Title: Changes, part 3 of 4
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Elrond/Celeborn/Galadriel; Galadriel/Inwë
Summary: In which Elrond and Celeborn learn about true submission, and
Haldir
learns . . . oh, a lot. This is a continuation of Unspoken and
Revelations, so read them first or prepare to be really confused.
Feedback: I live for it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, at all, period. It's very sad.
Warning: Het content and BDSM.
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N: A reviewer asked, and I quote, "don't you ever do nice sex?" Well,
personally I happen to think BDSM is pretty nice, but then, I aim to
please; so here's a softer side of Haldir for all of you who prefer him
that way. I reserve the right to tie up Elrond, however!
"You are going to get yourself killed," Erestor hissed, as he slowly let out the grey Elvin rope at the end of which dangled the figure of Glorfindel. Below him was nothing for a very long way--just the chasm over which the Last Homely House had been constructed and a great deal of open air. It was a beautiful scene from a balcony or window, with the rivulets and waterfalls crashing amongst craggy rocks, but the thought of what would happen, even to an elf's body, should he fall from such a height was close to giving Erestor heart failure.
"Let out a little more," came Glorfindel's voice softly from now a considerable distance away. Erestor, clinging to the peak of the roof above Elrond's rooms, slowly obliged, careful to play out the rope as evenly as possible with only one hand with which to work. His other was clinging desperately to the decorative bronze finial on the roof's peak, which offered the only handhold available. A sudden gust of wind and rain slapped his face and almost caused him to lose his precarious grip, which was not helped by the fact that he had to lean far over the edge of the roof to see what Glorfindel was doing. He quickly looped some more of the line around the post at his elbow and renewed his grip. Bother Glorfindel and his crazy schemes anyway! The elf had always been reckless, preferring the more showy and dangerous road to that of caution and common sense. Erestor had occasionally envied him his careless flamboyance, but at the moment, he could only deplore the irresponsibility that seemed likely to end in tragedy.
Glorfindel, however, had managed the seemingly impossible task of fighting the gales that buffeted him from side to side, and was now approaching the balcony outside Elrond's study. Erestor shivered for more than one reason as his long-time friend slid along the slick sides of the house until his feet came into contact with the slippery balcony railing. Even if he made it, which it looked rather as if he might, what would he find within? Erestor rather thought that he could live without knowing, and trusted Elrond to deal with whatever difficulties his admittedly foolish actions had brought on him. For Elbereth's sake, the elf was approaching 6,000 years of age; if he couldn't talk his way out of something by now . . .
Of course, this WAS Galadriel they were discussing, and that did rather alter things, but still, Elrond had clearly commanded him to leave and he was not in the habit of ignoring a direct order. Had he been able to refuse Glorfindel without seriously imperiling the life of his friend, Erestor would have happily done so. But in that case, Glorfindel would merely have found someone else for the job, and they might not have been as
competent . . . or as discreet. He closed his eyes briefly, both because Glorfindel was now attempting to launch himself onto the rain washed balcony and Erestor could no longer bear to watch, and because thoughts of the scandal if any of this came out was enough to make him wish for somewhere to hide--preferably for a century or so until everything blew over.
As loyal as he was to Elrond, Erestor couldn't help but be a tad irritated at his friend and master. He could have any elf he wanted--any elf--so why did it have to be Celeborn? Elrond, he mourned, why, oh why, didn't you just say no? You are no elfling to be ruled by your passions, and don't we have a satisfying arrangement already? Erestor knew, of course, that Elrond was not in love with him, had never been and never would be, but that suited him admirably since he, probably alone among the elves of Imladris, was not in love with him either. However, he did enjoy their little games, and Celebrian was so often gone that it was almost as if he occupied her place in the home. It was he who arranged the festivals, ordered the decorations and planned the food. It was his organisation that made the whole house run with military efficiency, but also with an understated grace that immediately relaxed any and all comers. Visitors had their needs met even before most realised they had them, and many commented that it felt as if there was some type of magic field that encased this land, making all within it tranquil and beautiful. Erestor snorted; what made Imladris work so well was planning, and pure and simple hard work--his hard work, thank you very much--which had nothing to do with showy feats of valour but much with order and routine. It might not be glamorous, but it worked.
