Imladris, TA 1004


Moonlight filtered in through the frost-covered windows, painting
glittering designs on the frozen surface of the glass. The pale
light bathed the room in a mysterious glow, making Elrond's office --
already deserted at this time of night -- seem even more serene and
almost otherworldly. The air was quiet save for the sound of hushed
breathing and the rustle of silk, for though the room was an official
one and usually stood empty after the day's administrative business
was done, this night it hosted unexpected visitors.

Two figures were poised in the room's centre. One was standing, his
dark hair falling down his back and his open robe revealing bare
flesh. The other, completely unclothed, knelt at his companion's
feet, tracing the curves of the other's body alternately with his
hands and with his mouth. The two barely moved, almost as if
unwilling to disturb the perfection of the tableau they made,
silhouetted against the silver light of the moon.

Elrond shivered in the cool night air, the light silk robe that had
been comfortable in his fire-warmed chambers now inadequate in the
unheated office. He pulled at the fabric and attempted to wrap it
around the figure kneeling at his feet, wanting to impart at least
some warmth to Melpomaen, who looked so very exposed. But Melpomaen
barely noticed, so absorbed was he in his own efforts to warm Elrond
from within. Elrond felt fingers snake their way up his thighs as
Melpomaen's tongue left a tantalizing trail of heat along his length.
He trembled again, this time from delight.

Letting go of his robe, Elrond tangled his hands in Melpomaen's hair,
stroking the dark strands that were softer than any silk. Black eyes
looked up at him from beneath long lashes with an expression that was
both coy and full of fire. Melpomaen leaned his cheek into the
caress and, still holding Elrond's gaze, let the tip of his tongue
tease Elrond's hardening sex with such slow and deliberate
ostentation that the gesture would have seemed lewd had his eyes not
been shining with love. ««Elbereth,»» thought Elrond. ««How could I
ever give him up?»»

Though entranced by the sensation, Elrond nevertheless sought to
ensure his partner's comfort.

"Mel, you are cold..."

"Nay, I am fine."

"I can see you shivering; let me warm you."

Coal-black eyes looked up at him again, and Elrond read a hint of
mischief in their depths.

"Very well," Melpomaen said, rising from his knees and pressing his
naked form against Elrond's own. "if you insist."

Elrond wrapped his thin robe around them both, bringing their chilled
bodies into closer contact. He felt Melpomaen shiver and held him
tighter to his chest. The young Elf laid his head on Elrond's
shoulder and kissed his neck.

"We could go back to my chambers you know; 'tis warm there..." Elrond
ventured reluctantly.

"Nay!" Melpomaen took a step back and looked into Elrond's eyes with
conviction. "You said tonight that you wished we could be more free."

"Yes, but..."

Melpomaen's mouth curled up in a half-smile. "I remember you saying
once you wanted me here, in your office. Well, here we are and...
you are about to have me."

"And the cold?"

"It is of no importance." Melpomaen kissed Elrond softly, then began
to steer him backwards. "I have an idea."

"What sort of idea?" Elrond barely had time to ask the question
before the backs of his thighs encountered a hard wooden surface.
His desk. "You cannot mean to..."

"Oh, yes I can." Melpomaen's naughty smile was obvious now, and in
his eyes gleamed a strange light.

Elrond felt his lover's fire quickly ignite his own passion. Despite
the chill in the air, the unadvisable location of the act they were
about to perform, and his millennia-old judgment, which would
normally keep him from rushing into actions so imprudent, he did not
protest as Melpomaen pushed him back onto the desk. He did not stay
his lover's hands as they swept parchments off the polished wood to
land in a haphazard pile on the ground. Nor did he object as
Melpomaen clambered up onto the oaken surface after him and straddled
his thighs.

Melpomaen looked so beautiful perched on the edge of the wooden desk
that Elrond almost forgot to breathe. The young Elf's body was
luminous in the moonlight, dark hair a striking contrast to pale
skin. The muscles in his slim thighs flexed as he balanced astride
Elrond's legs. He was still cold -- that much was obvious from the
goose flesh on his forearms and the tautness of his nipples -- but he
did not seem to care. Elrond pulled him in for a kiss, utterly under
the spell of this dark-eyed beauty, who could be so quiet and proper
in his library and council, and then turned into a sensual vision
when night fell.

"I am yours, love; take your fill," Melpomaen whispered, guiding
Elrond's fingers to the juncture of thigh and buttock. He gazed
knowingly into Elrond's eyes. "I've wanted you all day; do not make
me wait."

Trembling with lust, Elrond gripped Melpomaen with one hand as the
other blindly searched the desk's surface for the small glass bottle
they had brought. Finding what he sought, he kissed Melpomaen's
mouth, hard, then wrenched the stopper from the bottle, not caring
where it fell. Oil coated his hands, warm and slick, anointing
Melpomaen's body and leaving opalescent smudges on paper and wood.

Melpomaen's flesh warmed under Elrond's fingers, his body yielding,
eyes open, face beautiful. "Yes," Elrond heard him whisper, and
slowly pulled him down onto his lap. Gazing up into Melpomaen's
face, he watched as the young Elf's dark eyes closed in pleasure and
his lower lip twitched at the sensation of being penetrated. Though
it was a sight he had witnessed many times before, Elrond found it no
less potent in its familiarity.

Their bodies now joined, Melpomaen leaned his forehead against
Elrond's and looked into his eyes, black meeting grey.

