Title: Light, Dancing on Water 1/1
Author: Eawen Penallion
email: cross_stitcherire@yahoo.com
LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/eawen_penallion/
Website: http://www.3scribesofimladris.com/eawencontent.htm
Type: FPS
Pairing: Glorfindel/Lothvaen, Glorfindel/Ecthelion
(implied)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, explicit sexual encounters between
two males.
Beta: Most excellent Nienna, so encouraging!
Disclaimer: all rights to the characters belong to JRR
Tolkien - I'm only playing with them.
Timeline: Middle of Third Age
Feedback: Yes please,
Archive: On my website and LiveJournal, OEAM,
AdultFanFiction

Author's Note: This story is written as a challenge at
the LesserElves Yahoo group. The challenge was:
Person - Ecthelion; Place - Greenwood; Thing -
Elrond's Eyebrow of Doom

Summary: Glorfindel has loved Lothvaen for over a
hundred years, but another elf threatens to destroy
their love from beyond the grave.




Glorfindel glared at his lord.

"Escort Lindir to Mirkwood," he repeated in a
disbelieving voice, "to attend a music seminar?"

The Lord of Imladris looked up from behind his large,
document-strewn desk and nodded. "Yes, that is what I
said. You must leave in two days in order to arrive in
plenty of time. Lindir is taking a few of his guild
members as well, so I will leave it to you to arrange
the details with him. Oh, and I will have some
missives for Thranduil. Erestor will give them to you
tomorrow." He looked down at his cluttered desktop.
"If I can find them."

The golden lord was not deterred. He continued to
question this most unusual assignment.

"There is no hidden agenda? These missives, surely
they must contain news of some importance? Patrol
movements? Orc sightings? No, of course not, I would
know of any recent problems regarding the last two. I
*am* the Seneschal of Imladris after all. So why, I
wonder, does a simple escort duty require the presence
of the *Seneschal* of Imladris?"

He folded his arms and lowered his fair brows,
awaiting a response from the Lord of Rivendell. It
quickly came and he almost laughed when the single
eyebrow lifted in an expected movement.

"Ai! Elrond's infamous 'Eyebrow of Doom'!" Glorfindel
placed his thick, splayed fingertips onto the polished
mahogany surface and leaned his solid body forward in
an attempt to intimidate his old friend. "Elrond, in
the past month you have asked me to travel to
Lothlórien in escort to a delivery of silks from the
weavers, to the Havens to place an order for rope from
Círdan, and to Laketown for ale. To none of these have
I gone for, after considerable 'discussion', you have
agreed that my captains were perfectly competent to
carry out these duties. It gives them an opportunity
to improve their command skills, and their expertise
in planning and coordination of efforts. Now tell me -
why do I get the feeling that you want me out of
Imladris? Why do you want to be rid of me?"

Elrond stared implacably at his seneschal, then
finally recognized his defeat in the adamant sapphire
eyes. Throwing his quill onto his desk he sat back in
his chair, studying the golden lord.

"All right, Glorfindel. Since you won't leave Imladris
then I must send Lothvaen away. I think Lothlórien,
perhaps. He will benefit from the restful atmosphere
of the Golden Wood."

Glorfindel's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Send
his lover away? His little Lothvaen? His appeal came
out as a plaintive cry.

"Lothvaen? But why? Ai Elrond, what cause do you have
to divide me from my lover?" He paused, placing more
force, more anger into his next words, straightening
into an affronted pose. "By what *right* do you
interfere in my private life?"

The elven lord shook his head, his dark braids swaying
with the movement. His voice was tinged with sadness
and concern.

"When your private life went public, mellon nín. When
arguments ring across the Hall of Fire; when your
lover flees, drenched in tears; when I must provide
Lothvaen with a sleeping draught; when Erestor finds
him collapsed on the floor between the racks of the
library, unseeing and unresponsive. When Erestor
expressed his concern to me." He leaned forward, his
grey eyes capturing Glorfindel's shocked blue orbs.
"When we began to fear for Lothvaen's health - and for
you."

It was too much. All of Glorfindel's righteous anger
drained from him and the seneschal dropped heavily
into the chair in front of the desk. Trying to grasp
control again, he sought for harsh words to throw at
his lord but could find none. Finally he looked up
mutely at Elrond, who rose from his chair and circled
the desk, drawing up a chair to sit by him.

"Glorfindel, you and Lothvaen have been together for -
how long now?"

"One hundred and twenty years."

Elrond nodded. "We were all delighted when you both
declared your love for the joy emanating from you both
lifted the spirits of all, so bright did it shine. I
admit that I was initially quite worried, as there is
such a disparity in age between you, but then I became
convinced that soon you would come to me to set a date
for a binding ceremony. That has not happened, but it
has become apparent in the last few years that all is
not well between you, and the incident a few weeks ago
seems to confirm it. Your argument in the Hall, and
Lothvaen. Glorfindel, perhaps you should consider some
time apart so that you can both review your
relationship and see what you want from your love."

Glorfindel had coloured at this very candid discussion
of that which he considered private. Defensively, he
protested his objections.

"Lothvaen wants us to marry, aye, but Elrond - I see
no need to change things. I love him and he knows it!
Why do we have to upset things?"

Elrond shook his head. "Binding is not simply a piece
of paper, Glorfindel. For elves, it is a true and
eternal commitment. Perhaps Lothvaen is hurt that you
do not feel the same desire as he does to complete the
circle, that you do not feel the same love?" He
paused, fearing Glorfindel's reaction to his next
words. "Perhaps he feels that you prefer the memories
of the past to the hope of the future. That you would
rather wait for Valinor, and Ecthelion's rebirth?"

Glorfindel shot out of his chair, rage explicit on his
face.

"Leave 'Thel out of this! He has nothing to do with
Lothvaen!"

