that Galadhel hurt you?" 

Melpomaen shook his head. 

Elrond stroked the dark hair, not long ago resplendent amid intricate braids, now in disarray.  He tightened his embrace, silently bartering whole kingdoms and riches innumerable for the power to make things all right.  "Because if he did...  Elbereth, I'll rip out his heart!  I swear I'll--"

Melpomaen's hand, cold and far from steady, closed over Elrond's mouth.  "Don't you dare.  If that isn't conduct unbecoming the Lord of Imladris, I don't know what is.  And besides, it isn't necessary.  He didn't..."

"Didn't..." 

Melpomaen's ghostly complexion regained some colour.  He clenched his jaw to control the shivering, body taut with the effort to convey strength.  "He tried.  Haldir can be very forceful, as I just found out.  But so can I.  And I think it'll be a while before he is able to walk without pain."

With the terror of the moment quickly being replaced by relief, it dawned on Elrond that the body he held in his arms was not that of a victim, disoriented after some ordeal, but that of a fighter after his first major bout:  shaken up, yet triumphant.

He drew back to get a better look at Melpomaen's face.  The deathly whiteness was already giving way to an unnatural blush, borne of too much excitement.  "Thank Elbereth you're well!"  He crushed the slim frame to his chest once more. 

Melpomaen relaxed against him.  "I'm fine.  Though no doubt I look like I just survived a hurricane or flood, and my legs feel unfit for standing."

Elrond immediately remembered his duty as healer.  "Are you in any pain?"

"No." 

"Let me help you to my rooms, they're not far..."  He cut off abruptly, recalling that Melpomaen knew very well where his rooms were located.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an amused smile.  Softly he kissed the bruised cheek.  "You need to have those scratches tended, and a cup of something calming would do you no harm.  Come." 

They descended the stairs slowly.  Now that the danger was past, Elrond's imagination seemed more than willing to supply graphic images of what had nearly befallen Melpomaen.  In horrific detail, he saw the humiliation and the pain, the shock and the random unfairness of what would surely have taken place if only Melpomaen were less strong, or less sober, or simply had worse luck.

With every step, Elrond's fury grew.  He wanted Haldir hanged, or drawn and quartered, whipped until he lost consciousness or, better yet...

"Elrond."  Melpomaen's dark eyes were looking at him with understanding.  "I'm all right, really."

"I know.  But that Galadhel needs to be stopped before he does any more harm." 

Elrond looked around.  Just outside the main doors, slightly in the shadows, stood a figure in the uniform of the Imladris border guard.  The blond hair was common enough, but the face looked familiar.

"Wait here for me.  I'll only be a moment," he told Melpomaen, then walked through the open doorway.  He faced the guard, who saluted as if on parade. 

"Caegaran?  Is that your name?"

"Yes, my Lord." 

"Listen, Caegaran.  I have an urgent command for you.  Gather a few more of your fellows and find Haldir of the Galadhrim.  Restrain him, by force if need be, and confine him to his chambers.  He has just tried to commit a serious crime, and will answer for it as is fitting.  Do not delay."

A strange expression crossed the guard's face:  something that looked like shock, and maybe even grief.  No doubt he had been unprepared to hear such disturbing news on a night that was supposed to be naught but pleasure and joy.

"Do you understand?"  Elrond asked.

The guard stood at attention.  His eyes, locked with Elrond's, blazed with intensity.

"Yes, my Lord."


****


Notes:

meldir - friend (male)

A note about Elves and rape - In "Laws and Customs among the Eldar" (revised typescript B), Tolkien wrote:  "Even when in after days, as the histories reveal, many of the Eldar in Middle-earth became corrupted, and their hearts darkened by the shadow that lies upon Arda, seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust among them."  The original manuscript A has:  "...there is no record of any among the Elves that took another's spouse by force; for this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life and passed to Mandos.  Guile or trickery in this matter was scarcely possible (even if it could be thought that any Elf would purpose to use it); for the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another whether they be wed or unwed."  ("Laws and Customs among the Eldar" in Morgoth's Ring, Volume 10 of The History of Middle Earth).

In my view, the word "seldom" leaves scope for speculation that sometimes deeds of lust did indeed take place.  (Enter eeevil Haldir).  As for the taking of another by force, even though Tolkien refers specifically to the crime of rape perpetrated against married Elves, I preferred to sidestep the question of whether or not Melpomaen would "reject bodily life" by having him successfully fight off his attacker.  Which fitted in nicely with my intended plot anyway.

Chapter 14:

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



Erestor tasted of honey.  The wine he had drunk earlier must have had honey as its base, for his mouth was even sweeter than usual.  There was a rich golden flavour on his tongue, sharper than that of fruit and tantalizingly delicious.

Glorfindel leaned closer to sample the sweetness again.  Yes, definitely honey.  He let his hands wander over Erestor's body, feeling the hard muscles under the soft silk robes.  His fingers undid the fastenings and slipped inside.

"Glorfindel."

"Mmm?"

"Not here..."

"Why not?"

"It's too exposed, too many people around."

"I don't see anyone." 

Glorfindel had not just spent the past half-hour manoeuvring his lover through the crowded clearing, toward a hidden spot between the trees, only to have his plans foiled now.  Especially as the throbbing between his legs had not abated since his first glimpse of Erestor in his dark-green fitted robes -- no less than a full hour and a half before.

He deepened the kiss, hands parting fabric.  Erestor's undertunic gave way, the ties of his leggings presenting only a minor obstacle.

"Glorfindel, we are hardly in private..."

"So?  It is hardly uncommon for two lovers to slip off into the woods on midsummer's night; why shouldn't we--"

"But someone might see!"

Glorfindel's fingers, poised to slip into Erestor's leggings, were in a perfect position to feel a distinct twitch under the tight-fitting fabric.  Encouraged, Glorfindel looked into his lover's eyes and smiled.  "And what if they do?"  His hand settled firmly over Erestor's groin.  "Shall we give them a show?"

The combination of a second, more pronounced twitch and Erestor's eyes growing dark with desire was all the encouragement Glorfindel needed.  He parted the wine-sweetened lips in a deep kiss, pressing the dark head back against the tree under which they stood.  He tugged Erestor's leggings down over his hips.