"I could never tire of this..." The words were more breath than
speech.

"Of what, love?"

"Being the recipient of your... attentions." Wide-eyed wonder and
unabashed enjoyment battled for dominance on Melpomaen's face.

Elrond felt his heart beat faster. "Do my attentions please you so?"
he attempted to return the banter, though his voice shook slightly.

"Oh, yes," Melpomaen said, thighs straining in his movements, eyes
fixed on Elrond's face. "I count myself most fortunate to receive
attentions of such... magnitude."

"Aahh..." was all Elrond could manage in reply. All his eloquence
and self-possession melted away at the sight of Melpomaen's wicked
smile. Realizing that words would certainly fail him now, Elrond
took his cue from his body, which wanted nothing more than to be
surrounded by Melpomaen's heat and to fill him again and again.

He threw his head back, giving up all control, and let the wondrous
creature that was his lover take him to a place where there were no
fears, no regrets, no complications. Just pleasure.


****

From the shadows of the entranceway, through a crack in the oaken
door, angry blue eyes watched the two figures on the desk. The
silent shape, barely perceptible in the half-light, did not stir or
in any other way betray his presence. He simply stood there
unmoving, as if frozen in place, and could almost be taken for one of
the sculptures that adorned the hallway if not for the fury in his
gaze and the fact that his hands were clenched into fists.

Caegaran of the border guard, ever-loyal servant of Imladris and its
Lord, on his nightly patrol through the empty corridors of the Last
Homely House, stood with his feet planted in a fighting stance and
did what he had been trained to do and had dutifully done every
single day of his life for the past two centuries. He watched.

The keen eyes that had spotted many an orc hidden in the densest
foliage and sent countless arrows on their unerring course to slay
intruders now focused in desperate concentration on the scene before
him. Unable to look away, he took in every detail of an image he
would give anything to eradicate from his memory -- that of the Lord
of his heart being loved by another.

And loved quite well, by the looks of it. Against his better
judgment, Caegaran scrutinized the two naked forms entwined in the
moonlit room, his heart crying out in silent anguish at every
pleasure-filled sigh. He watched in horror as Melpomaen moved atop
his Lord -- *his* Lord -- with skill that made it obvious the young
Elf had done it many times before.

So it was true then. Rumours that Elrond had taken a young lover had
flown around the barracks, spread by furtive whispers, raised
eyebrows and the occasional wink, but Caegaran had refused to believe
the malicious gossip circulating about his beloved Lord. Now he had
no choice but to believe. The proof lay right before his eyes.

He felt a sharp stab of pain in his gut, not unlike the feeling of
being pierced with an enemy arrow. ««Would that it were an arrow,»» he
thought bitterly. Any physical wound would have been preferable to
this sensation of being hung from a great height and slowly
eviscerated, not by knives or swords but by soft images and hushed
sounds: a hand tenderly stroking a hip, long hair trailing over a
naked back, a pair of heels precariously balanced over the edge of
the dark wood, an imploring "yes!" coming from the mouth of one for
whom he would have happily laid down his life.

««Why?!»» His heart grieved as bile rose in his throat. ««Why him?»» His
mind followed suit, rebelling at the thought of one as young and
insignificant as Melpomaen holding favour with Lord Elrond. A
nightmarish haze swirled madly in his head until one clear question
finally broke the surface of the painful muddle: ««Why not me?!»»

He tormented himself with speculations about when and how the couple
before him had first come together. Who had initiated the liaison?
As innocent as Melpomaen had been all those months ago, Caegaran
could not picture him approaching the Lord of Imladris with a
romantic proposition. Still, resentful of the young Elf's proximity
to Elrond, Caegaran had spoken to him back then, trying to frighten
the mouse-like scribe away from seeing his Lord and employer in a
more intimate light.

He recalled vividly how the dark eyes had widened in shock at his
words. He had not meant to upset Melpomaen so badly, and had even
regretted the whole episode for a while, but no more. Now he wished
he had been more callous and direct in his warning, for his words had
obviously not had the desired effect.

All those months Melpomaen and Elrond had spent working together had
clearly borne fruit, for now Caegaran could plainly see that the
young Elf moving so seductively on the wooden desk was no longer the
self-conscious and timid newcomer he had once been. Something had
changed him. Elrond's love had changed him.

Anger bubbled up inside Caegaran, red hot in its fury. To think that
this young pup, barely out of his swaddling clothes, with neither
position nor noble parentage to recommend him, actually shared
Elrond's bed... It was an outrage. Why, Melpomaen had called
Imladris home for scarcely more than a full turn of the seasons!
Caegaran had dedicated his whole life to serving the Lord of the
valley, doing his duty with the kind of selfless constancy that only
came from a deep and hidden love. He had adored the Elven Lord from
afar, had nigh worshiped his beauty, wisdom and grace, but he had
never -- never -- dared dream he could take the kind of liberties
Melpomaen was so clearly used to taking. He simply did not feel
himself worthy, and thought Elrond as far above him as the moon was
above the earth. And now Melpomaen...

Caegaran watched as Elrond reached out a hand to stroke Melpomaen's
face. The young Elf smiled at the caress, then arched his back in a
gratuitous display of wantonness. A single bead of sweat made its
way down Melpomaen's chest, gleaming in the soft light of the moon
like a pearl. Elrond captured it with his tongue, closed his mouth
around a dark nipple, then looked into Melpomaen's eyes and whispered
words Caegaran wished he had not heard. But he did hear. They were
words of love.