"No? When every song that you have sung, every tale
that you have told in the past five years centres upon
your dead lover? When every other sentence holds a
remembrance of Gondolin, and your legendary lost love?
Lothvaen was brought up on the stories of the First
Age. *You* are a legend brought back to life. That he
has gained your love is a miracle to him - but he is
sharing you with a dead hero, and he feels that he
cannot compete against such a renowned warrior.
Ecthelion still echoes in your ears, your memory - and
your heart."

Elrond sighed, ignoring the outraged protest of his
friend. He stood once more, facing squarely up to the
reborn lord.

"It shall be so, Glorfindel. It is your choice. Where
shall it be? Lothlórien for Lothvaen - or the
Greenwood for you?"

****

"The Greenwood. Huh! Why Thranduil still bothers to
call this spider-infested armpit of Sauron by its
former name I do not know. Surely it would be better
to put a torch to the lot, and leave the stinking
place behind. There are other better and brighter
places to live upon Middle Earth, why he insists on
fighting to stay I do not know!"

Lindir smiled at Glorfindel's acerbic comment, for he
had heard this particular refrain many times during
the long journey from Imladris. He had known the
golden lord since his arrival in Rivendell after his
rebirth and a few grumbles made no impression on him.
Instead his response was mild and soothing.

"I suppose that if evil were to encroach upon Imladris
then we too would hold fast to our home, out of love
and devotion to its beautiful memory."

Glorfindel grunted. "Huh, I'd like to see evil try to
invade - it would be dead within three paces of
passing the border."

Lindir grinned, seeing the determination upon
Glorfindel's face. It was very likely that the
statement would be true if the seneschal were present,
for Glorfindel had an intense hatred of all Morgoth's
creations and those too of the Maia Sauron. Lindir's
smile faded as his thoughts dwelled upon another time,
when Glorfindel had faced evil and had both won and
lost. He had gained the lives of Idril, Tuor and
Eäärendil by his heroic battle upon the heights of
Cirith Thoronath against the fearsome Balrog, and had
thus ensured the lineage and eventual birth of Elrond
and his twin. He had lost his own life though, and had
seen the love of his heart fall into flames and steam,
when Gothmog had dragged Ecthelion to his fiery death
in the fountain in the Square of the King - an ironic
and horrific demise.

Lindir's thoughts remained ponderous for he was no
fool and, although he had not been privy to the heated
discussions between Lord and Seneschal, he knew the
reasons that Glorfindel was here in the 'Greenwood'.
Lothvaen, in the few hundred years that he had been in
Imladris, had become well-known and well-liked by all
the inhabitants for his gentle, cheerful demeanour,
and his positive and helpful attitudes. Like
Glorfindel, Lindir had become very fond of the young
ellon but from the moment that Glorfindel had set eyes
upon the dark beauty, the seneschal had been lost.
They were perfect together, the seneschal and the
scribe; complete opposites in physical looks and
behaviour, they seemed as two sides of the same coin,
and Lothvaen looked happiest when wrapped in the
protective and loving arms of his lord. Lindir sighed,
for the picture became skewed as he remembered
Lothvaen's sobbing confession, just before they had
set out.

"He cannot forget him, 'Dir! He cannot leave him in
the past, nor concentrate on our present and future.
He once said that my hair was as dark as *his*, that I
sang as sweetly as *he* did. Am I but a poor
substitute for Ecthelion? Does he love me only because
I remind him of his lost love? And when we finally
journey into the West, will he run into Ecthelion's
arms and leave me behind? Nay, I would rather end this
now than live forever in the shadow of the Fountain
Lord, and be rejected at the last. Glorfindel and I
are finished!"

At that Lindir had taken the sobbing scribe into his
arms and had soothed him until he had found peace in
reverie. Now, looking at Glorfindel, Lindir could see
that pain and confusion etched upon the golden lord's
face, vainly hidden behind bluster and rhetoric. The
thought of the two now separated by this conflict
pained Lindir more than pleased him, for although he
had once harboured his own hopes of the scribe, now he
saw only sorrow in his friends.

Lindir's musings were broken when the announcement
came of their arrival at the gates of Thranduil's
caverns. The gates swung open, admitting them to the
inner courtyard where a small party had gathered to
greet them. Lindir was surprised and honoured to see
that as well as his counterparts in the musician's
guild, the Prince of Mirkwood was also present in the
welcoming party.

"Legolas!" Glorfindel cried in delight as he swung
himself down from Asfaloth. "It is good to see you! I
did not expect to see you amongst our musical
brethren, when your favoured lilt is the whistle of
your arrows or the whirr of your blades!"

Legolas laughed, grasping the golden lord's shoulder
in greeting. "I offered my support to Glirfaer in
assisting with this welcome, and in the preparation of
the seminar. As part of the workshops there will also
be concerts and song recitals. My father is delighted
to host this convocation, for the merriment and music
will bring some light and joy to help fight the
encroaching darkness that threatens our Greenwood."

He looked directly at Glorfindel in his sincerity, and
the golden lord had a sinking feeling in his stomach
that they had been monitored as they moved through the
forest, and that his speech had been overheard. The
prince continued.

"Aye, we know of the renaming of our home by others
and indeed, it has been called Mirkwood even by our
own people - but in our hearts our home is as green
and vibrant as it ever was. Greenwood one day will be
returned to its glory, in a more peaceful world."

Glorfindel nodded, somewhat chastened yet heartened by
the prince's obvious devotion to his people and his
home. He glanced around, surveying the bustling
courtyard and seeing in this familiar scene a sense of
his home, of Rivendell. They were the same kin, of the
Firstborn of Ilúvatar, with the same hopes, dreams and
aspirations. No, they were not so different or dark
after all. The golden lord turned as he overheard a
snatched fragment of conversation between Glirfaer and
Lindir, and realized that is was something that he
could perhaps help with.

".aye, it is a tragedy, for to lose such a musician of
his caliber diminishes us all. His work on the lute is
excellent."

Glorfindel caught the eye of the leader of the
Greenwood guild and signaled that he had a question.