And now, here he was, stuck with a completely unexpected crisis on his hands that no amount of planning could have foreseen, just because Elrond had to have a romp with the last elf in Arda on whom he should ever have laid a finger. Erestor was as close to disliking his Lord as he had ever been, part of which was caused by serious worry over exactly what was happening in that so silent room. His mind kept projecting images of tall, stately Noldor carrying off sacks filled with butchered elf parts to some secret and unsung grave . . . merciful Valar, but he needed a drink! A really big drink, he thought longingly--maybe an entire barrel of the Mirkwood vintage would allow him to forget this day's events . . .
Thankfully, Glorfindel aroused him from his morbid fancies with a tug on the line. Erestor looked down to see one of the Noldor seemingly asleep in Glorfindel's arms, and as he watched, his friend tied the elf securely to the rope and tugged on it again, apparently meaning for Erestor to pull his captive up to the roof. Another limp body had been tossed over the balcony railing at what looked to be a rather precarious angle. Both were male elves; Erestor rather hoped Glorfindel's usual chivalry would keep him from treating the female the same way.
As he began the laborious process of hauling up the first captive, his dark hair plastered to his drenched form and his rarely used muscles protesting the strain, Erestor was still glad to have his job rather than Glorfindel's. A glance downward showed that the golden-haired Lord had disappeared once more behind the heavy, drawn curtains beyond the balcony. Whispering a quick prayer for his safety, Erestor allowed the Noldor below him to bounce a few quite unnecessary times against the hard wood of the house. Disrupt his perfect routine, would they? Well, they'd soon discover that an irritated Sindar could be quite a formidable adversary himself, especially one who had had to forgo his weekly massage to go climbing about rooftops in the middle of a tempest!
* * *
Haldir seated himself calmly beside his afternoon's experiment and smiled as guilessly as he could manage. He was proud of many of his abilities--he was a skilled tracker, a lauded marksman, an expert with either knives or swords, and was usually a proficient rider when the horse was even partially well trained. He could also dance, compose a poem or song, and flatter with a courtier's ease. Yet his greatest talent, and the one which counted as his favourite hobby, was that of seduction, whether it be verbally in persuading another realm to align with Lorien's wishes, or on a more . . . personal level. He had rarely failed, and never when it came to charming a would-be lover. He did not intend for a bedraggled Imladris elf to ruin that perfect record.
Pulling Gildor back against him, he resumed where they had left off, but with far more concentration than he had previously shown. "So tell me, why so shy, Gildor of everywhere? You are pretty enough, meldir, when you do not hide behind ill-fitting clothes." He drew the elf even closer, wedging him between his outstretched legs, and wriggling behind him until he was comfortable. At least Haldir was comfortable; Gildor was as tense as if he expected imminent execution, but Haldir allowed no irritation at that fact to creep into his tone. "Do you know what I was thinking earlier?" He knew his breath was tickling the back of Gildor's neck, for the elf was attempting to lean away from him to avoid it, which was strange in one who supposedly felt no attraction. "I was thinking that I would like to see this pretty chest encased in a shirt of the finest Lorien silk," he allowed a roving fingertip to very lightly draw a circle around one of Gildor's taught nipples, "although no silk could be smoother than your skin, mellon. Or, it would feel exquisite," he murmured, while sliding both hands from Gildor's breast to his stomach, where they lingered, "to feel all these perfect muscles shifting under the softest suede. Yes . . . that would be very nice."
Haldir allow his hands to continue their exploration of Gildor's torso while he ran his tongue delicately along the side of his neck and under his jawline, which had been exposed when his captive twisted his head away. Chuckling softly at the action, and insuring that his breath passed over the now moist skin, Haldir gently began to nuzzle the silky ear nearest him. "It is no good turning from me, mellon . . . all parts of you are delicious," and he nipped slightly at the plump lobe. Gildor jerked at the sensation, but Haldir kept him in place with a strong arm about his waist, which, since it was already there, he also used to pull the reluctant elf still closer up against him. "Can't you feel how much I desire you, brother?," he whispered, reaching with his free hand to cup the warm, sleek swell of Gildor's hip and then jerk it back in one quick motion, closing what slight space had remained between them. He then wrapped his legs tightly around the startled elf, who had apparently not been expecting that particular move, thus keeping Gildor trapped while freeing his own hands. Simultaneously, he began to suck very lightly on the delicate flesh of his companion's neck, slowly raising a mark that the shy elf would have some difficulty explaining when they returned.