Feeling his head spin and his stomach threaten to bring up its
contents, Caegaran finally closed his eyes. He turned and limped
away, holding onto the wall for support. There was a buzzing sound
in his ears, as if all his thoughts had run amok, and the world
looked out of focus. Slowly, with the cool stone under his fingers
grounding him in the here-and-now, one certainty began to emerge in
his muddled mind. Melpomaen had stolen his love. He would pay.


****

Notes:

Caegaran is an original character who caused Melpomaen some trouble
in the early chapters of "Sweetness and Gall" (and will no doubt
cause Melpomaen more trouble in the future.)

TBC

Imladris, TA 1004


A warm wind ruffled Glorfindel's formal robes as he stood on the
front steps of the Last Homely House, awaiting the official arrival
of the Lady of Imladris. Those gathered around him, all dressed in
their ceremonial best, fidgeted impatiently or shifted from foot to
foot, for the day was warm and pleasant and the heavy velvet robes
most had donned for the occasion itched mercilessly under the hot
noon sun. Glorfindel smiled at the thought that Erestor had
suggested he wear silk for that very reason. As usual, his lover's
counsel had been sound.

His eyes seeking out Erestor's figure, Glorfindel crossed his arms
behind his back and decided he was quite happy to while away the long
wait by feasting his eyes on the most beautiful Elf in the valley.
He didn't often get the chance to watch his lover from a distance,
engaged in the performance of his official duties. Knowing he might
not get the chance again for a long while, he resolved to take full
advantage.

Erestor stood at Elrond's right hand, poised and proud, his face
betraying no sign of emotion, strands of his coal-black hair
fluttering around his shoulders. As always, he was the epitome of
grace and understatement. It never ceased to amaze Glorfindel how
his lover could make a simple black robe look so regal. Then again,
there were many things about Erestor that Glorfindel found amazing.

Ever attentive, Erestor leaned over and whispered something in
Elrond's ear, his demeanour all coolness and composure. Elrond
closed his eyes, listening intently, then nodded in thought.

Glorfindel did not have the faintest idea what manner of observation
his lover had just made to their Lord, but he did not doubt for a
moment that it was something profound and insightful. He was well
aware Erestor was unparalleled in his capacity as advisor. Even
after knowing the serious Elf for many centuries, he still found
himself in awe of Erestor's intelligence and perceptiveness. It made
him proud of the dark-haired beauty's talents. It made him marvel at
the subtle power veiled beneath that cool gaze. It made him feel...
aroused.

Slightly irked by his lack of composure, he glanced around him to
ascertain whether any of the Elves assembled on the stone steps were
looking in his direction. Fortunately, they were all far too
preoccupied with gazing into the distance and trying to catch the
first glimpse of Celebrían and her Lórien escort. Exhaling with
relief, Glorfindel discreetly rearranged his robes.

Glancing back at his lover, he greedily took in Erestor's still
profile, the darkness of his hair, all his quiet loveliness. He felt
a familiar sensation of vertigo begin somewhere beneath his rib cage
and then spread its pleasant tendrils up his body, making his scalp
tingle with its creeping thrill. Right on its heels followed a wave
of such sweet tenderness that moisture gathered in his eyes, turning
the sun's rays filtering through the trees into glimmering streaks of
multicoloured light.

He had an urge to fall down on his knees and worship his lover's pale
body; with his words, his hands, his mouth -- giving expression to
the adoration with which his heart overflowed. He ached for the
welcoming ceremony and dinner festivities to be over, so that he and
the lovely dark-eyed Elf could retire to their chambers and take
their fill of each other's flesh. Glorfindel well knew the one on
his knees that evening was most likely to be Erestor, as that was the
position the quiet advisor usually preferred -- the master of control
willingly unburdening himself of all authority in the freedom the
darkness afforded. Still, as much as it thrilled Glorfindel to have
all that beauty kneeling at his feet and to feel the hot caresses of
the very mouth that had uttered such sage counsel, he could not help
wanting to bow down before Erestor and honour him.

The shrill sound of trumpets brought Glorfindel out of his trance.
He straightened up, took in a calming breath and focused his
attention on the Lórien convoy, which had just then come into view.
The Elves around him were chattering with excitement, hurriedly
smoothing their robes and craning their necks to get a better look.
Many of them were young and had likely not witnessed such pomp and
commotion before, as Imladris did not host illustrious guests often.
Glorfindel smiled indulgently. He could hardly remember being that
impressionable himself, though he knew there had been a time when he
had reacted just as they, moved to awe by the sight of such
splendour. Now the only sight that made his heart pound was that of
a lean figure dressed entirely in black, motionless at Elrond's side.

Casting one last quick look in his lover's direction, Glorfindel
suddenly felt his heart stop in his chest. Erestor's shoulders were
hunched and his muscles tensed as if he wanted to curl in on himself
and disappear. His already pale complexion had turned an unhealthy
shade of white. His eyes, usually so discreet in their glances, were
fixed on the approaching entourage quite openly, and seemed to be
filling with panic. Something was very, very wrong.