"Wait..."  Erestor's eyes were half-closed, his mouth, half-open.  His chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm.  "You know every noise will cause me to jump in alarm.  And with so many Elves tramping through the woods tonight... how can we enjoy ourselves fully if my instincts tell me to run?"
 
"Hmm."  Glorfindel's tongue teased the tip of Erestor's ear.  "There is one thing I could do that might help."

"What's that?"

"Ensure that you cannot get away."

For an instant, Erestor stopped breathing.  "What do you mean?" 

"Only this." 

Glorfindel pressed Erestor's arms against the sides of the tree.  He unwound the sash from his lover's waist and secured it around the width of the trunk.  The sash was long and the tree slim; soon Erestor could not easily disentangle himself from the soft silken bonds even if he struggled.

"Better now?"  Glorfindel asked.

"You scheming, manipulative knave..."

Glorfindel leaned heavily against Erestor, sliding a leg between his thighs.  "Shall I untie you?"

"Elbereth, no."

Erestor's eyes had fallen closed.  His head was thrown back against the white bark of the birch tree.  Glorfindel smiled and ran a teasing finger along his lover's exposed neck.  "I thought you might appreciate that.  I do like those sashes you wear with your robes.  So many practical uses for--"

"Oh, shut your mouth.  Shut it, and..."

"And what?" 

"Finish what you started."

"And if others see us?"

"Let them."  Erestor's lips were trembling by this time, his body straining against its bonds in an attempt to maximize physical contact.

Glorfindel brushed against him once more.  "As my Lord wishes."  He dropped to his knees. 

Erestor's hips were difficult to still, and Glorfindel had to grip hard, digging his fingers into the delicate skin.  Though his grasp was likely painful, it only increased Erestor's ardour:  its evidence rose right before Glorfindel's eyes, straight, hard and fragrant -- beautiful, and begging to be touched.  He opened his mouth and took in his lover's length.

"Valar!"  The loud gasp that escaped Erestor's mouth was hardly a display of discretion.

Glorfindel bit down lightly, as if in warning.  Then he pulled away.  "If you yell like that, we are almost guaranteed to have company.  Of course, if that is what you wish..."

Erestor suppressed another groan, and clenched his jaw.  Glorfindel bent to his task again.  He knew it would not take long, nor did he wish to delay gratification with too much teasing.  They had both been sufficiently inflamed by the wine and the openly licentious atmosphere of the evening to crave satisfaction that was deep, thorough and, above all, quick.  What's more, the ache between Glorfindel's own thighs served as a palpable reminder that the sooner he had given Erestor pleasure, the sooner he could take his own.

Erestor didn't object to Glorfindel's rapid pace:  he shuddered and thrust, all the while choking back sounds that would no doubt have resonated through the forest had he felt free to give them voice.  Glorfindel delighted to feel his lover's muscles tightening under his hands, relished the uneven sound of his breathing.  Judging by its quickening pace, it wouldn't be long now.  Any moment, Erestor would tense and spend -- and then Glorfindel would untie him, turn him about and...

"Glorfindel."

"Mmm..."  Glorfindel anchored his hands firmly on Erestor's hips, prepared to feel him buck any second.

"Someone's coming."

«Indeed,» Glorfindel thought with satisfaction.  He suckled more forcefully.

"Glorfindel!"

Erestor's body jerked, and it was only then that Glorfindel noticed the sound of footsteps behind him.  For a few seconds, his warrior's instincts battled with desire, one urging him to face the potential threat, the other compelling him to continue as before.  With Erestor so close to his peak, surely it would be cruel to stop now...

His dilemma was short-lived.  Erestor, who had found the idea of being watched appealing, apparently found the reality even more so.  His entire body went rigid, his hands clenched around their silken bonds, and he came with a full-throated moan that bordered on a scream.

As soon as Erestor's tremors had subsided, Glorfindel straightened up and untied him, putting a steadying arm around his waist as he rearranged his clothes. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he turned to face the intruder.

Whatever he might have expected to see, it certainly wasn't this.

The indiscreet spectator reclined against a tree, not because he wanted to appear nonchalant, but because he would otherwise have fallen down.  His long hair was dishevelled, one silver ribbon drooping over his eyes.  His breath, even from a distance, was so steeped in wine that Glorfindel found himself thankful there were no candles about -- otherwise the cloud of air puffed out of the Elf's lungs would have been in serious danger of bursting into flames.

The drunken Elf stepped forward, then promptly slumped back again.  He struggled to focus.  "In truth," he said, "I think I have just seen my Lord Erestor in a whole new light.  Pity he isn't so spirited in the archives.  The place would certainly be more lively if he were."  He frowned, as if in thought, then added, "In truth."

Glorfindel didn't know quite what to say to that. Evidently, neither did Erestor.  But the Elf, whom Glorfindel had by now recognized as one of the archivists, seemed undeterred by their silence.

"I am much ob--" He hiccupped.  "Much obliged to you for your demonstration.  I never knew silk sashes could be so useful, in truth.  I don't think I've ever seen..."  He scratched his head.  "No, I never did see anything of the kind in the erotic manuals in the library."

"Yes, it is unfortunate the illustrators neglected to record that particular trick for posterity," Glorfindel said, and immediately wished he hadn't, for the archivist drew himself up, eyes shining with purpose. 

"A glaring oversight that shall have to be remedied at once!" he said, taking a step forward and nearly tripping over his feet.

Alarmed, Glorfindel wondered whether the Elf planned to drag one of Imladris' artists away from the bonfires in order to carry out this pressing task or intended to put his own artistic skill to immediate use.  Either way, given his condition, such action was hardly advisable. 

Fortunately, Erestor was by now in full possession of his faculties and ready to set things right.  He took the archivist by the elbow.  "I think that can wait, my friend," he said.  "Why waste the evening in the pursuit of theory when practice is so much sweeter, hm?"

The drunken Elf smiled lecherously and nodded, silver ribbon flapping over his nose.

"Now, why don't you go up to your chambers and change out of these robes -- they are covered in wine stains, after all -- and then come back and see if you can find a companion by the bonfires?" 

Erestor's tone sounded familiar; it was the one he had used long ago when trying to persuade Elladan and Elrohir to eat their porridge.