"I apologise if I am interrupting, but did I hear you
say that your colleague was injured? For I play the
lute and indeed, I have brought mine with me. I would
be happy to offer my assistance."

Glirfaer bowed, a grateful yet rueful smile upon his
face.

"I thank you most sincerely for your offer, my lord,
but you misheard me. I did not say 'lute' but 'flute'.
It is our flautist, Anthion, who but yesterday met
with a fall on the stairs, breaking his leg and
spraining his hand." Glirfaer turned to Lindir once
more, spreading his hands in helpless and evocative
dismay. "To compound the problem, our second flautist
was with him and in trying to save Anthion, he too
injured a finger. We are now left only with their
young apprentice, who is talented but does not have
the skill to take on a piece of any difficulty."

As Lindir nodded in expressed sympathy, Glorfindel bit
his lip in indecision. It was to his own amazement
that he blurted out his offer.

"I play the flute too, Master Glirfaer. I may be a
little rusty, but I was once considered competent at
the instrument."

The two elves turned to Glorfindel in amazement and
Lindir's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Glorfindel! I never knew that? You are an
accomplished musician - but this is a skill that you
have kept well hidden."

Glorfindel shrugged his shoulders self-consciously.
"Ecthelion taught me when we moved to Gondolin. I
figured that if I had to put up with his squeaks and
squawks then I had better learn how to play it too -
so that I could drown him out!"

They all laughed at the quip, but Glorfindel felt a
pang at the happy memories that the topic had brought
to mind and indeed, the exquisite beauty of the
melodies that had floated from the silver flute of
Ecthelion. They had been in no way related to the
screeching noises that Glorfindel had intimated in his
jest.

"When do we play our first concert then, mellon nín?"
he asked of Glirfaer.

"The first three days will be devoted to workshops, my
lord," Glirfaer replied. "These will comprise
exchanges of techniques, tunes and ideas between the
two sets of musicians, each within the discipline of
their chosen instruments. Then we will play some of
our own pieces in small recitals, as well as rehearse
en masse for a larger piece which has been composed by
myself and Master Lindir."

Lindir smiled at this, for he and Glirfaer had been
corresponding for over a year in preparation for this
event and the process of collaboration over such a
distance had been interesting, to say the least.
Glorfindel's eyes widened at the shortened timescale.

"Ai, then I had best make the acquaintance of Anthion
as soon as possible, Master Glirfaer. I presume that I
may use his flute, for I have brought none of my own?"

Glirfaer nodded in his eagerness of accepting the
golden lord's offer. "I do not think that it would be
a problem, my lord. As for meeting Anthion, I would
suggest delaying until tomorrow for he is yet in some
pain, though I have been told by the healers that he
will be released from the infirmary to his own
chambers in the morning. In the meantime I am sure
that you will wish to rest and bathe after your long
journey, and then this evening the king has commanded
that a feast be held in honour of your arrival."

Glorfindel bowed his acquiescence and thanked Glirfaer
for his kind words. He looked forward to the meal and
renewing his friendship with Thranduil. At times the
king, with his obsession for protocol and order, could
be a little tedious, and his overwhelming love of
riches a bore, but on many subjects Thranduil had the
sharpest mind that Glorfindel had ever known, save for
Erestor. Combined with his generous nature as a host,
Glorfindel knew that the feast would be a sumptuous
change after waybread, and already he could taste the
luscious dishes and fine wines in his watering mouth.
So it was that when Glirfaer and Legolas led the
Rivendell delegation into the caverns of Thranduil,
Glorfindel followed gladly.

****

Weariness swept over Glorfindel as he peeled off his
clothes and laid them neatly upon a chair, fully ready
to fall into bed and glaze his eyes in reverie. The
celebratory feast had been as spectacular as he had
hoped and, refreshed from a luxuriating bath and
dressed in his finest garb, Glorfindel had indulged to
the fullest. Lindir, as leader of the Rivendell
musician's guild, had been tonight's guest of honour,
a position usually accorded to either Glorfindel or
Erestor when on missions of diplomacy. Glorfindel had
relinquished this place with ease for he did not truly
enjoy the pomp of formality, no matter what others
thought of his overtly genial personality.

With another stretch the golden lord made for the bed
to slip his naked body between the cool cotton sheets.
He turned to lie on his favourite side, then blinked
when he realized that he had automatically left space
for a second occupant. His hand crept across to the
empty space, reflecting upon the elf who should have
filled it - and grieved for the bright being who would
no longer be there when he returned from his journey.

The parting from Lothvaen had been acrimonious to say
the least. As much as he had protested he had not been
able to persuade his little librarian that this
journey had not been of his own volition.

"You don't want to be near me anymore!" Lothvaen had
shouted. "You do not want me by your side or in your
heart! Well, fine. Go, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Go play
your music, go sing your love songs. At least from
Mirkwood I will not have to listen to you pine for
*him*! And when you return, my lord, you will not find
me in your chambers either!" Angry tears had rolled
down Lothvaen's face as he snarled his final words. "I
hope that the memory of Ecthelion is cosy and hot,
Glorfindel, for that is all that you will have left to
warm your heart - and your bed!"

Now a tear trickled down Glorfindel's face as he
pulled a spare pillow into his arms, trying to fool
his mind that the soft and pliable mass was the firm
and slender body of his beautiful little scribe.

"Ai, Lothvaen," he whispered to the unresponsive down
of the pillow. "You never understood my need to keep
Ecthelion alive in my life, my memory - and I never
understood how much I was hurting you."

Thinking about that slim body, Glorfindel felt his
quiescent member start to fill in response to the
heated desires that Lothvaen had always elicited in
him, but he tried to push away images of the pale and
tender skin. Lothvaen now wanted nothing more to do
with him, and he would not indulge himself by wishing
for what Lothvaen would not now give him - the right
to worship the dark elf's sweet body. He would not
abrogate his little one's wishes by using memories of
their physical love to spur him on to bodily relief.

