Title: Wild Justice 11/?
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
Elrond sat, as he had for two days, watching . . . him . . . sleep. The lanterns about the talan had been lit not long before, but there were none very near his window. Yet thin particles danced on beams of Ithil's light, slipping easily through the loosely woven curtains, illuminating the room well enough, perhaps too well. The silver fingers that caressed the aquiline features of the elf on the bed showed him not as the robust hero of a past age, but as a fragile, withered being that scarcely resembled an elf anymore--a living ghost. Kneeling beside him, Elrond lifted an emaciated arm, carefully cradling the narrow wrist where translucent skin revealed a network of fine azure veins. His hands slid around to support the slender neck as he vainly scanned the shadowed eyes for some sign of improvement. The face before him was barely recognizable, composed only of angular planes and gaunt, hollow cheeks, its expression listless, as if all emotion had been burned away along with the flesh. Elrond felt a hundred things at once as he regarded him--distress, protectiveness, pity--none of which he had ever thought to feel for one who had been so strong.
After tucking the blankets more securely around the frigid form, Elrond resumed his seat and his vigil, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He had ceased to notice the shivers that racked his own body or the iciness of his skin, but he did notice that he was tired, so very tired. But he would not rest, could not. He had not been there the last time . . . he . . . needed him--had left him to run after Isildor, thinking his king already dead--and he would not make the same mistake twice.
He couldn't have rested anyway. The dim light, the creaks and groans of the talan as it moved slightly in the night breeze, the almost imperceptible sound of the rise and fall of his companion's breathing, all conspired to deny him sleep. Worst of all, however, was that cursed song that kept running through his head, like a minstrel who had drunk too much wine at a summer festival and wouldn't shut up. It lingered over him like a sinister echo, causing a pulse of despair to shudder through him. He pushed aside his thoughts, dismissing them as unhealthy and futile. Dwelling on the past would not aid the future. He had learned the hard way to focus on the present, to release the past and to trust the future to care for itself. But still that endless, annoying, juvenile rhyme continued . . .
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sings . . .
And they had. There were songs composed in tribute to others, even some to himself, and ballads written of lovers and as praises to Arda's beauty. But those that were invariably sung at important occasions, all, all were about . . . him. It was partly his status as a hero, yes, but also because there had been no closure--not for any of them. No body to mourn and properly bury, no eulogies to praise his many accomplishments. So they sang their tributes, and continued to sing them as the centuries passed, striving, he supposed, to make sense of the incomprehensible. Yet not one of those ridiculous, long-winded, pretentious ballads had ever got it right.
A bitter taste filled Elrond's mouth. His usual control eluded him, as it had for weeks, like a delicate spider's web that tore when he clasped it too tightly. He still couldn't say it. He could hear his own voice, echoing the name just a few days ago, but he couldn't make himself utter the words now. He knew he should feel joy, but what he actually found running through his veins was a sort of horror, and a disbelief that he had left his king to such a fate. He had stood by while they wrote songs about him, mourned him, painted murals of his last moments . . . and had spent countless days trying, and failing, to forget. Some foresight, some prescience should have warned him, but it had not.
The last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
He let the heels of his hands press into his eyes, yet still he saw the arched marble halls and swaying golden leaves of a city that had since crumbled to dust. And there, on the steps of the palace, a tall and strikingly good-looking elf, with a sun-kissed complexion and glorious body under a dazzlingly white tunic emblazoned with stars. One look in the brilliant lapis eyes, so serene yet so joyous, and he had been lost. When those sensual lips curved into a sudden smile on seeing him, he found the expression contagious and had smiled for days. Crush, infatuation, whatever it was--it had been instantaneous and overwhelming. He had never before or since loved so quickly or so completely.
Elrond let his head fall back against the hard wood of the chair, heedless of the pain in his stiff neck. He still marveled at the delighted laughter and almost perpetual good humour of the one who had so easily captured his heart. The king had been generous and kind to the anxious new arrival at his court, and what a court it was! None of them now could touch it, not Mirkwood or Lorien or even his own Imladris, for Lindon the great had also been Lindon the fair, with its natural beauty enhanced by every art known to elf, dwarf or man. He could still almost hear the singing fountains that gave the realm its name, their delicate metal and crystal plates quivering with a thousand soft songs as water cascaded over them, setting a multitude of rainbows dancing on the air, while blossoms from the flowering trees blew with random beauty over polished flagstones. Whenever anyone praised the "perfection" of Imladris, he smiled, but it was always tinged with sadness, for he could call nothing fair after that lost home.