"But... why bother changing garments?"  The archivist's whine was reminiscent of the complaining done by the young sons of Elrond.  "The bonfires are so close, and I have wasted enough time already, in truth!  I should make haste, I should--"

Erestor gripped his elbow with both hands.  "No Imladris beauty will be impressed by soiled robes, you know that.  And the Greenwood Elves are even fussier.  Now," he said, putting an arm around the Elf's shoulder, "come with me, it won't take long."

The archivist grunted something that could be interpreted as agreement, and ceased resisting.  Carefully, Erestor directed their steps toward the path to the Last Homely House, looking over his shoulder to mouth a quick, "I'm sorry."

Glorfindel had always admired Erestor's sense of responsibility.  Unfortunately, at this moment no amount of admiration could compensate for the frustration of having had his amorous activities interrupted.  Drunk or no, some people simply had no tact!  He thought briefly of smearing honey over the archivist's books, or sawing through the rungs of his ladder in the library, but dismissed both ideas as childish and beneath him.  Erestor would put the fool to bed and make his way back in no time -- and then they could resume their tryst.

The two figures had long disappeared among the trees, but their progress could still be traced by the archivist's heavy step.  It was hard to believe that anyone but an Orc could trample so many twigs as he walked, and so loudly.  Beside him, Erestor was graceful beyond measure.  Glorfindel could picture it now:  his lover's green silk robes fitting tightly over his back, shoulders and hips, and swinging around his thighs as he stepped soundlessly over the forest floor.  His hair would look as black as midnight against his pale skin, a strand of it curling at his temple where it had slipped from its gold ribbon. 

The image was so enticing that Glorfindel found his feet following the trail Erestor and the archivist had taken.  Soon he had reached the path to the Last Homely House and espied Erestor -- and would have been content to simply stand and watch if another figure had not caught his eye.

Gildor was making his way down the path, a fair distance behind Erestor and his drunken companion.  Though he moved carefully, timing his steps to match the pair's measured pace, his stride was less a walk than a swagger, as if he could already foresee the success of his pursuit.

Glorfindel had never felt kindly toward Gildor, but the pure hatred that now filled his chest surprised him.  His initial impulse was to seek a confrontation, but then he realized that if he did so now -- before Gildor had done anything malicious -- he would have to be civil, no matter how badly he wanted to throttle his self-styled rival. 

He stepped back into the cover of the forest and followed the edge of the path, keeping Gildor in sight.  Let events unfold as they would.  The moment that spawn of Mordor tried to hurt Erestor, Glorfindel would show him there was a price to be paid.


****


The east wing of the Last Homely House was deserted, its occupants likely drinking their fill in the clearing or giving into the urges of the flesh with a willing partner in a private corner of the forest.  And so no one was there to witness the strange sight of an Imladris guard running down the hall -- not composed and in control, as might have been expected of a well-trained soldier, but shaking with rage.

The guard, though overwrought, seemed to know where he was going, for he headed straight for an unmarked door and opened it without knocking.  Once inside, he slammed the door behind him and faced the occupant of the room.

"You useless piece of dirt!" he said, without preamble.  "You incompetent son of a Dwarf!  Where did you learn the arts of love, a flea-infested village of Men?  You are reputed to be a great seducer -- just what have you seduced in that Golden Wood of yours, deer?  Rabbits?  Mushrooms?  I can't believe I trusted you with this task!  I can't believe--"

"Caegaran."  Haldir lifted his head from the bed where he lay curled up, a damp compress on his groin.  "For Valar's sake, shut your mouth.  Can you not see I am in pain?"

"Elbereth be praised!"  Caegaran lifted his face and hands to the ceiling in mock worship.  "I do hope your suffering is intense; you deserve nothing less."

"Damn you!  Is this what I get for all my trouble?  Physical hurt instead of satisfaction, and insults rather than gratitude?"

Caegaran walked closer.  He rested his hands on his hips and regarded Haldir with disdain.  "And what exactly should I be grateful for, the fact that the little runt of an advisor was unharmed?  Or the near certainty that your pathetic efforts at debauchery have driven him right back to Elrond's bed?  Thank you, Haldir, thank you indeed."

Haldir sighed and closed his eyes, gingerly shifting on the sheets.  "I underestimated him, I must admit.  Skinny he may be, and untrained in the arts of war, but he has a spirit many fighting men would envy.  That, and good aim."  He rearranged his compress, cringing as he did so.  "Ah, that it should come to this!  The famed Imladris midsummer night's eve festival:  the very epitome of sensual delights -- and me not between the thighs of a beautiful youth, but nursing an injured--"

"Do not tell me you expect sympathy!"  Fury lit up Caegaran's face.  "You won't get any from me.  In fact..."  He drew himself up, a cruel smile on his lips.  "I have just received an order from the Lord of this realm to hold you prisoner until you can be dealt with.  And I intend to carry out my orders to the letter.  You will pay for your incompetence, mark my words."

"Really."  Haldir met Caegaran's challenging stare with one of his own.  "Will I?"

"Yes, you--"

"Oh, my dear Caegaran, I think you are mistaken."

Haldir sat up slowly, still holding onto the compress but making no other concessions to his injury.  If his condition had temporarily made him appear vulnerable, that impression was quickly erased.  As he planted his feet squarely on the floor and tilted his head proudly, the farcical rejected lover disappeared, replaced by a fierce leader of the Galadhrim.

"Tell me, Caegaran," Haldir said, pronouncing his words with care.  "How did the idea of seducing Elrond's lover first enter my mind?  Did I spot him upon coming to Imladris and, pining with lust, say, 'Why, I must have him'?"

"You dwell on insignificant details--"

"Not insignificant at all!"  Haldir smiled.  "For intent is at least half the crime, is it not?  And, in this sordid affair, the intent was wholly yours; I merely went along with your plan."

"You wanted to bed that little mouse of a scribe!  Don't deny it!"

"I deny nothing."  Haldir put his damp compress aside and stood up, facing Caegaran.  "Whether or not I wanted to is beside the point.  What matters is that you practically begged me to do it.  What do you think Elrond will have to say about that when I tell him?"

Caegaran blanched.  "You wouldn't."

"Oh, Caegaran."  Haldir shook his head.  "Are you really that naïve?"

The room fell silent.  Caegaran stood still, hands shaking, breath coming quickly.  His lips moved a few times in an attempt to speak, but no sound came out.  Finally, he said, "You cannot save yourself, you know.  It is too late for that."

"I know," Haldir replied.  "But I am not about to suffer punishment alone.