Gildor was becoming obviously more distressed, and was making what felt like genuine attempts to get away. Haldir had no intention of forcing him to do anything, but he was also not about to release him until his time was up, and only a few minutes had yet passed. Tensing his legs, then, he kept the struggling elf in place, and trapped his arms in a tight embrace. "Is it me you fight, brother," he asked, breathing into that same luscious ear, "or is it yourself? We do nothing but play here, nothing to bring you such
distress . . . and you have said I may have this time . . . "
"But . . . the time . . . it must be up by now," Gildor panted, with a thread of desperation in his tone. Haldir laughed in sincere amusement. "Why, no, mellon, it has been but a moment. Why, does it seem to you longer? Perhaps it is because you are still fighting . . . with yourself." Haldir could resist temptation no longer--not that he tried very hard if truth be known--and slid a questing hand down to where Gildor's loincloth was concealing what looked to be an interesting condition.
"Please," Gildor begged in what sounded like real distress, "I cannot do this . . . "
"But you do not have to do anything, lirimaer. I would give you pleasure, that is all." Haldir slowly tugged at the thin linen under his hand, pulling it gently from his companion's now trembling form. It came away easily--well, at least something is cooperating, he thought in wry amusement--and then he saw the treasure Gildor's coyness had been hiding. "Well, brother," he breathed in genuine admiration, "you never cease to surprise." Sliding a gentle hand down between his captive's thighs, he tenderly cupped the downy balls, stroking them lightly with a fingertip, and watched with satisfaction and growing desire as Gildor writhed in his need. With his other hand, Haldir slid the soft side of one nail down the velvety length of his companion's quite impressive erection, listening as he did so to the sounds of Gildor's steadily more laboured breathing.
Suddenly releasing him from his embrace, Haldir moved with alacrity to push him back against the softness of the hearthrug, positioning his body astride but not yet touching that of the panic-stricken elf. Lowering himself to hover a few inches above Gildor's quaking form, he allowed his hair to fall about their faces, creating a dim tent that blocked some of the firelight from his companion's flushed visage. "Do you trust me, brother?," he asked simply, all trace of amusement gone. "I would do nothing but bring you pleasure . . . you know that."
"I know it, but . . . "
"Then you must trust me." For the first time in hours, Gildor looked straight into Haldir's blue eyes, and his own brown ones filled with shining tears. Then he closed them tightly, and turned his face away.
"Do what you will," he said, in what sounded like resignation.
Haldir had had many reactions to his technique in the past, but this was a new one. He regarded the elf below him thoughtfully for a moment, a new idea dawning in his mind. But no . . . surely not . . . it was absurd. But it would explain a great many things . . . Deciding to test a theory, Haldir thought back to many centuries before, and dredged up some seldom used skills. His own preferences rarely required them anymore, but then, one never really forgot how to manage the seduction of an innocent. "You will enjoy this," he promised, stroking a careful hand down his companion's soft cheek, and silently he vowed to make certain that was true.
* * *
Erestor was cold and fed up. Glorfindel had reappeared to tie the second captive to the rope once Erestor had practically ruptured himself dragging the first one up, and had said something, but his voice was too low and the wind was too high for it to be audible. After the laborious chore of hefting the second Noldor--and just what DID they feed them in Lorien, he wondered, they looked slender but weighed a ton--Erestor had rested briefly, as his arms felt like they were literally about to drop off. Then he waited, and waited, and waited for Glorfindel to rejoin him, probably with the Noldor female in tow, but of him there was no sign. The rain had not abated one bit, and the roof was slick with it, making it a constant chore to keep the two limp bodies beside him from falling off into the ravine. One of them had even started to wake up after a time, requiring Erestor, who really hated force, to have to clock him on the head with the heavy metal hook attached to the rope. He had not stirred again after that, which was now causing Erestor to worry that he might have hit him too hard and done a serious injury . . . and where in Arda was Glorfindel?