Even more fascinating than the material attractions, however, were the elves, who had dwelt in Lindon in countless throngs unknown these days, and in a mix not seen since. The survivors of Beleriand, Sindar from Doriath and the Falas, Noldor from Gondolin and the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor, and Laiquendi, the early settlers of the area, as well as Numenorian visitors. Elrond had felt at home there, despite the uneasiness between Sindar and Noldor, as he never had anywhere else. Perhaps it was because all the varied strains in his family line were represented: Noldor from his father's line, Sindar from his mother's, and men from both. But to the young Peredhil, having just chosen to live as an elf rather than a man, none was more stunning than his host, the last of the High Kings of the Noldor. Soon Elrond had found many excuses to spend all the time he could with his kinsman.
Idly fingering a lock of dark hair that was woven around part of a silken banner, Elrond allowed himself the indulgence of remembering. The small token had long been his talisman, and he regularly wore it pinned within his robes, especially when faced with a difficult decision or task. It brought him comfort and a measure of serenity, as if his old mentor was standing beside him, guiding his actions. He remembered clearly the day he acquired it. He and the king had ridden out beyond the city walls with a party of other elves and stopped near a small stream to partake of their midday meal. His liege had insisted on a game of skill to amuse them all after lunch, and Elrond had successfully passed along the swaying rope stretched across the stream more times and faster than any other in the company. Laughing, the king had asked him what he would choose as a reward. It had taken all Elrond's self-control not to tell him, despite the presence of many others, what he would truly like, and after a brief inward struggle he had simply said that he would think on it. He had assumed the king would forget, but that night after dinner he caught Elrond as he was leaving the great hall and asked again.
Elrond could still recall the warmth of the king's light touch on his shoulder, and the great effort it had taken not to lean toward him. He had wondered then, in a panic, if his lord had noticed how often Elrond had made an excuse to touch him, brushing against him at every opportunity, passing too closely when going through a doorway, his hands lingering a bit too long as he helped him onto his horse. He had raised his eyes to meet the shining blue ones of his lord and then quickly looked away before he betrayed himself, his chest tightening as he dared not even breathe. He had been afraid his king would somehow learn of the burning desire that had been building in him for so long. Elrond was highly conscious of his mixed parentage and the suspicion that his years with Maglor still caused in others' eyes, and had not wanted to see shock, embarrassment or, worse, revulsion in that beloved gaze. But the king had not allowed him to slip away; instead he dropped his hand to Elrond's elbow and steered him into a nearby room. It was an empty antechamber to the main dining area, dark except for the flickering shapes a few low burning tapers sent dancing along the walls.
"What is wrong, Voronwer? You have been avoiding me all night." The smooth, rich voice was mesmerizing to Elrond, who found it impossible to speak. He noticed, though, how the king's very presence seemed to bring the room to shimmering life--he carried so much light within himself that darkness could not survive when he was near.
"I . . . nothing, my liege, I . . . did not mean to offend."
The king regarded him with a somewhat bemused look, his dark head tilted slightly to the side. "You have not offended me, young one. But you promised to think on your reward." The king absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair behind his ear as he spoke, and Elrond suddenly knew what he wanted. Before he could think how presumptuous it would sound, he blurted out his request. The king's usual unflappable manner and elaborate courtesy had not faltered; without so much as a minor hesitation, he pulled a knife from his belt and cut a lock of his shining hair. "A small thing, surely," he had commented, handing it over with a slight bow. "But if it pleases you . . . "
Elrond had looked at him silently, unable to tell him what would truly please him, but somehow the king seemed to know. "Vanimle sila tiri, Elrond."* There was no mockery in his eyes, no sarcasm in his voice as he lifted the young elf's chin and regarded him searchingly. Unlike others, who had been known to treat Elrond as if he were somehow tainted because of his human blood, the king's manner showed nothing but admiration. Before Elrond fully realised what was happening, he found himself being kissed by lips that knew how to prolong sensation, and tasted by a tongue that coiled provocatively about his own, sending flames all the way to his fingertips. Elrond had stood breathless and somewhat alarmed at the strength of his feelings, when at last they parted. "It cannot surprise you to hear that I find you exceptionally appealing." The king smiled warmly as he passed a thumb lightly over Elrond's lower lip. "I would consider it a great honour to take you to bed."