Chapter 15:

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



Elrond was no stranger to injuries.  As a healer, he had seen many over the ages, most far more serious than the ones he was tending now.  Yet he had never learned to easily bear pain suffered by those he loved, and so his hands were especially gentle as they washed and salved the scratches on Melpomaen's face.  The bruise on the young Elf's cheek was dark and swollen; Haldir must have had a heavy hand. 

Elrond pressed a cool, damp cloth to the purple mark.  "The scratches are superficial and should heal quickly, even without care.  This poultice is primarily to soothe and prevent infection."

"I know.  You yourself taught me herbal lore."

"Yes, I remember."

Melpomaen gave a lopsided smile.  "You do?"

"Of course."

How could he forget those early days?  They had worked side by side, Melpomaen's eyes shining with curiosity and eagerness.  Elrond had never before had such an able student -- or one who was liable to lean over whatever bitter herbal potion they happened to be working on, only to smile mischievously and sweetly kiss his mouth.

He rolled up one of his drooping sleeves, forcing himself to focus.  Now was certainly not the time to burden his once-lover with the emotionally tricky matter of a possible reconciliation.
Regardless of Celebrían's consent, many lonely months divided Melpomaen and himself, months that would not be bridged easily. 

"Can you feel the effects of the calming tea yet?" he asked.

"A troop of Orcs could gallop past me in this very room and I wouldn't even flinch," Melpomaen said.

The bravado was forced:  Melpomaen's hands still had a slight tremor -- and probably would for a while, for how was it possible to forget the kind of shock he had suffered?  Herbs might cure wounds, compresses alleviate pain, but the hurts inflicted on the soul were far harder to mend.

Elrond moved his fingers from Melpomaen's cheek to his temple, then his hair.  It was loose, all elaborate ornaments gone.  The festive crimson tunic looked out of place now, like a brilliant robe of state in a cupboard full of plain garments. 

"Elrond--"

"Mel, I think--"

They had both spoken at once.

Elrond took in the nervous flush spreading across Melpomaen's cheeks.  "What is it?" he asked.

"You first."

"I was just going to suggest you get out of these torn clothes.  I can lend you a robe."

The flush deepened.  "Thank you.  That's very thoughtful."

"Why, what were you going to say?"

Melpomaen paused, as if looking across a precipice and judging whether to jump or take a step back.  "Nothing.  It can wait."

There was a long, shapeless thing of midnight blue at the back of the wardrobe.  Melpomaen had once liked to wear it, more because he found it comforting than because it was in any way stylish or beautiful.  Elrond shook the robe out now and put it in Melpomaen's hands.

"I'll... turn around to give you some privacy," he said, conscious of how odd the words sounded. 

The line of Melpomaen's mouth wavered for a moment, forming neither smile nor frown.  He clutched the dark blue material. 

Elrond turned toward the door.  He heard the rustling of silk, then the words, "It's all right, you can look."

Melpomaen was sitting on the edge of the bed, the robe's long sleeves covering his hands so that only the fingers peeked out.  The sight was so familiar that Elrond found it hard to believe they had not just spent the evening making love.  But the outward appearance of things was only that:  appearance, not reality.  Back then, they would have tumbled on the sheets together, taking pleasure in each other's closeness and laughter.  Now propriety separated them like a wall.

Melpomaen cleared his throat.  "Much more comfortable."

"Good.  Will you let me examine your chest and back?" 

"Of course."  He freed his arms from the sleeves, gathering the robe modestly around his waist, then turned his face away.  Elrond sat down, careful to leave a foot of space between them. 

The handful of times Elrond had seen Haldir, the Galadhel had struck him as a powerful and able soldier.  He remembered thinking that such strength of body was no doubt put to good use on the field of battle.  It had never occurred to him that the very brawn he admired would one day be turned against someone innocent and vulnerable.

There were finger-shaped bruises from Melpomaen's shoulder all the way to his elbow.  Elrond touched them lightly.  "He didn't hold back, did he?  He left marks all the way down your arm."

Melpomaen stiffened, but Elrond did not cease his examination.  He probed the skin, peering closely.  "There are some on your back as well, as if from impact with a blunt surface.  Now I'll just take a look at the other side..."

"Unsightly, isn't it?"  Melpomaen's hands crumpled the silk on his knees. 

"Unsightly?" 

"So much for the pains I took with my hair and clothes.  I probably shouldn't have even tried, only I wanted so much to..."

"Mel."

"I wanted so much for you to..."

"It's all right."  Elrond squeezed Melpomaen's hands.  The calming tea had obviously not been sufficiently potent; the young Elf's voice was shaking.

"...to see me, and..."

"Hush now.  Hush."  Elrond smoothed back Melpomaen's hair.  "You know I saw you.  You looked so beautiful I could hardly take my eyes off you."

"I did?"

"Oh, yes."

They sat quietly for a few moments, side by side.  Gradually, Melpomaen's breathing slowed and grew steady.

"Elrond," Melpomaen said at last.  "You know I would never presume to challenge Celebrían's place.  And you think that I suffer from the enforced restraint.  But, you see -- I am not unhappy in the shadows.  I never was fond of the public eye."

Had it come to this?  Elrond had once seen an exchange between a captain of Men and one of his subordinates:  a soldier far from young.  The soldier had clasped his wrinkled hands together, voice hoarse with effort as he explained that he did not mind being given an inferior steed, that he could still ride and fight.  The dignity in that plea was so precarious that Elrond had felt shamed merely bearing witness.  And now Mel...

"Do not say such things."

"Why not?"  Melpomaen's face shone with the quiet, steady certainty that usually ensured his words were heeded by advisors much more senior in both years and experience.  "You aren't keeping me from better things:  I do not crave them.  Naturally, I would not go against Celebrían's express wishes, but should she ever--"

"She..."  Elrond hesitated, but only for a second.  "She plans to leave in a week."

"Oh."  Melpomaen's hands stopped in mid-gesture.  He lowered them to his lap and smoothed the robe over his thighs.  "And she told you she did not wish for you to dally with me."

"Quite the contrary!  She was uncommonly understanding."

"You... do not want me then?"  Melpomaen's face fell. 

Of all reactions, this was certainly not the one Elrond had expected.  He fumbled for the right words, coming up with none.  "Whatever on Arda makes you think that?"