Finally deciding that his loyalty to Elrond did not include dying of exposure, he began the truly annoying task of dragging each of the inert forms along the slippery roof to the small window leading into an unused portion of the attic. He stumbled several times, but somehow managed to keep his footing, and shoved them one by one through the narrow opening. He half dragged and half kicked them into a heap in the corner, then leaned back against the interior wall with a hand clutching at his heart, sure that even Elrond's skills, had the cursed elf been available, would not be enough to prevent an imminent heart attack. Finally, the red mist that had swirled before his eyes cleared a bit, and he was able to regard the pile of Noldor a few feet away with extreme distaste. Now what? He could, of course, summon a whole host of servants to drag the creatures to some unused room and lock them in, but if he did so, the whole house would know about it by evening. The only hope Erestor could see for salvaging anything out of this debacle was to make certain no one--NO ONE--ever heard about it. They might compose songs to the end of time about all the heroic and dastardly deeds of legendary Third Age, but by Elbereth, this wasn't going to be among them! He had spent too much time helping Elrond to build up the reputation of his house to have it become a laughing stock now because of some brief lapse of sanity.
With a heartfelt sigh, he raised one Noldor by the hair, checked his pulse and, satisfied that he was in no danger of acquiring the reputation of kin- slayer, efficiently tied him up. For good measure, he made a gag out of the elf's belt and thrust it between his lips, not that he seriously thought anyone would be able to hear him all the way up here even if he screamed his head off, but it didn't do to take chances. He then treated the second one the same way, relieved to find that, although there was a sizeable bump on his head where he had been hit, that he, too, breathed easily. Lastly, he checked them for hidden weapons. He found none, but did notice that Galadriel chose her companions with an unerring eye for beauty. Dangerous rebels they might or might not be, but there was no doubt of their loveliness, which was quite nicely displayed by their soaking wet attire.
He shook his head at his own folly, wasting time lost in admiration over two probably thoroughly wicked elves, when he should be looking for Glorfindel. Having dealt with the immediate problem, Erestor left the attic, locking the entrance securely behind him, and headed resolutely down the stairs. Noticing with horror his bedraggled state in a wall mirror, he made a quick detour to change before his still dripping form could alert the whole household to the fact that something strange was happening. Drat it all, and that had been a new robe, too. Glorfindel had better be in serious trouble, he thought in high annoyance as he stomped off to his rooms, or he might find Erestor to be more of a threat than Galadriel AND a Balrog.
"You are going to get yourself killed," Erestor hissed, as he slowly let out the grey Elvin rope at the end of which dangled the figure of Glorfindel. Below him was nothing for a very long way--just the chasm over which the Last Homely House had been constructed and a great deal of open air. It was a beautiful scene from a balcony or window, with the rivulets and waterfalls crashing amongst craggy rocks, but the thought of what would happen, even to an elf's body, should he fall from such a height was close to giving Erestor heart failure.
"Let out a little more," came Glorfindel's voice softly from now a considerable distance away. Erestor, clinging to the peak of the roof above Elrond's rooms, slowly obliged, careful to play out the rope as evenly as possible with only one hand with which to work. His other was clinging desperately to the decorative bronze finial on the roof's peak, which offered the only handhold available. A sudden gust of wind and rain slapped his face and almost caused him to lose his precarious grip, which was not helped by the fact that he had to lean far over the edge of the roof to see what Glorfindel was doing. He quickly looped some more of the line around the post at his elbow and renewed his grip. Bother Glorfindel and his crazy schemes anyway! The elf had always been reckless, preferring the more showy and dangerous road to that of caution and common sense. Erestor had occasionally envied him his careless flamboyance, but at the moment, he could only deplore the irresponsibility that seemed likely to end in tragedy.
Glorfindel, however, had managed the seemingly impossible task of fighting the gales that buffeted him from side to side, and was now approaching the balcony outside Elrond's study. Erestor shivered for more than one reason as his long-time friend slid along the slick sides of the house until his feet came into contact with the slippery balcony railing. Even if he made it, which it looked rather as if he might, what would he find within? Erestor rather thought that he could live without knowing, and trusted Elrond to deal with whatever difficulties his admittedly foolish actions had brought on him. For Elbereth's sake, the elf was approaching 6,000 years of age; if he couldn't talk his way out of something by now . . .