"I . . . " Elrond was a mass of conflicting emotions, with fear being uppermost. He could hardly believe he was being offered his heart's desire so casually, when he had barely managed to that point to speak coherently in his king's presence. It was all too much, too soon. "Thank you, my liege, but I don't . . . that is, I'm not . . . "
The king had taken the garbled refusal with good humour. "Perhaps another time, then." He stepped back and, with another warm smile, left Elrond standing in a room that suddenly seemed dim and cold without him.
Elrond had clutched his prize to his chest. "Amin harmuva onalle e' cormamin,"** he whispered, but the king had not heard. He had afterwards carefully hidden away the lock of hair, so close to his own shade, and much later wrapped it in a torn banner . . . He winced, as less pleasant memories tried to engulf him, but he pushed them away. They weren't what he wanted to remember now.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
Slowly, over many years, the king brought his young relative into prominence as a trusted advisor. That such a wise, accomplished elf would rely so much on his advice had caused Elrond to blossom from a somewhat shy and nervous youth into a confident, outgoing adult. Many had complimented him on his charm, loyalty and diplomacy, but it had all been because he wanted to keep his king's high regard, needed to see approval in those eyes.
The king had never referred to their conversation in the anteroom, nor had he repeated his offer. He was as gentle and patient with Elrond as if with a favoured child, teaching him all that he knew about managing a large and diverse realm. Elrond had absorbed the lessons and enjoyed being so often in his king's company, but the almost paternal fondness with which he was treated caused him to worry that perhaps his liege saw him as a substitute for the son he had never had. The thought had driven him almost to distraction, for Elrond's feelings towards his king were anything but filial. But his gratitude and deference had long kept him silent.
Elrond supposed it was a combination of many things that had finally brought the situation to a head: his exhaustion after a long series of debates which had attempted, and failed, to heal the widening gap between Sindar and Noldor in Lindon, his frustration at the king's perfect serenity--which he was far from feeling himself--and the sheer beauty of his liege as he carefully collected a group of scrolls and prepared to reshelve them with his usual meticulousness. The late afternoon light had poured over him as he stood by his desk, gleaming white robes a perfect foil for his dark hair, his deep blue eyes as beautiful as they were tranquil. Whatever the cause, Elrond's control had finally snapped, and before he could stop himself, he had pressed his king back against the wall and kissed him hard. His mind was screaming at him for his abject stupidity, but the hunger he had felt building for so long at last overpowered his resolve. "A'maelamin, how long I've wanted . . . lirimaer, you shine so brightly . . . the sun pales beside you . . . " He knew at some point in the babble that followed that he was becoming incoherent, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the warm, willing elf in his arms, who did not protest at all as he pinned him against the wall and proceeded to ravish him.
They had not openly declared their love, for to do so would have been to forfeit any chance in the ongoing negotiations with the Sindar, who regarded Elrond as their champion at court. Had he been formally the king's consort, he would not have commanded the same respect nor been able to attempt to be a bridge between the sundered groups in Lindon. Still, by the time of the Last Alliance he had to assume that most people knew. It hardly mattered by then, anyway, as the negotiations among the elves had largely failed, with various companies leaving Lindon to form communities of their own, and Sauron rising as more of a threat than division could ever be.
The countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
And so Elrond's thoughts came back, as they always did, to Mordor. It had been dim and dreary that day, the last in the siege of Barad-dur, but their banners had whipped almost cheerfully in the high wind, the glistening silver backgrounds and pure white stars adding beauty even to that diseased landscape. The king's eyes, usually so calm and gentle, had gleamed with a fierce light as he and Elrond positioned their troops. Elrond had had little time for contemplation in the midst of battle, but he remembered noting with pride that his lover shone as brightly in that ravaged land as he always had in Lindon, wielding Aeglos with a power and skill that carved a wide path all about him.
Then the battle had closed about Elrond and he had been forced to concentrate on survival as wave after wave of enemy ranks crashed into them. Something had caused him to pause, however, and glance back over his shoulder a few moments later, to see his lover, eyes narrowing to dagger slits, impale an orc on Aeglos then turn in one fluid motion to bury his sword in another. His king had not seen Sauron come up behind him, and Elrond had no time even to call out a warning before a tortured scream of burning air hit him like a slap in the face, practically lifting him off his feet. He had had burns for weeks thereafter that refused to heal, and he had not even been that close to the dark lord. His king had been barely a hand breath away.