****

Melpomaen's heart sank ever deeper with each step that brought
Celebrían and her escort closer to the Last Homely House. He had
already felt it drop through the bottom of his stomach when he first
caught sight of his lover's wife and yet, though he could hardly
believe it possible, lower and lower it plunged, its wild shudders
beating time with the sound of her horse's hooves. Desperately
anchoring his eyes on the ground before him, he had a bizarre vision
of his poor heart tumbling down to his feet, to be crushed by the
Lady's steady approach. Unable to bring himself to look up, he did
not raise his eyes until the sound of horses' hooves was replaced by
that of neighing, only a few feet away, and he heard Elrond's beloved
voice speak formal words of welcome.

He dared to look then, and immediately wished he had not.

He had heard talk of her great beauty, and had braced himself for the
sight of her golden hair, her fair face, her bright eyes. He had
even been ready for the aura of authority and self-assurance she
projected -- he knew she was used to commanding and being obeyed.
What took him completely by surprise and nearly knocked him to his
knees in its unexpectedness was the air of entitlement, ownership
even, that radiated from her. It was obvious that she belonged
here. Though she chose to make Lórien her home, Imladris *was* her
rightful place and Elrond *was* her husband. Valar-sanctioned, until
the end of Arda.

In that moment Melpomaen had the painful epiphany that, beside her,
he amounted to nothing. For all the love his heart held for Elrond,
for all their closeness, Melpomaen's place his lover's life was
precarious at best. He was an intruder. She was the great Lady of
this realm come back to stake her claim.

Taking Elrond's proffered hand, Celebrían dismounted and was greeted
by a formal kiss on the cheek. The spouses exchanged a few quiet
words, Elrond's face schooled in the mask of pleased tranquility he
usually wore in the presence of official visitors. His hand cradling
his wife's elbow, the Lord of the valley gestured toward the well-
wishers gathered on the front steps and led Celebrían toward them.

He guided her along the long row of Elves lined up on the steps, like
a commander inspecting his troops. One by one, he introduced the
members of his household to Celebrían, giving each one's name and
position in the valley's hierarchy. Watching the Elves bow before
their Lady, Melpomaen could do naught but wait, dreading his turn,
yet knowing it must come.

Finally the rustle of silk drew closer and Melpomaen heard his
lover's voice say: "This is Melpomaen; a junior advisor and scribe
who works under Master Erestor." Knowing he could put the inevitable
off no longer, he bowed low and respectfully, then straightened up
and looked into Celebrían's face.

Her eyes were cool, her gaze serene and impassive, yet, when she
looked at him, Melpomaen felt himself the object of such intense
scrutiny that he nearly squirmed. She did not smile, did not say a
word; she merely watched, but Melpomaen nearly burned under her icy
stare. Instead of moving on, she lingered and proceeded to examine
him from head to foot, almost as if trying to decipher some great
puzzle.

Barely stifling the urge to run and hide, Melpomaen gradually felt
his suspicions turn into certainty. ««She knows,»» he thought, looking
down at the ground. ««She's known all along. That is why she has
come.»» The inevitability and hopelessness of it all hit him full-
force, nearly choking him. He had loved and been loved by Elrond for
nearly three years now. He should have known his happiness could not
last. It had been a prize too readily won. Now it would be taken
away.

As Celebrían's steps gradually retreated and the next Elf in line was
presented to her, Melpomaen nearly slumped onto the stone surface
under his feet. His muscles, held rigid and still by pure force of
will on his part, now began to shake. Despite the bright sun shining
down on him, he felt quite cold. ««Courage,»» he thought. ««This will
be over soon.»»

He raised his eyes and looked around, in an attempt to focus his mind
on more neutral matters. And that was when he noticed something that
had hitherto escaped his attention.

The Lórien convoy was somewhat larger than he had expected, elaborate
though he knew it would be. ««That is no single escort!»» he realized
with amazement, for indeed the Elves gathered to the left of
Celebrían's warriors were not dressed in the uniform of the
Galadhrim. They seemed to be a separate group, and at their head
stood an Elf whose beauty, manner of dress and noble bearing
signalled to all that he was a Lord and leader in his own right.

As the last of the introductions on the steps of the Last Homely
House was made, Melpomaen saw Elrond turn and walk over to welcome
the mysterious Elf, his greeting familiar. ««They know each other,»»
Melpomaen thought with surprise, then quickly chastised himself for
the absurdity of his observation. His older lover had, after all,
millennia of experience; had fought for the good of Middle-earth
probably long before Melpomaen's parents were even born. It was no
remarkable thing that Elrond and the stranger would be friends of old.

Or were they? Melpomaen found himself reconsidering his last thought
as he watched the two Lords interact. He knew his lover well enough
by now to be able to judge his measure of affection and trust for
those in his presence. Elrond's demeanour around the noble visitor
may have been informal, but trust was noticeably absent from his
face. Although pleased, the expression Elrond wore was guarded and
not free of reservations.

««I shall have to ask him about it tonight, when we are alone.»»
Melpomaen's thoughts followed a well-trod path, only to be brought up
short by the brutal recollection of reality. He would not be able to
ask his lover any private thing tonight or any other night, for long
weeks to come. They would not be alone. Celebrían was now in their
midst, and their lives had begun to undergo a frightening and painful
metamorphosis. Melpomaen felt as if he were sinking into a familiar
nightmare, only, this time, Elrond's arms were not there to hold him
fast.