Of course, this WAS Galadriel they were discussing, and that did rather alter things, but still, Elrond had clearly commanded him to leave and he was not in the habit of ignoring a direct order. Had he been able to refuse Glorfindel without seriously imperiling the life of his friend, Erestor would have happily done so. But in that case, Glorfindel would merely have found someone else for the job, and they might not have been as
competent . . . or as discreet. He closed his eyes briefly, both because Glorfindel was now attempting to launch himself onto the rain washed balcony and Erestor could no longer bear to watch, and because thoughts of the scandal if any of this came out was enough to make him wish for somewhere to hide--preferably for a century or so until everything blew over.
As loyal as he was to Elrond, Erestor couldn't help but be a tad irritated at his friend and master. He could have any elf he wanted--any elf--so why did it have to be Celeborn? Elrond, he mourned, why, oh why, didn't you just say no? You are no elfling to be ruled by your passions, and don't we have a satisfying arrangement already? Erestor knew, of course, that Elrond was not in love with him, had never been and never would be, but that suited him admirably since he, probably alone among the elves of Imladris, was not in love with him either. However, he did enjoy their little games, and Celebrian was so often gone that it was almost as if he occupied her place in the home. It was he who arranged the festivals, ordered the decorations and planned the food. It was his organisation that made the whole house run with military efficiency, but also with an understated grace that immediately relaxed any and all comers. Visitors had their needs met even before most realised they had them, and many commented that it felt as if there was some type of magic field that encased this land, making all within it tranquil and beautiful. Erestor snorted; what made Imladris work so well was planning, and pure and simple hard work--his hard work, thank you very much--which had nothing to do with showy feats of valour but much with order and routine. It might not be glamorous, but it worked.
And now, here he was, stuck with a completely unexpected crisis on his hands that no amount of planning could have foreseen, just because Elrond had to have a romp with the last elf in Arda on whom he should ever have laid a finger. Erestor was as close to disliking his Lord as he had ever been, part of which was caused by serious worry over exactly what was happening in that so silent room. His mind kept projecting images of tall, stately Noldor carrying off sacks filled with butchered elf parts to some secret and unsung grave . . . merciful Valar, but he needed a drink! A really big drink, he thought longingly--maybe an entire barrel of the Mirkwood vintage would allow him to forget this day's events . . .
Thankfully, Glorfindel aroused him from his morbid fancies with a tug on the line. Erestor looked down to see one of the Noldor seemingly asleep in Glorfindel's arms, and as he watched, his friend tied the elf securely to the rope and tugged on it again, apparently meaning for Erestor to pull his captive up to the roof. Another limp body had been tossed over the balcony railing at what looked to be a rather precarious angle. Both were male elves; Erestor rather hoped Glorfindel's usual chivalry would keep him from treating the female the same way.
As he began the laborious process of hauling up the first captive, his dark hair plastered to his drenched form and his rarely used muscles protesting the strain, Erestor was still glad to have his job rather than Glorfindel's. A glance downward showed that the golden-haired Lord had disappeared once more behind the heavy, drawn curtains beyond the balcony. Whispering a quick prayer for his safety, Erestor allowed the Noldor below him to bounce a few quite unnecessary times against the hard wood of the house. Disrupt his perfect routine, would they? Well, they'd soon discover that an irritated Sindar could be quite a formidable adversary himself, especially one who had had to forgo his weekly massage to go climbing about rooftops in the middle of a tempest!
* * *
Haldir seated himself calmly beside his afternoon's experiment and smiled as guilessly as he could manage. He was proud of many of his abilities--he was a skilled tracker, a lauded marksman, an expert with either knives or swords, and was usually a proficient rider when the horse was even partially well trained. He could also dance, compose a poem or song, and flatter with a courtier's ease. Yet his greatest talent, and the one which counted as his favourite hobby, was that of seduction, whether it be verbally in persuading another realm to align with Lorien's wishes, or on a more . . . personal level. He had rarely failed, and never when it came to charming a would-be lover. He did not intend for a bedraggled Imladris elf to ruin that perfect record.