Stroking his shaft under the sheets, Glorfindel tried
to focus upon the last time that he had seen the
beauty of his first love, waiting for the sun to rise,
high upon the walls of Gondolin. He did *not* think of
the very last moments of his life. No, he thought of
his dark Ecthelion, whose black hair had reflected the
twinkling starlight. Whose ready smile and
self-assurance lifted his spirits as 'Thel had turned
to him in laughter and delight. The remembrance of the
firm, battle-honed body hidden beneath the glorious
silks of darkness and diamonds.

The hand took a firmer grip, stroking the length from
base to tip in long sweeping motions, spreading the
dripping pre-cum as remembered moments came to mind -
the taste of a warm mouth, where tongues clashed in
erotic duel; the laving and nipping of aroused teats,
shooting sharp darts of desire across the body; the
exploration of skin, velvet and silk in smoothness and
heat.

The tiny rose that opened from a bud, allowing
entrance to heaven.

The waves of lust washing through Glorfindel came as a
rush, his sacs tightening in anticipation as he
finally found release and cried out his love's name in
his needful ecstasy.

"Lothvaen!"

Glorfindel panted with his exertion and his explosive
climax, but lay there quietly, a silent tear rolling
down his cheek in loneliness and loss.

****

Although the cavern tunnels were wide and well lit,
Glorfindel felt oppressed by the lack of natural
daylight - though his depression of soul may have had
something to do with his dour mood. Giving himself a
mental shake, Glorfindel paused to compose himself
before rapping upon the door of Mirkwood's lead
flautist. It was the first day of the seminar, and the
Lord of Gondolin was to have his own private workshop
with Master Anthion.

The door opened and a young elf stood there. At first
Glorfindel was confused - for this lad could not be
the musician he had come to see - but then a
recollection of the previous day's conversation
brought to mind the mention of an apprentice. This was
confirmed as the young elf welcomed him and led him
into the chambers.

"This way, my Lord Glorfindel. Master Anthion awaits
you."

A quick glance around the outer room confirmed that
this indeed was the abode of a musician. There were
racks upon racks of musical scores, and shelves of
musical instruments upon the walls. The items were
mostly wind instruments but a few small drums and
fiddles hung there too. A large table bore witness to
new scores in composition or transcription and a
smaller table held jars and clothes used no doubt in
the maintenance of the various musical implements.
Finally there was a display cabinet, enclosed in panes
of glass, in which reposed items that seemed to be of
value to the flautist. The collection was not
complete, however, for there were spaces where objects
seemed to have been removed.

Seated in a high-backed chair, his leg supported on a
stool and his arm cradled in a sling, sat the owner of
the room. Master Anthion seemed a pleasant fellow, his
eyes smiling with his gentle mouth, his dark blonde
hair tied back from his face. Glorfindel blinked, for
the colour of the hair was much darker than normally
seen in the Silvan elves, but then he remembered his
manners and made his bow, hand on heart in greeting.

"Mae govannen, Master Anthion. I am Glorfindel. I
trust that you are feeling a little better after your
sad accident?"

The flautist bowed as much as he was able in response,
a wry smile upon his face, his eyes darting in nervous
excitement around the room. Glorfindel was not alarmed
at this, for he knew his reputation often created
great awe in some elves.

"The honour is mine, my lord. To greet such a famed
warrior as you in common interest is a privilege for
both myself and young Tulus here." Anthion waved to
the apprentice, smiled readily at the young ellon. "A
talent for the future to be sure, and in many fields
too."

With the greetings completed Glorfindel was eager to
proceed, for he had not picked up a flute since his
rebirth and he only hoped that his new body retained
some of his old skill. Tulus brought him a flute and
Glorfindel laughed as he took it in his hands and
brought it to his mouth.

"At least I remember how to hold it!" Taking a
controlled breath, he formed his starting embouchure
and blew gently across the mouth hole as his fingers
danced upon the keys to play a simple air, one of the
first that Ecthelion had taught him. He did not open
his eyes until the last note faded into silence. When
he focused once more upon the room, the flautist was
smiling widely at him.

"That was quite beautiful, Glorfindel. The air is
familiar to me but I cannot quite place it."

Glorfindel shook his head. "I would be surprised if
you did, mellon nín. It was composed by my teacher,
Ecthelion of the Fountain, but it did gain some open
popularity in Gondolin at the time. I would be pleased
to learn that some of his work is still remembered."

Anthion's face froze for a moment, as if in some sort
of shock, then he smiled once more, a feeble imitation
of his earlier smiles.

"You certainly can remember your lessons, my lord, but
if I may make a few suggestions.?"

The tutorial continued and Anthion became more relaxed
as he pressed Glorfindel to practice breathing
techniques that he had not used in millennia, so that
he could hold the notes longer. Anthion also used
Tulus to demonstrate alternative fingering techniques
that had developed in the Ages since Glorfindel had
first learned.

When the lessons finally drew to a close, Glorfindel
found himself flexing his fingers to sooth the ache.

"Oh, it has been *far* too long since I played. I
promise that I will do better tomorrow, Anthion," he
said to the grinning musician.

Glorfindel grinned too, at both Anthion and Tulus.
Once they had got past the formality of titles, the
trio had fully enjoyed their session. The flautist
shook his head, answering in his pleasant musical
voice. "You play well, Glorfindel, considering how
long you have been away from the instrument."

Glorfindel winced at the praise, knowing that his
performance had been pedestrian at best.

"No, Ecthelion always said that the flute ought to
sound as if it was moonlight, dancing on water - full
of sparkle, ripples and reflections of the spirit. I
am afraid that I am a ship plowing through that water,
sturdy and carrying the tune without the gentility of
spirit which would otherwise bring a performance from
plodding to remarkable."

Once again Glorfindel noted that Anthion withdrew at
the mention of his old love's name, but he supposed it
to be the discomfort of one who was discomposed when
talking to a hero of Ages past. Lothvaen had exhibited
the same response when he had first made advances to
the little elf. Giving a final stretch, Glorfindel
stood and bowed his farewells.