****

Out of the corner of his eye, Glorfindel saw Melpomaen blanch and
steel his resolve under Celebrían's careful inspection. A few paces
away, Elrond looked somewhat less than comfortable. Glorfindel felt
a pang of sympathy for Elrond and his young lover -- the situation
they found themselves in was not to be envied, and would likely
deteriorate further before Celebrían's visit had run its course.

He would normally have given more attention to his friends' plight,
but just now his concern was focused elsewhere. Erestor's stiff
shoulders had not moved an inch since the courtyard had filled with
visitors, and Glorfindel could see it was not merely proper etiquette
that kept his body so still. The advisor's eyes, instead of
following the welcoming formalities with interest, were inspecting
the stones beneath his feet, only occasionally glancing sideways at
the source of his distress, as if to verify it was still there.

The next time Erestor hazarded a guarded look in the direction of his
supposed bane, Glorfindel followed his eyes and found himself staring
at a group of Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's convoy. He
recognized them, of course, as he had had dealings with them in the
past, and he was only mildly surprised to find they had joined with
Celebrían's escort and accompanied it to Imladris.

««Gildor Inglorion and his Wandering Company must have encountered the
Lórien warriors on the way,»» he thought, still perplexed as to why
the sight of golden-haired Gildor and his small troop of followers
would cause Erestor to react so alarmingly.

Then he saw Gildor catch Erestor's eye and send him a knowing,
slightly mocking smile. Gildor's eyebrow was raised, as if he were
asking Erestor a question. This gesture, although not overtly
improper or threatening in any way, nevertheless had the power to
immediately rivet Erestor's gaze back on the dust under his boots.

Glorfindel, already dismayed at the alien sight of his proud lover
falling prey to intimidation so easily, noticed with further dread
that Erestor's face had now gone completely ashen and his nails were
digging into his palms.

««What manner of sorcery is this?»» he thought with anger. Erestor was
anything but craven, so why would a mere look from Gildor Inglorion
have him cowering in fear like a child?

Suddenly awareness dawned on Glorfindel, simple and clear, yet
terrible in its simplicity. There was only one who had ever had such
oppressive control over Erestor's heart and mind; only one who had
caused the proud advisor to cry from shame. Glorfindel had once
sworn he would cut this Elf's throat if he ever came across his path,
but he had never believed such a thing would actually happen. It had
seemed to him that Erestor's past was just that: the past -- a
memory that would never cast fresh shadows over their shared future.
And yet here was this very memory made flesh -- in the form of Gildor
Inglorion's haughty smirk -- and there stood Erestor shaken to his
very core.

Glorfindel cast a furious look in Gildor's direction. ««If you cause
one more tear to fall from Erestor's eyes you will rue the day your
mother and father begot you; I swear it,»» he thought, suddenly
feeling fiercely protective of the competent diplomat who usually
required no one to come to his defence.

Gildor's eyes were still fixed on Erestor, as if daring him to look
up. The intensity of his gaze was such that Erestor could not help
but meet it once again; unwilling, yet drawn as if by a magnet.
Gildor smiled broadly then, the disdain that almost dripped from his
smile making his fair face take on a cruel aspect and sending a chill
through Glorfindel's sun-warmed flesh.

««Elbereth help me,»» Glorfindel thought with desperation. ««The Valar
stay my hand and let his visit be brief, or I may do things I shall
later regret.»»


****

As the sun's heat gradually lost its fervour, the courtyard slowly
emptied of visitors. All the important dignitaries had been escorted
to their rooms to rest after the long journey, and even the less high-
ranking of Celebrían's and Gildor's people had been shown to their
quarters, where they could enjoy the comforts of the Last Homely
House. Those in Elrond's employ who had assigned responsibilities
were busy carrying out their tasks, while those whose less eminent
positions gave them no special duties to perform found there was
naught left to gawk at, and so went about their regular business.

After the furore of the mid-morning, the courtyard looked strangely
empty, filled now with nothing more than grooms seeing to the
travellers' weary horses, whose hooves filled the air with fine dust.

A keen observer who looked closer, however, would have seen two
figures engaged in private conversation, leaning up against a wall in
an out-of-the-way corner. Both were blond and had a warrior's build,
though one was slightly taller than the other. The tall one was
dressed in the colours of Imladris' own guard, while his companion
wore the distinctive grey uniform of the Galadhrim. Their heads were
bent together in the manner of old friends and their voices were
quiet enough to signal to anyone watching that the topic of their
discussion was of a distinctly private nature.

"Which one was he?" the Galadhel asked.

"The young one, dressed in blue. The one who looked so frightened."

"Yes, now I remember. I can't fault him for looking frightened. I,
too, would tremble before the daughter of the Lady of the Wood."

"His lover's wife," the Imladris guard added with bitterness.

"His lover's wife..." the Galadhel laughed, more out of bewilderment
than amusement.

"Why do you laugh?"

"His boldness is to be admired; to share the bed of Elrond Half-
elven..."

The Imladris guard flicked the hair out of his eyes in a gesture of
annoyance. "Enough! Now will you help me or not?"

"Patience my dear Caegaran, please. Of course I'll help you." The
Galadhel paused and lowered his voice. "What do you need me to do?"

"Only that for which you are well known, Haldir." Caegaran
smirked. "Seduce him."

"Seduce the youthful advisor?" Haldir's laughter rang through the
courtyard.

"Shh, quiet! Someone will hear."

Haldir checked his exuberance, once again lowering his voice. "But
that is no challenge, Caegaran. He is barely more than a child! I
would have him in my bed within a week, if not sooner, and where is
the sport in that? It is hardly worth my time."