Pulling Gildor back against him, he resumed where they had left off, but with far more concentration than he had previously shown. "So tell me, why so shy, Gildor of everywhere? You are pretty enough, meldir, when you do not hide behind ill-fitting clothes." He drew the elf even closer, wedging him between his outstretched legs, and wriggling behind him until he was comfortable. At least Haldir was comfortable; Gildor was as tense as if he expected imminent execution, but Haldir allowed no irritation at that fact to creep into his tone. "Do you know what I was thinking earlier?" He knew his breath was tickling the back of Gildor's neck, for the elf was attempting to lean away from him to avoid it, which was strange in one who supposedly felt no attraction. "I was thinking that I would like to see this pretty chest encased in a shirt of the finest Lorien silk," he allowed a roving fingertip to very lightly draw a circle around one of Gildor's taught nipples, "although no silk could be smoother than your skin, mellon. Or, it would feel exquisite," he murmured, while sliding both hands from Gildor's breast to his stomach, where they lingered, "to feel all these perfect muscles shifting under the softest suede. Yes . . . that would be very nice."
Haldir allow his hands to continue their exploration of Gildor's torso while he ran his tongue delicately along the side of his neck and under his jawline, which had been exposed when his captive twisted his head away. Chuckling softly at the action, and insuring that his breath passed over the now moist skin, Haldir gently began to nuzzle the silky ear nearest him. "It is no good turning from me, mellon . . . all parts of you are delicious," and he nipped slightly at the plump lobe. Gildor jerked at the sensation, but Haldir kept him in place with a strong arm about his waist, which, since it was already there, he also used to pull the reluctant elf still closer up against him. "Can't you feel how much I desire you, brother?," he whispered, reaching with his free hand to cup the warm, sleek swell of Gildor's hip and then jerk it back in one quick motion, closing what slight space had remained between them. He then wrapped his legs tightly around the startled elf, who had apparently not been expecting that particular move, thus keeping Gildor trapped while freeing his own hands. Simultaneously, he began to suck very lightly on the delicate flesh of his companion's neck, slowly raising a mark that the shy elf would have some difficulty explaining when they returned.
Gildor was becoming obviously more distressed, and was making what felt like genuine attempts to get away. Haldir had no intention of forcing him to do anything, but he was also not about to release him until his time was up, and only a few minutes had yet passed. Tensing his legs, then, he kept the struggling elf in place, and trapped his arms in a tight embrace. "Is it me you fight, brother," he asked, breathing into that same luscious ear, "or is it yourself? We do nothing but play here, nothing to bring you such
distress . . . and you have said I may have this time . . . "
"But . . . the time . . . it must be up by now," Gildor panted, with a thread of desperation in his tone. Haldir laughed in sincere amusement. "Why, no, mellon, it has been but a moment. Why, does it seem to you longer? Perhaps it is because you are still fighting . . . with yourself." Haldir could resist temptation no longer--not that he tried very hard if truth be known--and slid a questing hand down to where Gildor's loincloth was concealing what looked to be an interesting condition.
"Please," Gildor begged in what sounded like real distress, "I cannot do this . . . "
"But you do not have to do anything, lirimaer. I would give you pleasure, that is all." Haldir slowly tugged at the thin linen under his hand, pulling it gently from his companion's now trembling form. It came away easily--well, at least something is cooperating, he thought in wry amusement--and then he saw the treasure Gildor's coyness had been hiding. "Well, brother," he breathed in genuine admiration, "you never cease to surprise." Sliding a gentle hand down between his captive's thighs, he tenderly cupped the downy balls, stroking them lightly with a fingertip, and watched with satisfaction and growing desire as Gildor writhed in his need. With his other hand, Haldir slid the soft side of one nail down the velvety length of his companion's quite impressive erection, listening as he did so to the sounds of Gildor's steadily more laboured breathing.
Suddenly releasing him from his embrace, Haldir moved with alacrity to push him back against the softness of the hearthrug, positioning his body astride but not yet touching that of the panic-stricken elf. Lowering himself to hover a few inches above Gildor's quaking form, he allowed his hair to fall about their faces, creating a dim tent that blocked some of the firelight from his companion's flushed visage. "Do you trust me, brother?," he asked simply, all trace of amusement gone. "I would do nothing but bring you pleasure . . . you know that."