"Well...  We have just spent the past half-hour in your chambers.  Alone.  With you tending to the injuries on my body.  We haven't touched in what might as well be millennia, you know I am wearing nothing under this robe, and yet you haven't as much as..."

"You've had a trying night."

"A trying night?  I've slept in an empty bed for months, longed for you every minute -- and you say I've had a trying *night*?"  Melpomaen narrowed his eyes.  "It's the bruises, isn't it?"

"No!  Valar, no.  You look good enough to..." 

"To what?"  The corners of Melpomaen's mouth were lifting in a way that heralded familiar and long-missed delights. 

Elrond searched his mind for scraps of lore or poetry; after such a long time apart, the words of sensual invitation he spoke to his lover should be profound or at least lyrical.  He had many volumes of sonnets in his library; surely a line or two would come to him soon.

"Your eyes are as bright as...  Your hair is lovelier than..."

Melpomaen let the robe fall to the floor.  His hand crept up Elrond's thigh.

"Oh, Fires of Mordor!"  Inadequate, uncouth, the words came tumbling out almost of their own accord.  "Mel, I want you..."

Melpomaen's eyes shone.  His face, lit up with happiness, was more beautiful than ever.  "I see the history books were right," he said.  "Your eloquence is legendary."


****


Outside the peaceful walls of the Last Homely House, two heavily laden horses made their way down the road to the Ford of Bruinen.  Their riders, cloaked despite the mild weather, spoke little, as if unwilling to call attention to themselves.  They looked at each other even less, their behaviour strangely at odds with the merry mood of the midsummer night celebrations.

When the trees' cover grew denser, one of them turned to his companion at last.  Pitching his voice low, he said, "We should ride faster.  I'm keen to leave this place behind."

"Don't be a fool, Caegaran," the other replied.  "The horses have a long way to go, and we shouldn't tire them needlessly.  We're outlaws now, remember?  We count on these beasts for a great deal."

"Well, I'd rather count on them than on you."  Caegaran spit over his horse's left flank.  "And weren't you the one who said we should refrain from calling each other by name?  Hm, Haldir?"

"Bastard."

"Imbecile.  Failed seducer of knock-kneed underage scribes.  Inbred mortal with the breath of an Orc."

Haldir snorted.  "Well, you'd better get used to my company; we're about to see a lot of each other."

"I curse the day I was born."

"Oh, good.  We're in agreement then."

They rode on for some time in near-silence, the clack of the horses' hooves the only sound disturbing the night.  Just before the road veered right, Haldir turned to Caegaran once more, his mouth twisting in a sneer. 

"What are you looking at?  Missing home already?"

Caegaran was indeed looking over his shoulder, into the distance where the far-off lights of the Last Homely House could still be seen.  His eyes were focused on one particular window, which stood out from its darkened neighbours because of a row of candles flickering on its sill.  The effect was like that of a lighthouse spreading hope and the promise of welcome across the hostile waves of the sea. 

"What, is Lord Elrond waving a handkerchief in farewell?" Haldir asked.

Caegaran glanced at him, teeth clenched.  "Say something like that again and I'll cut your throat in your sleep."

"Provided I don't get to you first."  Haldir urged his horse to go faster.

Caegaran bristled, but followed.



****


The candles in the window flickered.  Elrond felt a cool breeze on his skin, and would have wondered whether a storm was coming -- if rational thought had not been the farthest thing from his mind.

Melpomaen moved on top of him, pressing him into the bed.  Elrond held him close -- remembering the feel of him, learning it all over again.  To think that he had gone all these months without this young heart beating next to his own, without this voice whispering his name...  How had he managed?  How had he not railed to the heavens at his loss?

The muscles in Melpomaen's back flexed and shifted under Elrond's hands.  His robe lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and his body -- naked, impossibly beautiful -- was at once so familiar and such a revelation that Elrond felt his throat constrict with love.  "Oh, Mel."  He crushed their mouths together in a kiss.  Rolling them over, he settled in between Melpomaen's spread thighs.

Melpomaen slid a leg around Elrond's waist, locking their hips together.  Then he gripped Elrond's neck and pulled him down.  "You may think me shameless," he said, "but I want no sweet words or soft touches tonight."

"No?"

"No.  All I want is you in me.  Taking me hard and fast, and--"

"Elbereth, yes!"

Melpomaen laid his head back on the bed, eyes wide, breath coming fast.  He spread his legs further.  "Hurry."

Though long unused, the necessary implements were easily enough found, and soon Elrond was warming a flask of fragrant oil in his palm as he lifted Melpomaen's knees and stroked his thighs.  Then the young Elf closed his eyes and held his breath, arched his back and...

"Ah!"  Melpomaen gasped.  His hands found Elrond's buttocks and squeezed.  It took all of Elrond's self-control not to howl in bliss.

The rhythm they found was slow only at first; in no time at all it grew forceful, almost desperate.  Though Elrond had touched Melpomaen's bruised shoulder cautiously not long before, now he grasped his flesh with little regard for care, wanting only to touch and feel as much as possible.  Melpomaen, too, seemed utterly unconcerned about his injuries.  His heels dug into the small of Elrond's back and his hands clutched Elrond's shoulders.  His ragged sighs urged them both on.

With the force of their passion being such, Elrond would not have stopped if the ceiling had fallen down upon them.  But when Melpomaen's sharp moans suddenly grew silent, he opened his eyes, alarmed.

Melpomaen's body was taut, eyes closed, muscles strung tight to the brink of endurance.  Some of the shimmering powder on his ears was streaked across his face, and a strand of Elrond's hair had fallen across his mouth.  He looked so intense, so completely focused on the pleasure of his body, that Elrond nearly stilled in awe -- though his hips kept pumping at a steady pace.

"Mel," he whispered, and Melpomaen opened his eyes.  His lips were trembling.  His fingers dug into Elrond's shoulders.

"Oh, Mel."  Elrond buried his face in the crook of Melpomaen's neck.  He felt his own body tense and begin the inevitable climb toward rapture, every muscle shivering in joy, at one with the gladness in his heart.  "Thank the Valar you're mine..."

One more thrust, and Melpomaen cried out in a strangled whimper.  His knees tightened around Elrond's sides as his body contracted in a spasm, and in an instant Elrond was with him, and they were clinging together and riding the crest of a wave that soared and soared and never seemed to stop.