"You are overconfident, Haldir."

"What do you mean?"

Caegaran raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I am not certain you will
manage to seduce him at all. He and Elrond have been exclusive for
many seasons now. The young one has never been with another, nor do
I think he wishes to be, for he is utterly faithful and devoted to
his lover."

"Ah." Haldir's eyes widened with understanding. "I think I see now
why you need me. After he has been used by another -- especially one
of my reputation -- Elrond may not find him as appealing."

Caegaran's face lit up with a menacing glow. "Elrond will cast him
out of his bed like a common harlot."

Haldir regarded his friend's face carefully. "I have never known you
to be so devious, Caegaran."

"I have never before been so grieved and offended."

Haldir extended his hand and clasped his companion's forearm. "You
may rely on me, meldir. Both on my talents and my discretion."

"Thank you."

"And I do not think the task itself will be so very unpleasant. The
young one is quite comely, if a bit thin..."

Caegaran snorted with scorn, turning away from his friend's face.
Haldir laughed once again and, grasping Caegaran's shoulder, leaned
in close.

"You never told me his name," he whispered.

"It's Melpomaen."


****

Notes:

Galadhel - singular form of Galadhrim
meldir - friend (male)

For reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the
last chapter of "Sweetness and Gall." :)



TBC

Imladris, TA 1004


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I believe we are both in dire need of whatever forgetfulness and
relief a strong bottle might offer," she said. "Do not think me blind
to the upheaval my arrival has wrought."

"I have never thought you blind, my Lady, though I must admit I had
forgotten just how candid you could be." Elrond smiled.

"You know diplomacy was never my strength. I do not believe in
speaking in riddles."

"Speak plainly then. We are husband and wife, after all; there should
be no secrets between us."

No sooner had the words left Elrond's mouth than he realized how
falsely they rang. But they could not be taken back, and all he
could do was cringe inwardly and watch Celebrían's lips curl up in a
smirk as her eyebrow rose up in question.

"No secrets?"

Elrond felt his face grow hot and cast his eyes down to the starched
linen tablecloth. His fingers twisted the napkin in his lap.

"Celebrían, I--"

"I have not come here to cause you distress, Elrond, nor to cast
blame." Her words were quiet, but effective. Reaching out for his
hand, she gave it one gentle squeeze, then let go. "There is much
that we do not know about one another, and that is not surprising,
considering the nature of our situation."

Elrond could not help but feel saddened to hear this long-
unacknowledged reality at last uttered so bluntly. He looked up at
his wife, seeking to gauge her reaction to her own words, but her
face was as cool and impassive as ever. He let his eyes wander back
to the ivory linen crumpled on his knees.

Celebrían reached forward and, picking up a large flagon of wine,
filled Elrond's cup to the brim. She lifted it from the table and
placed it in his hand.

"Your guests will not mind," she said.

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

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

"Will you not have some?" he asked.

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

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

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

Elrond smiled. "Is she well?"

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

"I look forward to it."

"As do I. Only..."

"What is it?"

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

"Two bottles might serve us better than one. There is much that we
need to discuss."


****


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

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

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

««Less than a day, and already I miss home,»» she thought, unsurprised.
She had expected it, had had no illusions about feeling at ease in
the place she had once left by choice. And her expectations had thus
far been confirmed. Really, it was uncanny how effortless it was to
fall back into old feelings and habits, as if no time had passed at
all. She and Elrond had spent a whole evening drinking wine to help
loosen the tongue and calm their frazzled nerves, and yet neither had
had the courage to broach the subject they both knew was uppermost in
their minds. They had said much, but had shied away from speaking the
crucial words that had the power to either hurt or heal. It was like
groping in the dark and failing to grasp the hand of the one reaching
out to you; like trying to make out the features of a face hidden
behind a thick pane of glass. Things had changed very little indeed.

They had talked of their children, had exchanged news of mutual
friends and acquaintances, had even laughed about old times -- those
that brought back memories of pleasures shared rather than mutual
recriminations. But neither dared mention their current situation or
the reason for Celebrían's visit to the valley, though it was obvious
from Elrond's guarded looks that he thought of little else and feared
her motives.

He would do right by her, that much she knew. He always had. If it
broke his heart and tore his joy to shreds, he would grant her any
requests she, as his rightful spouse, was entitled to make. He had
once bowed to her wishes with hope, trusting the promises they had
made to each other would hold true. Now he would do it out of duty,
and the young pair of eyes she had glimpsed at the end of the banquet
table, nervously regarding her as the powerful rival she was, might
overflow with tears.

She had been curious about the young one ever since rumours of him
had first reached her ears, and had taken every opportunity this day
to look her fill -- though she was unlikely to determine his reasons
for becoming involved with her husband by sight alone. She was well
aware that he could sense her eyes on him -- the tense set of his
shoulders and watchful glances sent her way told her that he likely
thought her a formidable foe -- but she did not avert her eyes or in
any way try to ease his discomfort. He may have been young and
possibly quite amiable, but she did not owe him a thing.

He probably thought she was angry, maybe even vengeful, but she was
not -- at least not anymore. When the malicious gossip had first
seeped into the Golden Wood Celebrían had seethed and cursed her
husband's indiscretion. But the anger had subsided, soothed into a
more manageable form by time and logical persuasion. Had she and
Elrond not agreed to live apart, after all? How much self-denial and
seclusion could reasonably be expected of an Elf-man in his prime?
Would a heart left in the cold not naturally reach out for
companionship?