"I know it, but . . . "
"Then you must trust me." For the first time in hours, Gildor looked straight into Haldir's blue eyes, and his own brown ones filled with shining tears. Then he closed them tightly, and turned his face away.
"Do what you will," he said, in what sounded like resignation.
Haldir had had many reactions to his technique in the past, but this was a new one. He regarded the elf below him thoughtfully for a moment, a new idea dawning in his mind. But no . . . surely not . . . it was absurd. But it would explain a great many things . . . Deciding to test a theory, Haldir thought back to many centuries before, and dredged up some seldom used skills. His own preferences rarely required them anymore, but then, one never really forgot how to manage the seduction of an innocent. "You will enjoy this," he promised, stroking a careful hand down his companion's soft cheek, and silently he vowed to make certain that was true.
* * *
Erestor was cold and fed up. Glorfindel had reappeared to tie the second captive to the rope once Erestor had practically ruptured himself dragging the first one up, and had said something, but his voice was too low and the wind was too high for it to be audible. After the laborious chore of hefting the second Noldor--and just what DID they feed them in Lorien, he wondered, they looked slender but weighed a ton--Erestor had rested briefly, as his arms felt like they were literally about to drop off. Then he waited, and waited, and waited for Glorfindel to rejoin him, probably with the Noldor female in tow, but of him there was no sign. The rain had not abated one bit, and the roof was slick with it, making it a constant chore to keep the two limp bodies beside him from falling off into the ravine. One of them had even started to wake up after a time, requiring Erestor, who really hated force, to have to clock him on the head with the heavy metal hook attached to the rope. He had not stirred again after that, which was now causing Erestor to worry that he might have hit him too hard and done a serious injury . . . and where in Arda was Glorfindel?
Finally deciding that his loyalty to Elrond did not include dying of exposure, he began the truly annoying task of dragging each of the inert forms along the slippery roof to the small window leading into an unused portion of the attic. He stumbled several times, but somehow managed to keep his footing, and shoved them one by one through the narrow opening. He half dragged and half kicked them into a heap in the corner, then leaned back against the interior wall with a hand clutching at his heart, sure that even Elrond's skills, had the cursed elf been available, would not be enough to prevent an imminent heart attack. Finally, the red mist that had swirled before his eyes cleared a bit, and he was able to regard the pile of Noldor a few feet away with extreme distaste. Now what? He could, of course, summon a whole host of servants to drag the creatures to some unused room and lock them in, but if he did so, the whole house would know about it by evening. The only hope Erestor could see for salvaging anything out of this debacle was to make certain no one--NO ONE--ever heard about it. They might compose songs to the end of time about all the heroic and dastardly deeds of legendary Third Age, but by Elbereth, this wasn't going to be among them! He had spent too much time helping Elrond to build up the reputation of his house to have it become a laughing stock now because of some brief lapse of sanity.
With a heartfelt sigh, he raised one Noldor by the hair, checked his pulse and, satisfied that he was in no danger of acquiring the reputation of kin- slayer, efficiently tied him up. For good measure, he made a gag out of the elf's belt and thrust it between his lips, not that he seriously thought anyone would be able to hear him all the way up here even if he screamed his head off, but it didn't do to take chances. He then treated the second one the same way, relieved to find that, although there was a sizeable bump on his head where he had been hit, that he, too, breathed easily. Lastly, he checked them for hidden weapons. He found none, but did notice that Galadriel chose her companions with an unerring eye for beauty. Dangerous rebels they might or might not be, but there was no doubt of their loveliness, which was quite nicely displayed by their soaking wet attire.
He shook his head at his own folly, wasting time lost in admiration over two probably thoroughly wicked elves, when he should be looking for Glorfindel. Having dealt with the immediate problem, Erestor left the attic, locking the entrance securely behind him, and headed resolutely down the stairs. Noticing with horror his bedraggled state in a wall mirror, he made a quick detour to change before his still dripping form could alert the whole household to the fact that something strange was happening. Drat it all, and that had been a new robe, too. Glorfindel had better be in serious trouble, he thought in high annoyance as he stomped off to his rooms, or he might find Erestor to be more of a threat than Galadriel AND a Balrog.