When Elrond opened his eyes again he was lying with his head on Melpomaen's shoulder and a leg thrown possessively over the young Elf's thighs.  The air in the room seemed colder; two of the candles on the window ledge had blown out.

"At last."  Melpomaen's eyes were bright with mirth.  "I was beginning to worry I'd incapacitated you for good."

"No need to fret.  I may be old, but I'm far from fragile." 

Elrond buried his face in Melpomaen's neck once more, sighing with satisfaction.  He felt like a man who has for long months endured the uncomfortable and hostile surroundings of a strange land, and now miraculously finds himself in his own house, his own bed -- every stitch of his clothing and every well-worn chair reassuringly familiar, and beautiful in its comfort.  His hands caressed Melpomaen's slim waist, moved up to cup the edges of his rib cage. 

"You've grown thinner," he said. 

"Thinner and bruised.  Don't forget scratched.  In short, much the worse for wear."

"Nonsense.  You're more beautiful than ever, and a thousand times more tempting.  But..." Elrond traced the edge of Melpomaen's jaw, kissed his bruised cheek.  "Tell me, have you not been eating?" 

Melpomaen shrugged dismissively. 

"You ought to take better care of yourself," Elrond said.

"I haven't had much of an appetite."

"Because of me."

Melpomaen looked away, winding the edge of the sheet around one of his fingers.  He was silent for a few moments and, when he did speak, his voice was quiet and deliberately controlled.  "This hasn't been easy for me, you know."

"I know.  I never for a moment imagined it was.  I don't think I shall ever forgive myself--"

Melpomaen placed a hand across Elrond's mouth.  His face wore an expression Elrond had not seen before -- a cross between weariness, indulgence and acceptance.  "Of course you'll forgive yourself; I've already forgiven you.  If I hadn't, I might have agreed to an offer from the libraries in Lothlórien.  As you can see, I'm still here."

Dread tightened its knot in Elrond's chest.  "I might have lost you," he said.

"You haven't."

"But I might have.  What's more, I would have deserved it."

Melpomaen looked at him fondly.  "You are more just and honourable than anyone I know, and yet you fault yourself for not being just or honourable enough.  Why would I blame you for trying to do right by the mother of your children, for refusing to lie and deceive?"

"Because I hurt you."

Silently, Melpomaen hid his face in Elrond's hair.  After a little while, he said, "That cannot be helped sometimes.  It's just the way things are -- you know that." 

The room had grown cold by this time, so they retrieved Elrond's crumpled robe from the foot of the bed and draped it over them, spooning together for warmth.  Though it made a good makeshift blanket, the chill was descending surprisingly fast; the next gust of wind blew out the last of the candles and set Melpomaen to shivering.

"The bonfires down in the clearing are blazing hot."  Elrond drew him closer.  "If circumstances were different, we could go down and warm ourselves there.  If only it weren't so public..."  He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead between Melpomaen's shoulder blades.  "It's a lot to give up, choosing me," he whispered.

"Now, listen."  Melpomaen's voice was solemn, though not sad.  He half-turned, trying to see Elrond's face.  "I can no more let you go than purge all the blood from my body."

"Well, you know that can be arranged.  I am a healer after all...  Ah!" 

Melpomaen had elbowed him in the ribs.  They struggled briefly, then lay back down, laughing.  In the silence that fell they heard the first hesitant raindrops of the coming storm.

"You see?"  Melpomaen said.  "This is far more pleasant.  We will not get rain-soaked in this bed."  He smiled.  His head lay on the pillow, tangled hair fanning out around him.  His slim frame made him look young and the bruises further emphasized the impression of vulnerability -- and yet his eyes, gazing steadily into Elrond's own, held a strength that was impossible to deny.  Not ostentatious force, such as warriors might try to convey through the impressiveness of their arms, but rather a quiet firmness:  a bright-burning spirit that seemed to say, 'Give me your burden, I am strong enough for two.'

Humbled, Elrond could only speak the words that lay heavily on his heart.  "I'm sorry I cannot offer you more, Mel." 

He felt fingers in his hair, caressing, bringing comfort.  He heard his name being whispered, then the quiet answer:  "Don't dwell on all that.  Be happy with what we can give each other.  I am."

Chapter 16:


Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



The weather changed quickly.  The first gusts of cold wind tangled Glorfindel's hair even before he had left the protective cover of the trees, and by the time he had made his way up the steps to the Last Homely House rain had begun to fall.  He wiped his damp face with the back of a hand.  Nothing would distract him from his task.

Gildor had climbed the staircase and turned left, following Erestor and the drunken librarian down one of the long hallways.  He seemed so sure of the outcome of his pursuit that he did not bother concealing his presence overmuch; though he walked quietly, he did not hide in the shadows.  Tense with outrage, Glorfindel prayed to every Vala he could think of for a pretext to make his anger known.

The Valar must have had sympathetic ears.  He did not wait long.

Having apparently reached the right room, Erestor guided the librarian inside, ensuring that the unsteady Elf did not trip on the threshold or hit his head on the doorframe.  Out in the hallway, Gildor reached down and unfastened his leather belt, then wound it around his hand.  The lecherous expression on his face left little doubt that his purpose was twofold:  to lose no time in inflicting pain and to ease access to his own breeches.
 
The thought that in Gildor's view the two were inextricably linked pushed Glorfindel over the edge.  He stepped out from behind a stone pillar and approached. 

"Lost your way?  The suite of rooms assigned to you is not only in another wing, but on another floor."

Gildor did not start.  He merely looked up, and said, "Glorfindel.  I believe that, as a guest, I have the right to walk down any corridor I please.  Or has this courtesy been denied me?"

"Not every guest deserves courtesy."

"Ah, yes.  I see now why Elrond never sends you on diplomatic assignments." 

"I am a warrior, not a politician."

"And apparently the years spent making war have blunted your ability to reason, for anyone with a modicum of common sense would quickly have divined my purpose."  Gildor smirked.  "I'm here for something I want.  Which used to be mine, and shall be again."

Glorfindel's fingers curled into fists.  "He is not a 'thing'."

"Isn't he?"  Gildor tugged on the belt wrapped around his hand.  "You obviously haven't seen him with me.  Such obedience, such a keen desire to please--"

The thread of Glorfindel's patience snapped.  He swung his fist, aiming for Gildor's face -- but hit only the air.  Gildor ducked and dodged the blow, then hit back with his belt-wrapped hand, grazing the side of Glorfindel's jaw.