Wearily undoing her braids, she sank down onto the lace-covered bed.
She would probably be seeing a great deal of Melpomaen in the coming
weeks, for the Last Homely House, though impressive, was deceptively
small. Their paths would cross in the corridors or walkways, and she
could already see him trying to shrink into himself, desperately
wishing to blend into the walls to avoid her eyes. If she were to
walk up to him and take him by the shoulders, no doubt he would
shudder, waiting for her to unleash her wrath.

What Melpomaen did not know -- could not possibly know -- was that
her indignation had been replaced by a sort of morbid curiosity: the
fascination of someone who had for years gazed at one of the
mysteries of life through an impenetrable screen. There was a
burning question on her tongue, and yet how could she possibly ask
it? How could she turn to her husband's lover and say, "What is it
like? Do you love him? What do you see when you look at him?"

She knew what she saw, and imagined that most people saw the same.
Elrond was beautiful, wise and kind. Most who looked upon him were
amazed that an Elf who had witnessed so many sorrows could still glow
with such vitality and passion. He was a patient and considerate
spouse, and Celebrían knew that, in marrying for the good of her
people rather than her own, she had fared much better than most in
her position. Elrond was a good person; there was not a shred of
doubt in her mind as to his worth. And yet she looked at him and
felt... nothing.

Elbereth knew she had tried, as had he. He had been so careful with
her from the very beginning, seeming to understand her fears and
reservations. He did not touch her for almost two months after they
were wed, for he could tell that she did not wish it. When they
finally did lie together as husband and wife, his fingers were
gentle, his elbows heedful to keep his weight off her, his hips
restraining their urge to push. She looked at his strong, naked body
and knew that there were some who would give nearly anything to be
lying beneath him the way she was. There were those who trembled at
the mere sound of his voice, let alone a more intimate caress. And
yet she did not.

She would sometimes look at Elrond, over a shared breakfast or across
a crowded hall, and wonder just why it was that she felt numb. They
were friends, after all -- of a sort. She knew he took pleasure in
her company, and she in turn appreciated his. And yet she could not
help feeling that she was enveloped in a clear membrane which, for
all its transparency, could not be punctured. After a while, it
simply became easier to be alone, and Elrond gradually learned not to
ask for explanations she was unable to provide. When she finally
announced she would be moving back to Lórien he was not surprised,
although his eyes did look at her with more sadness than he usually
allowed himself to show.

Tonight those same eyes had observed her with apprehension, even a
hint of fear -- an expression which had taken her aback at first,
used as she was to thinking of Elrond as a master of his emotions.
But it seemed that not all matters in the valley had remained
untouched by the hand of time. Her long-estranged husband had at
last placed his heart in the keeping of another: someone he cared
about -- quite deeply, it seemed. She wondered whether his trust was
well placed and, if so, whether she was big-hearted enough not to
begrudge him his new happiness.

Celebrían leaned back on the soft pillows and drew the fresh cotton
covers up to her chin. The night stretched out before her, infinite
in its stillness, tempting in its anonymity. The bed was wide and
empty, and she felt strangely comforted by the thought that none but
she would rest in its embrace, tangling in the crisp sheets by dawn.
Silence whispered in her ear, and she welcomed it as the dear friend
it was.



TBC
Imladris, TA 1004


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

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

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

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

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

"He is here," Erestor said.

"I know."

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

"How?"

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well. If you wish it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Erestor, no!"

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

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

"But my behaviour--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When at last he could trust himself to speak, he said, "However long
Gildor chooses to stay, we will cope, Erestor, we will stand
together. You are not alone."


****
TBC

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


-- Early morning --

Glorfindel hesitated for a few seconds before raising his hand to the
door. The rap of his knuckles against solid wood sounded
disturbingly loud, almost rude, in the silence of the hallway. He
flinched. He did not want to disturb Elrond in the sanctuary of his
chambers -- not during the few morning hours that were uniquely
Elrond's own -- but felt he had little choice. Once the Last Homely
House was fully awake and the official business of the realm
commanded all of Elrond's attention, it was next to impossible to
engage him in a private conversation.

And the matter Glorfindel was hoping to speak to Elrond about was
distinctly private. That night Erestor had once again woken abruptly
from a fitful sleep, shaking and bathed in sweat. Gildor's
continuing presence was affecting the quiet advisor greatly, and it
went against Glorfindel's nature to stand idly by and do nothing. It
was time to tell Elrond; Glorfindel was badly in need of his friend's
wisdom and insight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you talked to him?"

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

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

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

Glorfindel moved around to Elrond's front, and sat down on a low
stool. He leaned forward, eager to catch every word.

Elrond continued. "She knows, Glorfindel. She hasn't spoken it
aloud, but I can see it in her face. She knows exactly what
Melpomaen means to me."

"And?"

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

"She is deciding your doom."

"And his."

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

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

"Yes. I owe her that much."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know."

"And so you wait."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


****

-- Late morning --

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

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

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

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

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

"Haldir. Good morrow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


****

-- Early afternoon --

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes." Melpomaen nodded.

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

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

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

"Very well." Melpomaen bowed and led the way.

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

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

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

"Yes, I have heard of it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


****

Notes:

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



TBC

Edhellond, TA 934


"I still think you were somewhat harsh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


****

Imladris, TA 1004


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Melpomaen!"