"Until tomorrow, my friends."

Tulus bowed in response, thrilled that he was now the
friend of the Lord of the Golden Flower. Anthion
however gazed after the departing lord, his face
troubled with guilty contemplation.

****

The days sped by quickly, so fill they were with music
and mirth. The three flautists became close in their
common love of the music that they practiced. Tulus
was to take the part of second flute, and Glorfindel
soon saw that the lad would be a musician to rival
even the great Lindir of Rivendell. Anthion too was
truly a master, and his ear for even the slightest
change in expression of the notes placed Glorfindel on
his mettle, and made him perform to beyond what he
would have thought himself capable. He could therefore
not take too seriously Anthion's praise, turning it
aside in a self-deprecating manner.

"I fear that the Lord Ecthelion must have been a less
than effusive tutor, not to have given praise where
praise is due," commented Anthion warmly. "Although it
is obvious that your hand is more used to holding the
hilt of the blade than the slender metal of the pipe,
yet your deep love and empathy for the emotion of a
musical work is remarkable."

Glorfindel blushed and laughed, proud and grateful for
the praise. "Ai, my friend, 'Thel had his motives for
not giving me such fulsome appreciation - he knew that
my head would swell too large for my helm! Not an
advantage as a warrior of Gondolin!"

Once again, Anthion had cast his eyes down, as he
often seemed to do when the Fountain Lord was
mentioned, but Glorfindel could discern no reason. He
thought long and hard as to the evidence of Anthion's
aversion but could come to no conclusion and therefore
reluctantly cast his ponderings aside.

When the time came for Glorfindel and Tulus to perform
in public for the first time they were gratified at
how well received they were.

"Bravo!" cried Lindir afterwards, sweeping his old
friend in to his arms. "That was truly delightful," he
smiled. "Ai, Lothvaen should have been here to hear
such a wonderful performance - he will be truly proud
of you." There was silence and a bleak look upon
Glorfindel's face, and Lindir silently cursed his
inept words and dire memory. "Oh my friend, I am sorry
- so sorry for everything."

Glorfindel nodded. "I miss him, Lindir. I really miss
him."

Lindir opened his arms and took him into his embrace,
and the two stood quietly for a moment, silver-white
hair mingling with shimmering gold, mourning the loss
of love.

Yet the days went on and soon it was the eve of the
last performance, an evening of rest, for the next
night would be the unveiling of the joint composition
of Lindir and Glirmaer. All the musicians who would be
performing had been told to prepare at their ease, and
only a few apprentices played soft airs at the evening
meal. It was during the meal that Anthion, now able to
leave his room on crutches, asked Glorfindel to come
to his chambers after the meal.

"I have something to tell you, my lord - something to
confess, and I hope that when you hear my words that
you will forgive me."

Both puzzled and troubled, for he now counted Anthion
as a friend, Glorfindel thus made his way to the
musician's quarters to find out what caused his friend
such concern. Anthion was waiting for him, but Tulus
was unusually nowhere to be seen.

"Please sit, my lord," Anthion gestured to an easy
chair, taking a sit in one nearby. On the table to his
left Glorfindel noticed a bound book and an instrument
box, obviously one for the separated components of a
flute. He waited for Anthion to speak, for the
flautist seemed to be composing himself and trying to
find the words to explain his problem.

"You may have noticed," the musician finally said,
"that I am not full Silvan in my heritage. My hair is
much darker that the fine blondes of this court, and
my skin much swarthier."

Glorfindel nodded. He had noticed, obviously, but
thought little of it. Although it was not usual in
Mirkwood, where first Oropher and then Thranduil had
kept their people apart, yet some mixing of the blood
of the kin of the Firstborn was not unknown in any
realm. Why, Glorfindel himself was both Noldor and
Vanyar. Anthion continued.

"My Noldor heritage comes from my grandfather, who was
a refugee in the Mouths of the Sirion near the end of
the First Age. He married a lady of Doriath and
removed to the Greenwood after the War of Wrath. My
father was thus counted as a Silvan in this realm and
he married my mother, who was of Oropher's court. I am
an elf of the Greenwood and Thranduil is my king. My
grandfather however followed another king who died,
killed by Morgoth's hordes through vile treachery.
That king was Turgon."

Glorfindel gasped at hearing *his* kings name,
bringing forth remembered pain at the memory of the
roaring thunder of the collapsing Tower of the King
which had signaled Turgon's demise, and of his last
sight of Gondolin from the heights of the Cristhorn,
smothered in a thick black pall issuing from the
burning buildings of the Hidden City.

"Turgon! Then - your grandfather was from Gondolin!
Who was he? Did I know him?" the golden lord asked
eagerly. So lonely did he feel at times that any
connection to his former life eased his aching soul.
When Anthion nodded, his heart leapt.

"I believe so, my lord. His name in Quenya was
Oiotarmo, and in Sindarin, Conuiron. He was of the
House of the Fountain."

Glorfindel beamed in delight.

"Varda, yes! Conuiron was Ecthelion's master of music!
He taught all of the members of the house, he and his
guildsmen. Why, the sound of the warriors of the
Fountain marching to war to the music of the flute and
pipe was all due to his innovative production of
sturdy instruments for travel. It was he who
instigated their distinctive voice, their signature
that would bring fear into the heart of the enemy. Ai,
this is such good news, Anthion - but why did you
delay to tell me it? We could have discussed your
grandfather at length over the past week and more!"

Anthion hesitated, then turned to pick up the bound
book on the table, leaning forward to place it into
Glorfindel's hands.

"Because of this, my lord." Glorfindel looked into
Anthion's worried eyes, then down to the book again
and started to turn its pages as the flautist spoke
again.

"My grandfather was in charge of Lord Ecthelion's
flute on the night of Tarnin Austa, on that fateful
night. After singing the salute to the dawn, his lord
was to have played a new piece of music composed for
that day. Of course, that was when Maeglin's treachery
betrayed them all, and as the song was not sung,
neither was the piece played.