Furious, Glorfindel threw punch after punch, but Gildor evaded each one and responded with jabs of his own, his contemptuous expression never wavering.  Perceiving that his chance lay with strength rather than technique, Glorfindel ducked under Gildor's blows to grapple. 

They struggled face to face, muscles tensing, tendons straining, until a stagger sent them into a door opposite the librarian's room.  The impact forced the door open, and they stumbled into the empty chamber, then continued through a stone archway. Glorfindel felt rain drench his face, and realized they had come out onto a balcony. 

Gildor came at him savagely then, pinning him against the wall and punching him in the groin. Glorfindel doubled over, gasping.  The ground swayed beneath him, vertigo making the balcony railings seem uncomfortably close.  He struggled upright and lashed out blindly, aiming for Gildor's face once more. 

His aim had been true.  Red stained Gildor's blue-and-gold tunic and he grunted in pain. He stepped back, his lips parted in a grimace, blood and rain dripping from his chin.

"You'll yield to me yet," he said.  "Just like your precious Erestor."

Glorfindel's answer was to throw another punch.

Gildor stumbled backwards against the railing, momentum impelling him over the edge.  He screamed, fighting to keep his balance.  Then he fell.

Glorfindel ran forward and looked down.  Gildor was clutching at the stone, knuckles white with the effort.  His feet hung free, and the leather belt he had been holding lay on the steps below, twisted like a discarded snakeskin.  "Please..."  His eyes latched onto Glorfindel's.  "Help me!"

A man without honour might have walked away, but Glorfindel gripped Gildor's forearms and hauled his heavy bulk over the railing.  Gildor slumped, chest heaving with every gulp of air.

"Take a few minutes to catch your breath," Glorfindel said.  "Then we'll find a less tricky spot to conduct our business.  Fists and swords I don't mind, but this isn't my idea of a fair fight."

"Quite right."  Gildor stepped back, his breathing still laboured.  Tendrils of rain-drenched hair clung to his cheeks; he brushed them back from his wet face.  "Not fair at all.  Then again..."

He crouched and sprang, throwing all his weight against Glorfindel's middle and pushing him over the edge of the railing.

The world tumbled, weightlessly turned on its head.  Glorfindel was falling, desperate to grasp onto anything -- aware of naught but the steps below.  His hand brushed against a rough surface and he scrabbled for purchase, managing to seize the base of a narrow stone rail.  Pain shot through his arms as the momentum of his fall was abruptly arrested, but he hung on. 

Above him, Gildor laughed.  "Who said all fights had to be fair?" 

Glorfindel didn't reply; all his concentration was focused on not letting go.  One of his hands was sliding, ever slowly, the coarse stone scraping against the skin.  Whenever he glanced up, he could see Gildor's shape blurred by the rain.

Gildor said, "Our positions seem to be reversed, and I must confess that I like this far, far better.  Only..."  The sole of his boot came to rest on Glorfindel's knuckles.  "I cannot promise to be as noble -- or, shall we say, foolish -- as you."  The boot pressed down in a slow, grinding motion.

Glorfindel choked back a whimper.  His hand was on fire.  He forced himself not to relax his grip, but Gildor's foot kept pressing harder.  His fingers were losing all feeling, save agony; he would not be able to hold on much longer.  Already he could feel himself slipping...

And then -- the terrible pressure stopped.  Glorfindel heaved himself up to get a better grasp, and, through the stone rails, saw a flash of dark green fabric. 

A familiar voice, strange in its tone of righteous anger, was saying, "Leave him be and face me, you coward!"

Glorfindel exhaled with relief.  Erestor had come.

Gildor turned to face his new opponent.  "Ill humour does not become you," he said evenly.   "Calm yourself.  I merely seek to teach your friend a lesson:  that you are mine, and mine alone."

Gildor's voice was cold and sharp as a newly forged dagger.  Glorfindel held his breath.  Not so long ago, Gildor's mere glance would have been enough to undo Erestor, reduce him to self-doubt and fear. 

There was a silence, and then...

Erestor said, "I belong to me.  Whatever love I have is mine to give -- and no one's to take without my consent.  You hurt me once, but you shall not do so again, for I will not allow it."  He stepped forward, the green robes swinging around his feet.  "And now you will fight me and either die under my hand or leave and never come back."

Gildor laughed.  "A valiant effort, but a misguided one.  You and I both know that--" 

There was a sound of a fist striking flesh.  Gildor cried out and stumbled.

"Why you..."  Gildor spat on the ground; gone was the cool distance he had maintained throughout his struggle with Glorfindel.  "After a beating, are you?  You whoring piece of filth..."

Erestor said nothing, but Glorfindel could see his feet adopt a fighting stance.  The two pairs of boots circled each other for some moments with steady, symmetrical steps, before abandoning their measured rhythm in favour of sudden lunges and feints.  Puddles splashed in time to grunts and the sound of blows from above. 

Glorfindel lifted himself as much as he was able, muscles trembling from the effort.  He would be damned if he missed the sight of Erestor finally facing the source of his fears.  He swung his legs sideways, hooked his foot around the base of a railing, then carefully pulled himself up and climbed over the balustrade.

At last he could see.

And what a sight it was.  Gildor was a strong adversary, and yet it was Erestor who had the upper hand.  Each of his movements was precise, almost effortless -- as if it were not his hands that dealt the blows, but his will; not his feet that moved him surely over the rain-splattered stone, but his spirit.  Spurred on by memories of the hurts he had suffered at Gildor's hands, Erestor was bound to carry the day.  It was inevitable.

Or so Glorfindel thought.  For just as Gildor seemed to be failing, just as he tripped and faltered -- his hand slipped into his boot and retrieved a dagger.

He lunged at Erestor with a yell.  Erestor, his reflexes quick, dropped to a squat and threw himself at Gildor's knees.  Knocked off balance, Gildor tumbled to the ground -- and in a moment Erestor was on him, and in another few seconds he had pried the dagger out of Gildor's hand and placed it at his throat.

The stillness of their bodies -- so strange after the struggle -- was eerily sudden, as if some magic had frozen them mid-motion.  They lay unmoving but not at rest, muscles coiled with the potential for violence.