But long ago he rode away
and where he dwelleth none can say;
Elrond recalled trying to gather his wits as he and the survivors of Sauron's attack dragged themselves back to their feet, but his thoughts had scattered like leaves in an autumn wind and he had never been able to build a complete picture of what followed. The fragmented scenes that chased across his vision formed a cruel enough kaleidoscope, however. He remembered a red streaked sky looming over that horrible, blackened plain; frantic searching among the scorched bodies, desperate to find him, desperate not to; pain that welled up dark and overwhelming, tearing at his soul; sitting among the ashes, sobbing like a baby one minute, then screaming the next, furious with him for leaving, for turning the joy of victory to dust; being told that Isildur had gone, taking the one ring with him; leaving behind that nightmare scene to track him down and force him to end it, desperate to wrench something good from the black despair that flooded him, yet failing even in that. The images crowded in until Elrond fell to his knees beside the bed, acid burning his tongue, even the memory of that pain overwhelming.
He had been foolish enough to hope that his king's radiance could defeat even Sauron's dark power, and that somehow he would come back to him. But centuries passed and still there was nothing, nothing but the voice and the face that haunted his dreams. During the immediate aftermath of the war, when Sauron's minions had to be rounded up and destroyed, Elrond managed to function. He had found that, if he stayed awake long enough, was tired or drunk or battered enough at the end of the day, he could manage a restless sleep, and the next day's pain would sublimate the memories enough to allow him to do what he must. He had hoped for some time that he would be killed in combat, and had often led his forces, even outrunning them at times, as they chased the last of the resistance to ground. He had lusted after death, wanting never to have to see any more tomorrows dawning cold and drear and alone; but on the day the war finally ended, he still lived.
Yet, in his mind, he had continued to exist on a battlefield, in the midst of a war that never stopped. When the armies packed up and went home, when the grass grew in patches over the old scarred plains, when time passed and others forgot, in Elrond's mind the world was still gloomy and bleak and a cold wind swept across its barren fields. The war had never ended, because his king had never come home.
For into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.
Yes, the star of radiance had fallen, but Elrond went on, despite the fact that he had wanted nothing so much as to die with him. But that was a luxury he could not afford. His king had left him responsibilities and a people who needed heroes. The real hero was dead, or so he had believed, yet they required someone to rally around, someone to guide them, and there had been no one else. The mantle had fallen to him naturally, for he was the last of that line and everyone knew how close he and the king had been. Or they thought they knew. Elrond would never talk about it, but he thought many must have guessed. Celeborn, for instance, had never asked him the obvious question, why he steadfastly refused to take the title that could so easily have been his. Had not asked even on the eve of Elrond's marriage to his daughter, a union neither had desired.
Elrond had, indeed, never been asked that query outright by any elf; perhaps they could guess the answer. How could he take the title, and thereby pretend to the nobility that had surrounded . . . him . . . so naturally? Elrond had never had his king's charisma, his easygoing humour even in the worst situations, his effortless assumption of the cares of state. The high king had never seemed plagued by doubt or burdened with worry, had never apparently doubted his decisions, or given a thought as to what right he had to guide the fates of so many. The cloak of authority that weighed so heavily on Elrond's shoulders, he had worn as if it was the lightest silk, not a burden at all but just another frame for his beauty. Besides, to take the name meant that its owner was not coming back, and that was something Elrond would never say.
For centuries, Elrond had watched and waited, hoping his king would come back to him, and had remained the faithful lieutenant, holding Imladris as a haven for all who wished to come, just as his king had bade him. The souls that fell to Mandos did not remain there forever, but were born into new bodies and sent back to Arda, for elves were destined to live as long as earth remained. Elrond had believed with a fierce devotion that, someday, his lord would return to him. But, in recent years, doubts had begun to nibble at the edges of his certainty, as fewer and fewer elves were born. Elrond had made certain to inquire into all that were, but never had there been any sign of . . . his . . . soul being reanimated. Elrond's own children had been the last elves born into Arda, and since then he had worked very hard to accept that he was well and truly alone.
Then this. To discover that his king had not returned for the simple reason that he had never left. With that realisation had come the crushing burden of guilt that still paralyzed him. As he had sat, warm and complaisant, waiting for his return, his king had lived and suffered, and he had done nothing to aid him. A cold barrenness that had settled beneath his breast now spread throughout his limbs. All the mental defenses that remained to him collapsed, and he cried, terrible, wracking sobs that echoed off the walls and deprived him of whatever dignity he still possessed. And still he could not say the name.
TBC
*Your beauty shines bright.