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

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

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

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

"I do not need advice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Mel."

"He is unhappy."

"As are you."

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

Glorfindel's arms tightened around Melpomaen for a moment, then
released their hold. The older Elf looked at Melpomaen's face, and
smiled reassuringly.

"And still you say you do not need my counsel."

Melpomaen shrugged and looked down at his bare feet. "Maybe I do,"
he said. "Though I know not what you could say that would make things
easier."

"Easier?" For a moment, Glorfindel looked as if his thoughts were far
away. "No, it is not in my power to do that. But I can make things
clearer. I can give you the unadorned truth -- I am known for
that." He wiped Melpomaen's cheeks with the back of his
knuckles. "What say you?"

Melpomaen felt a certain weight lift from his chest at the prospect
of discussing his troubles with a friend, even if no solution to his
heartache could be found. A lump formed in his throat -- part
sorrow, part gratitude -- and he nodded.

"Very well."


****

The flames in the fireplace were low, flickering rather than burning,
slowly turning the glowing embers to ashes. The large kitchen was
mostly in shadow, and Melpomaen was glad of this, for he did not
think he could lay his heart bare in the glaring light of day.

Glorfindel was apparently taking his self-imposed role of confidant
very seriously, for he fussed over Melpomaen like a concerned healer
over his patient. In his zeal, he had even prepared a sickeningly
sweet hot potion, which Melpomaen now sipped from a steaming cup
while trying not to scald his tongue. The taste of it was rather
revolting, for Glorfindel's culinary skills were obviously far
inferior to his battle prowess, but Melpomaen felt much cheered by
such evidence that someone cared for him, and drank the beverage
without protest.

"Pen-neth..." Glorfindel began, then stopped, and looked at Melpomaen
closely. "Perhaps I should cease calling you that; you hardly seem
the same young Elf who began work here a few years ago. Much has
happened since then. You are certainly no child."

"It's all right, really. I do not mind."

Glorfindel smiled. "I will not insult your intelligence by
explaining matters which are already quite plain and on which you no
doubt have thought a great deal. I will simply state what I believe
needs to be done."

Melpomaen nodded.

"You need to make a choice, and a difficult one," Glorfindel
said. "No one can help you, for the decision is yours alone. You
need to decide what you want."

"But I already know--"

"No, pen-neth. You know what is in your heart, and you know that you
are hurting. What you need to do now is open your eyes and make a
rational choice, like an advisor in Elrond's council, dispassionately
weighing both sides of the matter. And then live with the
consequences."

Melpomaen put down his cup and placed both his palms down on the
table to steady himself. Although he knew Glorfindel usually avoided
subtlety, the older Elf's candid approach still made him feel as if
he were riding an out-of-control horse through the woods, branches
whipping past him at high speeds.

Glorfindel continued. "Your lover is married. That will never
change. His marriage is not a happy one, and that is not likely to
change either."

"How can you be sure?"

Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words, then
replied, "I have been a witness to their union long enough to judge
that to be true."

"Oh." Melpomaen was dizzy. He felt pain in his fingers, and
realized that his nails were digging into the wooden surface of the
table.

Undeterred, Glorfindel continued. "If you wish to be able to love
openly, to bind yourself to another in the eyes of the Valar, then
you should leave him now. For -- know this -- if you choose to love
him, you will forever have to stay in the shadows." Leaning closer,
he added, "He would not hold it against you, you know. He cares too
much for your happiness, and has had to make a number of impossible
choices in his life, too."

"But I cannot leave him!" Melpomaen heard his voice shake, then
crack, and clenched his teeth in an attempt to hold back tears. "Is
it so wrong for me to want him all for myself?"

Glorfindel comfortingly draped an arm around Melpomaen's
shoulder. "Not wrong, no. Just impossible."

For a long time, they were quiet. Glorfindel kept his arm in place,
and Melpomaen found its solid presence around his back soothing
beyond measure. He leaned against the older Elf, appreciating the
solace offered by such a touch. It seemed like an eternity since he
had been held this way. After the years he had spent in close
proximity with Elrond, being wholly deprived of physical contact had
proven a shock; he found he missed his lover's reassuring embraces
even more than the sensual nature of their bond.

Glorfindel did not seem to mind Melpomaen's need to be consoled with
nearness. Melpomaen closed his eyes and felt his heartbeat slow as
his thoughts hung suspended somewhere between one painful decision
and another. It did not take a lot of effort to summon up the image
of Elrond's face -- so beautiful, so beloved, and... not his.
Suddenly the impossibility of the choice he had to make seemed
overwhelming.

"What should I do?" he whispered.

Glorfindel's voice was kind, but firm. "It isn't a question of what
you *should* do, pen-neth. It's a question of what you can live
with."

****

Notes:

Elves reach their majority at the age of 50. At 20, Melpomaen is the
equivalent of a human 7- or 8-year-old.

Pen-neth - young one

Lórien is the Vala of dreams.

Extra points for those who can identify the Silmarillion quote read
by Glorfindel (and kissed by Mel) in this chapter. ;)



TBC

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 matter 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


TBC

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."


TBC

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 signaled 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 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.



TBC

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 labeled.

"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 traveled 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 that 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 EarTip 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


TBC

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 revelers 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.



TBC

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.


TBC

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."

TBC

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."



TBC

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.




END