"Before their escape from the city, Conuiron decided
that not all things of beauty would be left to be
destroyed by the evil one. As his burden for the
journey he took it upon himself to bring his lord's
own flute, and this bound book of Ecthelion's
compositions, which my grandfather had helped to
prepare. It was most complete, as you can see."

Glorfindel lifted his head, looking up from the last
score in the book. A single tear ran softly over his
cheek.

"It is dated for that last night. The last night of
our city. The last night of his life - and mine." He
looked down once more, reading the dedication aloud. "
'For Glorfindel, my dearest friend and most beautiful
companion, who loves me more than I deserve, and whose
love I have never been able to return in its fulsome
generosity. As much as I do care for him, I will never
be able to match the depth and breadth of his open
heart.'"

The tears flowed freely now, and Glorfindel placed his
arm over the pages and he bent his head in sobbing
grief. Anthion wept too, silently and in sympathy for
this broken edhel. His voice cracked as he spoke
again.

"My lord, I know that this book and the flute should
have been returned to you upon the announcement of
your rebirth. I was my own selfishness that has now
caused you such pain, and I am truly sorry for that.
It was just. this is regarded somewhat as an heirloom
in my family, a rare and precious tribute to our
fallen lord. I . I could not let it go, and so I hid
it. I am so sorry."

Glorfindel shook his head, and his voice trembled.
"Nay, Anthion. I understand. Conuiron's rapport with
Ecthelion was remarkable, and their friendship true. I
know that you had your reasons."

Anthion smiled weakly, his guilt somewhat assuaged by
Glorfindel's kind words.

"My lord, I have learnt that piece, and can play it
well. My hand is now healed, and I would like to play
it for you, if you wish?"

The golden lord nodded his head, but kept it bent so
that Anthion could not see his expression. Anthion
leaned across to the table once more, taking and
opening the box which lay upon it. Lifting the
components from their protective casing, Anthion
deftly reassembled the flute.

It was a pinnacle of workmanship, without peer. Of
strengthened silver, it was polished to a reflective
sheen, the padded hole caps were gilded with rich gold
and in the center of each was inlaid a fine-cut
circular diamond. Glorfindel looked now upon it,
hearing Ecthelion's voice in his ear, as proud as it
was when he had first received the flute from the
craftsman who had made it.

"The diamonds will shimmer in the light when I play
it, mellon níín - like raindrops falling from a sunlit
sky, transforming Anor's rays into a myriad of rainbow
colours." The slim lips had curled in amusement.
"Light, dancing on water, my friend."

As Anthion blew softly across the mouth he and the
first note sounded, Glorfindel gave himself over to
the music and let the sparkling notes fill his soul.

****

Glorfindel took a deep breath, filling his lungs with
the sweet pine-laden air. It soothed him as it always
did upon his returns to Imladris, his home. He had
been away too long, encased too deep in Thranduil's
caverns. The return journey had nourished his soul
with the clarity of the breezes through the mountain
passes, and the wide-open vistas upon their descent
from the heights.

The courtyard around him was full of elves, bustling
around the traveling party in welcome, helping unload
the horses and lead the to the stables to be groomed,
fed and watered. Glorfindel thanked the young
stablehand who took Asfaloth's reins, a slight pang in
his heart as he watched the noble stallion being led
away, for he normally took care of the horse himself.
However he had a need in his heart to salve and that
need - that elf - came first.

Looking around at the faces he did not see the one he
had hoped for, though both Erestor and Elrond came to
greet him. Completing the usual pleasantries,
Glorfindel swiftly asked his question.

"My Lord, where is Lothvaen?"

The eyebrow of doom rose, but the expression in the
eyes was of sympathy. It was Erestor who answered.

"He would not come, meldir. He sits working in the
library - alone."

Glorfindel nodded, understanding the intonation.
Making his excuses, his long stride took him inside
the main building aas he eagerly traversed the
corridors to the vaulted halls of the library.

Erestor was not totally accurate in his statement for
the main room, so resplendent in its towering racks of
tomes, had a number of scholars engrossed in their
contents - but this was not the province of Lothvaen.
Manouvering carefully past the unseeing elves,
Glorfindel made for a side room where Lothvaen was
usually occupied with transcribing, annotating or
cataloguing the many volumes.

The long dark hair fell like a velvet curtain over the
deep red silk of his robe, falling forward to pool on
the polished wood of the writing table at which the
edhel sat. Circling slowly around the slender elf,
Glorfindel's heart lurched when he saw that the end of
the quill feather was pinched between the pursed pink
lips, a habit of concentration that had always made
Glorfindel melt at the sweetness of the unconscious
gesture. Satisfied that he would not disturb a
delicate penstroke, Glorfindel addressed the young
scribe.

"Lothvaen? Pen neth?"

The scribe turned with a gasp, his emerald eyes
shining with joy as he saw the seneschal and
Glorfindel felt his heart swell with love and with
hope that he could still claim the beautiful elf as
his own. His smile faded when doubt filled those green
orbs and the enthusiasm of the welcome faded as that
last conversation came to Lothvaen's mind.

"Glorfindel." The voice was soft and controlled. "You
have returned."

Glorfindel's voice was just as gentle. "Yes, pen vuin.
I am come back to you.," he whispered hopefully. He
knelt before the seated elf, the plea evident in his
sapphire eyes. "Lothvaen, I know that I have served
you many wrongs, and I am so, so sorry, my heart. I
know also that I have no right to ask you but will you
come with me, come to hear my tale, for I would tell
you something of great importance to us both?"

Lothvaen looked at him seriously, examining the truth
in the seneschal's eyes, then at the last nodded his
agreement.

"I will listen, Glorfindel, but be warned - I will not
easily return to your side. What we had you destroyed.
There is little left to hope for."