** I shall treasure your gift in my heart.
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
Elrond sat, as he had for two days, watching . . . him . . . sleep. The lanterns about the talan had been lit not long before, but there were none very near his window. Yet thin particles danced on beams of Ithil's light, slipping easily through the loosely woven curtains, illuminating the room well enough, perhaps too well. The silver fingers that caressed the aquiline features of the elf on the bed showed him not as the robust hero of a past age, but as a fragile, withered being that scarcely resembled an elf anymore--a living ghost. Kneeling beside him, Elrond lifted an emaciated arm, carefully cradling the narrow wrist where translucent skin revealed a network of fine azure veins. His hands slid around to support the slender neck as he vainly scanned the shadowed eyes for some sign of improvement. The face before him was barely recognizable, composed only of angular planes and gaunt, hollow cheeks, its expression listless, as if all emotion had been burned away along with the flesh. Elrond felt a hundred things at once as he regarded him--distress, protectiveness, pity--none of which he had ever thought to feel for one who had been so strong.
After tucking the blankets more securely around the frigid form, Elrond resumed his seat and his vigil, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He had ceased to notice the shivers that racked his own body or the iciness of his skin, but he did notice that he was tired, so very tired. But he would not rest, could not. He had not been there the last time . . . he . . . needed him--had left him to run after Isildor, thinking his king already dead--and he would not make the same mistake twice.
He couldn't have rested anyway. The dim light, the creaks and groans of the talan as it moved slightly in the night breeze, the almost imperceptible sound of the rise and fall of his companion's breathing, all conspired to deny him sleep. Worst of all, however, was that cursed song that kept running through his head, like a minstrel who had drunk too much wine at a summer festival and wouldn't shut up. It lingered over him like a sinister echo, causing a pulse of despair to shudder through him. He pushed aside his thoughts, dismissing them as unhealthy and futile. Dwelling on the past would not aid the future. He had learned the hard way to focus on the present, to release the past and to trust the future to care for itself. But still that endless, annoying, juvenile rhyme continued . . .
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sings . . .
And they had. There were songs composed in tribute to others, even some to himself, and ballads written of lovers and as praises to Arda's beauty. But those that were invariably sung at important occasions, all, all were about . . . him. It was partly his status as a hero, yes, but also because there had been no closure--not for any of them. No body to mourn and properly bury, no eulogies to praise his many accomplishments. So they sang their tributes, and continued to sing them as the centuries passed, striving, he supposed, to make sense of the incomprehensible. Yet not one of those ridiculous, long-winded, pretentious ballads had ever got it right.
A bitter taste filled Elrond's mouth. His usual control eluded him, as it had for weeks, like a delicate spider's web that tore when he clasped it too tightly. He still couldn't say it. He could hear his own voice, echoing the name just a few days ago, but he couldn't make himself utter the words now. He knew he should feel joy, but what he actually found running through his veins was a sort of horror, and a disbelief that he had left his king to such a fate. He had stood by while they wrote songs about him, mourned him, painted murals of his last moments . . . and had spent countless days trying, and failing, to forget. Some foresight, some prescience should have warned him, but it had not.
The last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
He let the heels of his hands press into his eyes, yet still he saw the arched marble halls and swaying golden leaves of a city that had since crumbled to dust. And there, on the steps of the palace, a tall and strikingly good-looking elf, with a sun-kissed complexion and glorious body under a dazzlingly white tunic emblazoned with stars. One look in the brilliant lapis eyes, so serene yet so joyous, and he had been lost. When those sensual lips curved into a sudden smile on seeing him, he found the expression contagious and had smiled for days. Crush, infatuation, whatever it was--it had been instantaneous and overwhelming. He had never before or since loved so quickly or so completely.
Elrond let his head fall back against the hard wood of the chair, heedless of the pain in his stiff neck. He still marveled at the delighted laughter and almost perpetual good humour of the one who had so easily captured his heart. The king had been generous and kind to the anxious new arrival at his court, and what a court it was! None of them now could touch it, not Mirkwood or Lorien or even his own Imladris, for Lindon the great had also been Lindon the fair, with its natural beauty enhanced by every art known to elf, dwarf or man. He could still almost hear the singing fountains that gave the realm its name, their delicate metal and crystal plates quivering with a thousand soft songs as water cascaded over them, setting a multitude of rainbows dancing on the air, while blossoms from the flowering trees blew with random beauty over polished flagstones. Whenever anyone praised the "perfection" of Imladris, he smiled, but it was always tinged with sadness, for he could call nothing fair after that lost home.