Erestor moved first.  He straightened up slowly and flicked the dagger in an upward motion, indicating for Gildor to rise.  "On your knees," he said. 

Eyes on the point of the knife, Gildor knelt awkwardly. 

Erestor traced the hollow of Gildor's throat with the tip of the blade.  "I could kill you now," he said.  "I could make you beg for mercy or kind treatment, the way you used to make me beg, once.  Would you like that?" 

Gildor swallowed, his Adam's apple touching the metal.  Rain was falling on his face, his sodden hair.  Frightened, with his tunic smeared with blood, he looked pathetic and small. 

Erestor drew the knife in a straight line up Gildor's cheek, perversely caressing, yet careful not to draw blood.  "I could do things to you for my own amusement, relishing your humiliation.  Or take what I know of you -- the private, intimate things -- and mock them." 

He moved the tip of the dagger to Gildor's ear and slashed off a lock of hair.  The golden strands fell to the ground, muddied in the dirt at Erestor's feet. 

Gildor's chest heaved in a suppressed sob.  His jaw was clenched.  Rain was running down his cheeks, masking any tears he might have been shedding.

"I could look into your eyes and tell you that you are witless, weak, and unlovely.  That your body is ill-favoured, that no one could desire you.  That I do you a kindness by letting you kiss my feet."  Erestor placed the knife under Gildor's chin and forced him to look up.  "You did it to me, once.  Don't you think you deserve the same?"

Gildor shut his eyes.

"Look at me!"  Erestor grabbed a handful of the golden hair and yanked Gildor's head back, exposing his face to the full force of the rain.  He weighed his words for a moment, then asked quietly, "Do you know I loved you once?"

Gildor blinked, but did not answer.  Erestor smiled wistfully and added, "Such poor judgment I had." 

Just then, out of the woods below the balcony came a procession of merrymakers, some singing, some shouting -- all deeply in their cups.  Undaunted by the rain, they laughed and spun each other around in a drunken dance.  One fell and was helped to his feet by his companions amid much teasing. 

Glorfindel had nearly forgotten that, out there in the night, other people were still making merry.  The sudden interruption felt as if someone had thrown open the heavy blinds in a darkened room, light shocking those within.

Erestor lifted his head and looked around him.  Something in the air seemed to have changed:  a tension broken, a critical point reached and irrevocably passed.  He let the hand holding the knife drop by his side.

"You can get up; I will not harm you," he said to Gildor.  "Causing another's misery is no pleasure to me.  Leave now, and never come back."

Gildor got to his feet, but did not limp away as Glorfindel had thought he might.  He looked dazed and shocked, as if he had lost something he had not thought could escape his grasp and had not realized he would miss when it had gone. 

"Erestor," he said.  "Wait."

Erestor, who had already taken a few steps toward Glorfindel, stopped and faced Gildor once more.  "I asked you to leave me be.  Can you not do me that one courtesy?" 

"Yes, but...  If you only listen, I'll..."

Erestor took a moment to meet Gildor's eyes.  Then, pronouncing each word with care, he replied, "I have nothing left to say to you." 

And as Gildor stood there, stunned, Erestor helped Glorfindel to his feet and made for the doorway.



****


There are nights whose drunken fervour leads to rowdy excesses in the bedchamber.  Chairs are overturned and glass dishes broken as bodies cling together on tangled sheets or hard floors -- every second sizzling with heat, no moment wasted. 

There are nights whose sensual promise incites lovers to such heights of responsiveness that every caress becomes a subtle delight:  the touch of lips on lips fulfillment itself, the brush of hair against skin, perfection.

And then there are other nights.  Nights which are dark and strange, sheltering emotions too raw to share in daylight.

As Erestor and Glorfindel made their way to Erestor's chambers they spoke little.  Quietly they undressed, piled their sodden clothes in a heap beside the door, tended their injuries and climbed under the blankets. 

They did not sleep, but neither did they make love.  They merely held each other until morning, whispering words meant for an audience of one.  What they said is not for us to know.

It wasn't until the next day that their mood turned light, and Glorfindel was at last able to conclude his interrupted midsummer-night seduction.  It didn't go exactly as planned, though he had to admit he found it no less fulfilling.  As he braced his hands on the edge of the open window -- the early-morning breeze caressing his naked body, Erestor thrusting into him from behind -- he had many reasons to feel grateful.  Brimming with joy, he did not muffle his shouts of pleasure then, nor did Erestor.

Fortunately, whatever passers-by happened to witness their excesses proved discreet.

A week later, the two of them again stood at the same window, watching as, below, Gildor's party made its way down the road leading away from the Last Homely House.  Erestor, dressed in his sombre robes once more, stood unmoving for as long as Gildor was in sight, his face perfectly composed. 

But when the last of the Wandering Company finally disappeared in a cloud of dust Erestor's shoulders sagged.  He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if letting go of a great burden.

"Relieved?" Glorfindel asked.

Erestor thought for a moment.  "You know, it is as though I've just conducted an arduous military campaign:  I'm far too exhausted to know what I feel."

"But it is over now, and you and I are the victors.  Especially you, who fought so impressively."

"That night on the balcony, you mean."

"Well...  That isn't all I mean, no."  Glorfindel paused, choosing his words.  "You know how warriors sometimes speak after they've fought beside each other in battle and survived?  About glory, loyalty, honour..."

"Yes.  Why?"

Glorfindel's expression turned serious.  Respectfully, he crossed his hands over his heart and bowed, as if before a king or great leader.  "It has been an honour to see you fight, Erestor; a privilege to share your struggle and triumph," he said. 

The sun shining through the open window apparently blinded Erestor just then, for he rubbed his eyes.  His ease with words must have left him, too:  he said nothing, though his mouth trembled.

Glorfindel smiled.  He moved closer to embrace Erestor, and the two Elves stood that way for a long time, in silence.  Around them, the pleasant heat of the afternoon gradually turned to the cool of evening.



****



Notes:

I would like to thank all those who have been following this story from the beginning, and faithfully sending feedback (or just reading and quietly enjoying).  I realize that breaks between chapters have sometimes been long, and trying to keep things moving forward while juggling RL has not always been easy for me.  But my wonderful readers have kept me and my Elves motivated to try to tell the best story possible.  I hope you've enjoyed this writing adventure as much as I have.



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