Glorfindel was only grateful for the chance to redeem
himself in the scribe's eyes and took the proffered
hand, so delicate in his own broader palm. The walk
was in silence and it did not take any guesswork on
the scribe's part to see their destination, but he
forbore to comment. Instead, once inside the chambers
he took the chair by the unlit fireplace, his
favourite resting place when in happier times he and
Glorfindel had whiled away long winter afternoons by a
roaring fire, indulging in low conversation and fine
burgundy wines. Now he maintained his reserved
demeanour, looking expectantly at the golden lord.
Glorfindel glanced once at his travel bags, thankfully
returned to his rooms by one of the housemaids, then
seated himself opposite Lothvaen in the matching
armchair, leaning forward in his earnest desire to
persuade the other elf of his sincerity.

"My story begins on our arrival in the Greenwood,
dearest Lothvaen, and with news of the injuries
received by a musician named Anthion."

Glorfindel told the story at an even pace, trying not
to place too much emphasis upon his emotional response
to the artifacts that Anthion had placed before him,
but in open honesty he did not hide that they had
indeed affected him. As his tale ended he tried to
gauge Lothvaen's reaction, but the scribe had learned
to emulate his master well and in his cool manner he
was as successful at hiding his emotions as Erestor.
Glorfindel stood in the silent room and crossed slowly
to his bags, retrieving his lute from its case.
Returning to his chair he cradled the instrument as he
tuned it, tightening the strings in readiness to play.
Lifting his head from the tuning, his sapphire eyes
begged for indulgence.

"I have a melody to play for you, ind nín. Will you
hear it?"

The green eyes flared, releasing at last the ire that
had grown from the first moment that Ecthelion's name
had been mentioned in Glorfindel's tale. His words
carried the force of a raging inferno.

"You would play me *his* tune? The one that he wrote
for you? Egad, Glorfindel, you must think me a
doormat, just waiting for you to wipe your boots on
me! How can you ask this of me? Do you hate me that
much?"

Glorfindel reached to catch the ellon's wrist, alarmed
at the vehement outburst. "No, no, my love! Please, it
is not like that! I promise! Please, will you not sit?
Please, my heart, my Lothvaen."

The plea was heartfelt, the desperation so clear that
Lothvaen sat in shock. Finally he nodded, and
Glorfindel began to play.

The melody was soft and low, evoking a sense of
loneliness and solitude that pulled at the
heartstrings. After a short time a new refrain was
introduced, causing the first to fade into the
livelier melody, filled with joy and laughter,
chuckles singing from the plucked catgut. Lothvaen
began to smile and sway at the sweet tune, so merry
and bright. The culmination of the piece was full of
light and happiness, as if a soul was singing to its
mate, two twirling strains dancing around each other.
As the last note resonated on the lute's string,
Glorfindel finally looked up at Lothvaen and the
scribe was surprised to see tears shining in the
bright blue orbs.

"That was not Ecthelion's tune," the Lord of Gondolin
said softly. "That was my song to you, written on
hearing the history of Anthion's family and seeing the
relics of Ecthelion's life. The song tells of my life,
my feelings upon my return to Arda - old in spirit,
alone, so isolated in a changed world. Nothing
recognisable, for even the lands had been reformed.
Welcomed by Elrond, but I was a single lonely ship
lost in the vastness of a grey sea. Then a light
appeared in my life, a beacon to bring my ship home to
a safe harbour, a home for my sad soul. You, meleth
níín. And I have now ruined that love and extinguished
that light because of Ecthelion, because of his memory
and how he has intruded in my life - our lives.

"Ecthelion was never in love with me, Lothvaen. Never.
Oh, he loved me as a friend, as a bedmate, as a
comrade-in-arms, and if I had been satisfied with that
then I could have enjoyed our time together in
Gondolin. We had known each other since Valinor, had
crossed and survived the Grinding Ice, had fought
against evil and were Guardians of the Hidden City-
together. And I thought that was enough. Our
friendship was special. *We* were special - or so I
thought. *I* was the one who wanted to commit to love,
who thought that our unity during our trials was
evidence of a life-long commitment. I thought that I
felt the pull of the soul, but Ecthelion did not and
he was right. It would have been wrong, foolish to
bind ourselves in a one-sided marriage. It did not
stop me longing, hoping, and living a lie. When he
died I thought that there was nothing left to live for
and so felt that there was nothing to lose in my stand
against the balrog on Cirith Thoronath. If my death
could serve to save lives then so be it. At least I
would be with Ecthelion again, or so I thought.
However, Mandos does not work that way.

"I was so lonely, so alone on my return. No love, only
duty - until you arrived in Imladris. Like an
explosion of fireworks you burst into my soul,
igniting it for the first time ever, filling me with
light and colour. A day, a year, a hundred years
passed so swiftly, too swiftly, for I lived every
moment in your precious love. Then you asked for more,
you asked for a commitment and a betrothal, and I
panicked. Once before I had thought that it was true
love, and I had been wrong. What if I was wrong this
time too? And what of Ecthelion? Had my love for him
been but a pointless lie? Had I wasted my first life,
was there truly nothing there in the first place? I
started to think of him, talk about him, bringing him
into our conversations because I saw that he was
fading from my mind, as he had faded from my heart
once you had entered there. It was a desperate
justification of the choices I had made in Gondolin,
and I tried to prove to myself that I was not as
fickle as I felt myself to be. It is so hard to
explain, my love, because I do not truly understand my
actions or my feelings. I urgently wanted that first
love to be real because I so desperately needed this
second love, this deep love, to be true and for ever.
And in doing so, I hurt you beyond repair.

"Ecthelion once said that the notes issuing from his
flute were as light, dancing on water. That is what he
was to me - light, elusive, fleeting, dancing always
beyond my reach - never mine. You are different,
Lothvaen. If I am a ship, then you are my sea. I am
nothing without you; I have no purpose without you. I
float on you, I am supported by you; you give my life
meaning. You provide my light upon the water. Without
you I am beached, stranded, useless, for a ship has no
purpose if there is nowhere to sail, and there is no
sea to sail upon. I am lost.