Even more fascinating than the material attractions, however, were the elves, who had dwelt in Lindon in countless throngs unknown these days, and in a mix not seen since. The survivors of Beleriand, Sindar from Doriath and the Falas, Noldor from Gondolin and the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor, and Laiquendi, the early settlers of the area, as well as Numenorian visitors. Elrond had felt at home there, despite the uneasiness between Sindar and Noldor, as he never had anywhere else. Perhaps it was because all the varied strains in his family line were represented: Noldor from his father's line, Sindar from his mother's, and men from both. But to the young Peredhil, having just chosen to live as an elf rather than a man, none was more stunning than his host, the last of the High Kings of the Noldor. Soon Elrond had found many excuses to spend all the time he could with his kinsman.
Idly fingering a lock of dark hair that was woven around part of a silken banner, Elrond allowed himself the indulgence of remembering. The small token had long been his talisman, and he regularly wore it pinned within his robes, especially when faced with a difficult decision or task. It brought him comfort and a measure of serenity, as if his old mentor was standing beside him, guiding his actions. He remembered clearly the day he acquired it. He and the king had ridden out beyond the city walls with a party of other elves and stopped near a small stream to partake of their midday meal. His liege had insisted on a game of skill to amuse them all after lunch, and Elrond had successfully passed along the swaying rope stretched across the stream more times and faster than any other in the company. Laughing, the king had asked him what he would choose as a reward. It had taken all Elrond's self-control not to tell him, despite the presence of many others, what he would truly like, and after a brief inward struggle he had simply said that he would think on it. He had assumed the king would forget, but that night after dinner he caught Elrond as he was leaving the great hall and asked again.
Elrond could still recall the warmth of the king's light touch on his shoulder, and the great effort it had taken not to lean toward him. He had wondered then, in a panic, if his lord had noticed how often Elrond had made an excuse to touch him, brushing against him at every opportunity, passing too closely when going through a doorway, his hands lingering a bit too long as he helped him onto his horse. He had raised his eyes to meet the shining blue ones of his lord and then quickly looked away before he betrayed himself, his chest tightening as he dared not even breathe. He had been afraid his king would somehow learn of the burning desire that had been building in him for so long. Elrond was highly conscious of his mixed parentage and the suspicion that his years with Maglor still caused in others' eyes, and had not wanted to see shock, embarrassment or, worse, revulsion in that beloved gaze. But the king had not allowed him to slip away; instead he dropped his hand to Elrond's elbow and steered him into a nearby room. It was an empty antechamber to the main dining area, dark except for the flickering shapes a few low burning tapers sent dancing along the walls.
"What is wrong, Voronwer? You have been avoiding me all night." The smooth, rich voice was mesmerizing to Elrond, who found it impossible to speak. He noticed, though, how the king's very presence seemed to bring the room to shimmering life--he carried so much light within himself that darkness could not survive when he was near.
"I . . . nothing, my liege, I . . . did not mean to offend."
The king regarded him with a somewhat bemused look, his dark head tilted slightly to the side. "You have not offended me, young one. But you promised to think on your reward." The king absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair behind his ear as he spoke, and Elrond suddenly knew what he wanted. Before he could think how presumptuous it would sound, he blurted out his request. The king's usual unflappable manner and elaborate courtesy had not faltered; without so much as a minor hesitation, he pulled a knife from his belt and cut a lock of his shining hair. "A small thing, surely," he had commented, handing it over with a slight bow. "But if it pleases you . . . "
Elrond had looked at him silently, unable to tell him what would truly please him, but somehow the king seemed to know. "Vanimle sila tiri, Elrond."* There was no mockery in his eyes, no sarcasm in his voice as he lifted the young elf's chin and regarded him searchingly. Unlike others, who had been known to treat Elrond as if he were somehow tainted because of his human blood, the king's manner showed nothing but admiration. Before Elrond fully realised what was happening, he found himself being kissed by lips that knew how to prolong sensation, and tasted by a tongue that coiled provocatively about his own, sending flames all the way to his fingertips. Elrond had stood breathless and somewhat alarmed at the strength of his feelings, when at last they parted. "It cannot surprise you to hear that I find you exceptionally appealing." The king smiled warmly as he passed a thumb lightly over Elrond's lower lip. "I would consider it a great honour to take you to bed."
"I . . . " Elrond was a mass of conflicting emotions, with fear being uppermost. He could hardly believe he was being offered his heart's desire so casually, when he had barely managed to that point to speak coherently in his king's presence. It was all too much, too soon. "Thank you, my liege, but I don't . . . that is, I'm not . . . "
The king had taken the garbled refusal with good humour. "Perhaps another time, then." He stepped back and, with another warm smile, left Elrond standing in a room that suddenly seemed dim and cold without him.
Elrond had clutched his prize to his chest. "Amin harmuva onalle e' cormamin,"** he whispered, but the king had not heard. He had afterwards carefully hidden away the lock of hair, so close to his own shade, and much later wrapped it in a torn banner . . . He winced, as less pleasant memories tried to engulf him, but he pushed them away. They weren't what he wanted to remember now.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
Slowly, over many years, the king brought his young relative into prominence as a trusted advisor. That such a wise, accomplished elf would rely so much on his advice had caused Elrond to blossom from a somewhat shy and nervous youth into a confident, outgoing adult. Many had complimented him on his charm, loyalty and diplomacy, but it had all been because he wanted to keep his king's high regard, needed to see approval in those eyes.
The king had never referred to their conversation in the anteroom, nor had he repeated his offer. He was as gentle and patient with Elrond as if with a favoured child, teaching him all that he knew about managing a large and diverse realm. Elrond had absorbed the lessons and enjoyed being so often in his king's company, but the almost paternal fondness with which he was treated caused him to worry that perhaps his liege saw him as a substitute for the son he had never had. The thought had driven him almost to distraction, for Elrond's feelings towards his king were anything but filial. But his gratitude and deference had long kept him silent.
Elrond supposed it was a combination of many things that had finally brought the situation to a head: his exhaustion after a long series of debates which had attempted, and failed, to heal the widening gap between Sindar and Noldor in Lindon, his frustration at the king's perfect serenity--which he was far from feeling himself--and the sheer beauty of his liege as he carefully collected a group of scrolls and prepared to reshelve them with his usual meticulousness. The late afternoon light had poured over him as he stood by his desk, gleaming white robes a perfect foil for his dark hair, his deep blue eyes as beautiful as they were tranquil. Whatever the cause, Elrond's control had finally snapped, and before he could stop himself, he had pressed his king back against the wall and kissed him hard. His mind was screaming at him for his abject stupidity, but the hunger he had felt building for so long at last overpowered his resolve. "A'maelamin, how long I've wanted . . . lirimaer, you shine so brightly . . . the sun pales beside you . . . " He knew at some point in the babble that followed that he was becoming incoherent, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the warm, willing elf in his arms, who did not protest at all as he pinned him against the wall and proceeded to ravish him.
They had not openly declared their love, for to do so would have been to forfeit any chance in the ongoing negotiations with the Sindar, who regarded Elrond as their champion at court. Had he been formally the king's consort, he would not have commanded the same respect nor been able to attempt to be a bridge between the sundered groups in Lindon. Still, by the time of the Last Alliance he had to assume that most people knew. It hardly mattered by then, anyway, as the negotiations among the elves had largely failed, with various companies leaving Lindon to form communities of their own, and Sauron rising as more of a threat than division could ever be.
The countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
And so Elrond's thoughts came back, as they always did, to Mordor. It had been dim and dreary that day, the last in the siege of Barad-dur, but their banners had whipped almost cheerfully in the high wind, the glistening silver backgrounds and pure white stars adding beauty even to that diseased landscape. The king's eyes, usually so calm and gentle, had gleamed with a fierce light as he and Elrond positioned their troops. Elrond had had little time for contemplation in the midst of battle, but he remembered noting with pride that his lover shone as brightly in that ravaged land as he always had in Lindon, wielding Aeglos with a power and skill that carved a wide path all about him.
Then the battle had closed about Elrond and he had been forced to concentrate on survival as wave after wave of enemy ranks crashed into them. Something had caused him to pause, however, and glance back over his shoulder a few moments later, to see his lover, eyes narrowing to dagger slits, impale an orc on Aeglos then turn in one fluid motion to bury his sword in another. His king had not seen Sauron come up behind him, and Elrond had no time even to call out a warning before a tortured scream of burning air hit him like a slap in the face, practically lifting him off his feet. He had had burns for weeks thereafter that refused to heal, and he had not even been that close to the dark lord. His king had been barely a hand breath away.