"I love you, Lothvaen, beyond all other loves. Forever
I will love you and no other. If I have lost you then
so be it, I have none to blame but myself but I would
have you know this - I left Ecthelion behind in the
Greenwood. The flute, his music, him. He is gone and
is but a pleasant memory of friendship alone. He will
never intrude in my life again.

"Tell me, my little Lothvaen, I plead with you - have
I no hope?"

The scribe looked long at Glorfindel's face, studying
it intensely, trying to discern if what he had heard
was true, if Glorfindel's love for him was genuine.
Finally with a tearful sparkle in his eye he stood and
reached for Glorfindel, to pull him up to face him.
Lifting his chin, emerald orbs met with sapphire blue.

"If you truly love me, and me alone - then there is
always hope, fëa nín."

The seneschal stood in silent shock for a moment, then
a smile split his face and with a shout he picked up
the little scribe and swung him around with fierce
delight, their happy laughter ringing through the
chamber. As their spinning slowed so did Glorfindel
lower his head to kiss Lothvaen in a touch that was
full of sweetness and promise. Lothvaen parted his
lips to allow Glorfindel to deepen the kiss, welcoming
that diving, searching tongue as he held close to his
love. How he had missed his golden lord!

As the kiss ended the two elves looked at one another,
adoration spilling from the lustrous eyes. In silent
communion Lothvaen led his lord to their bedchamber
where they disrobed amidst sweet kisses to lips,
eyelids, neck, the tempting hollow at the base of the
throat. Hands roamed in a gentle wander, exploring
through silken hair, causing soft gasps as slender ear
points were stroked in passage to sinewy neck; firm
chest was lavishly smoothed and kneaded, and teats
teased with flickering tongue-tip; hip bones were
laved with moist heat as leggings were discarded.

Lothvaen hissed as the red-lipped mouth opened to
engulf his swollen arousal, as the shaft was taken to
the back of the deep throat. Slowly the lips pulled
back once more, encircling labia taut around the
aching member. Another plunge forward, and Lothvaen
screamed as the motion was repeated again and again.
He could not thrust for hands held him at his hips,
firm in their refusal to allow him any control. This
was Glorfindel's apology, his gift of sorrow and love
to his pen neth. A tight hand around the base of the
worshipped member denied Lothvaen release, and he
squirmed as he tried to push past the barriers that
held him from completion. Finally Glorfindel relented
and slowly pulled away, yet Lothvaen clung to him,
weak with need.

"Come to the bed, my love" whispered Glorfindel
hoarsely, and Lothvaen could only allow himself to be
led in his lustful stupor. The scribe was confused
when the golden lord lay down on the top of the
coverlet, lifting his legs and spreading them wide.

"Take me, Lothvaen. Please," he begged, and Lothvaen
understood. Glorfindel needed this rare reversal of
roles, needed to surrender to the devotion he had
fought for and make certain of Lothvaen's eternal love
for him. Lothvaen knew that it was what he needed too.
Bending forward he took the proffered shaft within his
mouth, loving it as much as Glorfindel had worshipped
his. When finally he removed his mouth the scribe
reached for the vial of oil upon the bedside tale and
uncorked it slowly, knowing that the blue orbs were
devouring his body in the adoring gaze.

Smoothing the oil freely over his fingers, he gently
circled the puckered entrance before slipping a digit
through the taut muscle. He took his time in the
preparation, twisting the fingers and stretching the
hole for this uncommon intrusion, probing for the
small gland that would bring such joy to his strong
lover. Glorfindel cried out, arching off the bed when
Lothvaen succeeded in his search, and again when the
movement was repeated. Bending his head forward
Lothvaen reclaimed the purple arousal and grinned
around the stiff shaft when inane words came tumbling
from Glorfindel's mouth.

"'Vaen, my Lothvaen! More, now! Garo nin!"

Unable to refuse in his overwhelming desire to possess
his lord, Lothvaen leaned over him, catching the bent
legs over his arms and pressed forward in one long
smooth stroke. He slid past the pressure of the
guardian ring, crying out as his length slid in the
whole way. Slowly he pulled back then dove in firmly,
beginning to drive forward with powerful, even
strokes, hitting the small gland with each thrust
until the tightening of sacs and clenching of thighs
drove him over the edge. Screaming Glorfindel's name
he plunged one last time, the force of the dive
pulling Glorfindel's own climax from him in shuddering
spasms. Hot cream spilled into silken passage and
splattered onto muscle-toned stomach as they cried out
together in utter fulfillment.

They lay for minutes uncounted, sweat-soaked bodies
entwined in heart-bound completion. When finally they
parted and Lothvaen's flaccid member slipped from
Glorfindel's body, the warrior gave a sigh of sadness.
An enquiring eyebrow lifted, and Glorfindel laughed.

"Ai, meleth nín, do not bring Elrond to our bed, I beg
of you. The imitation is far too uncanny!"

The dark elf laughed, and rested the length of his
body upon his lover's. "No one else will ever enter
our bed again, my glorious lord. It shall be but you
and I in our refuge from the world."

Glorfindel smiled, knowing now that this was true, and
that Ecthelion had truly been exorcised from their
lives. "You are my sea, Lothvaen, the one who bears me
up. Be it in storm or sunshine, I will always sail
upon your waters knowing that you will take me with
you wherever you wish to go, knowing that you will
bring me to the safe harbour of your love." He paused
for a moment, and then asked in a hushed voice, "Will
you bind with me, love? Will you truly be mine?"

Lothvaen lifted himself off Glorfindel's chest to gaze
lovingly into those beautiful blue eyes.

"I will, my Glorfindel. And you will forever be my
ship of joy speeding merrily over my waves - like
light, dancing on my waters."


FIN




Elvish:

mellon nín - my friend
ellon - male elf (sing.)
edhel - elf (sing.)
meldir - my friend (male)
pen neth - little one
pen vuin - dear one
ind nín - my heart
meleth nín - my love
fëa nín - my soul
Garo nin! - have me!