But long ago he rode away
and where he dwelleth none can say;
Elrond recalled trying to gather his wits as he and the survivors of Sauron's attack dragged themselves back to their feet, but his thoughts had scattered like leaves in an autumn wind and he had never been able to build a complete picture of what followed. The fragmented scenes that chased across his vision formed a cruel enough kaleidoscope, however. He remembered a red streaked sky looming over that horrible, blackened plain; frantic searching among the scorched bodies, desperate to find him, desperate not to; pain that welled up dark and overwhelming, tearing at his soul; sitting among the ashes, sobbing like a baby one minute, then screaming the next, furious with him for leaving, for turning the joy of victory to dust; being told that Isildur had gone, taking the one ring with him; leaving behind that nightmare scene to track him down and force him to end it, desperate to wrench something good from the black despair that flooded him, yet failing even in that. The images crowded in until Elrond fell to his knees beside the bed, acid burning his tongue, even the memory of that pain overwhelming.
He had been foolish enough to hope that his king's radiance could defeat even Sauron's dark power, and that somehow he would come back to him. But centuries passed and still there was nothing, nothing but the voice and the face that haunted his dreams. During the immediate aftermath of the war, when Sauron's minions had to be rounded up and destroyed, Elrond managed to function. He had found that, if he stayed awake long enough, was tired or drunk or battered enough at the end of the day, he could manage a restless sleep, and the next day's pain would sublimate the memories enough to allow him to do what he must. He had hoped for some time that he would be killed in combat, and had often led his forces, even outrunning them at times, as they chased the last of the resistance to ground. He had lusted after death, wanting never to have to see any more tomorrows dawning cold and drear and alone; but on the day the war finally ended, he still lived.
Yet, in his mind, he had continued to exist on a battlefield, in the midst of a war that never stopped. When the armies packed up and went home, when the grass grew in patches over the old scarred plains, when time passed and others forgot, in Elrond's mind the world was still gloomy and bleak and a cold wind swept across its barren fields. The war had never ended, because his king had never come home.
For into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.
Yes, the star of radiance had fallen, but Elrond went on, despite the fact that he had wanted nothing so much as to die with him. But that was a luxury he could not afford. His king had left him responsibilities and a people who needed heroes. The real hero was dead, or so he had believed, yet they required someone to rally around, someone to guide them, and there had been no one else. The mantle had fallen to him naturally, for he was the last of that line and everyone knew how close he and the king had been. Or they thought they knew. Elrond would never talk about it, but he thought many must have guessed. Celeborn, for instance, had never asked him the obvious question, why he steadfastly refused to take the title that could so easily have been his. Had not asked even on the eve of Elrond's marriage to his daughter, a union neither had desired.
Elrond had, indeed, never been asked that query outright by any elf; perhaps they could guess the answer. How could he take the title, and thereby pretend to the nobility that had surrounded . . . him . . . so naturally? Elrond had never had his king's charisma, his easygoing humour even in the worst situations, his effortless assumption of the cares of state. The high king had never seemed plagued by doubt or burdened with worry, had never apparently doubted his decisions, or given a thought as to what right he had to guide the fates of so many. The cloak of authority that weighed so heavily on Elrond's shoulders, he had worn as if it was the lightest silk, not a burden at all but just another frame for his beauty. Besides, to take the name meant that its owner was not coming back, and that was something Elrond would never say.
For centuries, Elrond had watched and waited, hoping his king would come back to him, and had remained the faithful lieutenant, holding Imladris as a haven for all who wished to come, just as his king had bade him. The souls that fell to Mandos did not remain there forever, but were born into new bodies and sent back to Arda, for elves were destined to live as long as earth remained. Elrond had believed with a fierce devotion that, someday, his lord would return to him. But, in recent years, doubts had begun to nibble at the edges of his certainty, as fewer and fewer elves were born. Elrond had made certain to inquire into all that were, but never had there been any sign of . . . his . . . soul being reanimated. Elrond's own children had been the last elves born into Arda, and since then he had worked very hard to accept that he was well and truly alone.
Then this. To discover that his king had not returned for the simple reason that he had never left. With that realisation had come the crushing burden of guilt that still paralyzed him. As he had sat, warm and complaisant, waiting for his return, his king had lived and suffered, and he had done nothing to aid him. A cold barrenness that had settled beneath his breast now spread throughout his limbs. All the mental defenses that remained to him collapsed, and he cried, terrible, wracking sobs that echoed off the walls and deprived him of whatever dignity he still possessed. And still he could not say the name.
TBC
*Your beauty shines bright.
** I shall treasure your gift in my heart.