Title: Wild Justice 20/?
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.
* * *
Gildor sat in bed, staring at the mountain of books and treats Elwyyda had spent most of the day showering on him, and felt like screaming. All right, he told himself, get under control, breathe, be calm, meditate . . . he barely refrained from throwing something at the door she had just closed. This was intolerable! He had been convalescing for three days, and felt, if not perfectly well, at least perfectly well for . . . certain things. But he was constantly watched, almost a prisoner in his own room!
He sighed, and wondered what was happening to him. He wasn't usually this edgy. He had learned to master his feelings through the long years alone, to concentrate on getting the job done, whatever it was, and not give in to isolation and loneliness. But now that he had tasted companionship and love and laughter and warmth, he had discovered a deep craving in him for more, a yearning that was made all the worse by the enforced inactivity of his convalescence.
The problem was not in getting to Haldir. Gildor was confident he could manage that, despite Elwyyda's insistence on checking on him every hour or so on the excuse of bringing him more things he did not want. The only thing he really required was some quality time alone with his lover, and that was exactly what he intended to get. That raised the real problem, however, which was how to get past Haldir's defenses; he was taking Lord Elrond's prescription for rest to a ludicrous degree.
Gildor had tried everything. He sent little love notes via Rumil, not one of which had received a reply. He asked that flowers be taken to Haldir's room from the gardens, combined with the wild elanor that he loved, but they had been ignored. He even went to the desperate length of ambushing Haldir on his way to the baths, dragging him momentarily into a linen closet, but he had fought his way free and hobbled off before much of interest had happened. It was as if Haldir was trying to prove something, although Gildor could not imagine what that might be, except perhaps that he could drive his lover crazy in less than a week. If that was it, he was well on the way to success.
Gildor had nothing else to do but sit and ponder his problem. Well, he supposed that he could worry over what the team was likely to find once they reached the mountain, which he was well aware would likely be today, but it would do nothing except to plunge him into a state of extreme anxiety. He wanted to be with them, but he couldn't, and that was that. Better to concentrate on something he had at least a chance with--namely, seducing his recalcitrant lover.
* * *
Elrohir could feel Erestor's eyes on him, as he had for several days. Everyone else avoided him, apparently not wanting to have anything to do with the freak, but Erestor had approached him three times and constantly watched him. Elrohir didn't know if Glorfindel was doing the same, because he resolutely stayed as far away from him as possible, afraid that his control would snap completely and he would drag him off into the woods and ravish him. The king was here now, anyway, so obviously he wasn't wanted or needed. The three of them--Glorfindel, Celeborn and Thranduil--went into the king's tent every night and stayed up late, planning strategy, he assumed. He didn't want to know what went on after that.
Erestor was not taking part in the strategy sessions, which seemed strange to Elrohir as he was his father's chief advisor and his counsel was usually sound. Of course, that had been true of the old, stable, sane Erestor, and might not be true of whoever he had recently become. Or maybe he had always been that way, and Elrohir had just never noticed. He wondered what you were supposed to do when your whole world shifted, and everyone you thought you could trust was suddenly shown to be not at all who you thought they were. He noticed that the sun was dropping lower, and soon they would be stopping for the night. Erestor would doubtless approach him again, and Elrohir had to think of some new way of getting rid of him.
He really wished Ada was here, as he needed someone to talk to who wouldn't tell him insane stories that were obviously lies. He couldn't imagine why Erestor was doing so--if it was all some great plot to keep him from noticing what Glorfindel and the king were up to, it was a little late. And if word that he was supposedly a legend come to life ever got out . . . Elrohir shivered at the very thought. He would be a laughing stock for YEARS, and what Elladan would have to say on the subject didn't even bear thinking about. Elrohir had tried to explain that to Erestor, but he apparently didn't understand.
All that ridiculous tripe about reincarnation was exactly that, no question. Everyone, even elflings, knew that reanimated elves lived in Valinor. It was true that Glorfindel did not, but he had been sent back specifically by the Valar to aid Elrond's family. He was an exception, rather like Elrohir's great-grandfather Tuor who, although born a man, was now living as an immortal in Valinor because of his service to Lord Ulmo. But there was absolutely NO evidence whatsoever that he was himself another such exception. He would have known. One didn't just forget an entire lifetime, especially one that eventful.
Elrohir shifted on his horse, and tried to think of something else, but it was impossible. All right, look at the thing logically. First, did he have any strange memories of some past life? No. He did dream odd things sometimes, but everyone did that. And, if some of those dreams occasionally centered around the events in Gondolin, well, that was hardly surprising. His father loved history, and many of their evening conversations had involved one of Elrond's favourite topics--how his grandparents escaped from the doomed city despite all odds against it. He had heard the story of Lord Ecthelion slaying Gothmog so many times it would be strange if he HADN'T dreamed about it occasionally.
Second, had he exhibited any abilities that could not be explained? No. He was a healer, trained for decades by Elrond of Imladris, so of course he had been able to help Camthalion. He had seen his father heal wounds like that before, if the injured was brought to him immediately. Elrohir himself had never before managed to do it, but then, he was young; perhaps that kind of talent took time to show itself. He would have to ask Ada on their return when he had begun to show signs of great healing ability; in all likelihood, it was at about Elrohir's age. At any event, he had never heard any stories about Ecthelion of Gondolin being a great healer, or even having any knowledge of the healing arts; so even if he was as powerful an elf as everyone was always saying, he could not have saved Camthalion, for he simply would not have known what to do.
As far as Erestor's point about Lady Galadriel's difficulty in discerning his thoughts, well, there was an obvious answer to that, too. She couldn't read Lord Celeborn, or so he had heard it said, nor Ada, without their acquiescence. Wouldn't it make sense, as a descendant of both of them, if Elrohir had a certain amount of natural resistance also? Of course, Elladan had always been an open book to her, but then, his brother was like that about everything--no feel at all for guile. Sometimes, Elrohir seriously worried about him.
The third point, however, was the deciding factor from Elrohir's perspective. Everyone knew of the great love between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. There was a painting in one of his father's books showing the two of them on horseback, Gondolin glimmering in the background. It was an image that had caused Elrohir a twinge of jealousy once he and Glorfindel came together, as the two warriors had looked so right together. Glorfindel had been clad in the gold and white of his house, the sunburst on his shield shining brightly in the morning light, his blue eyes reflecting the colour of the sky. Ecthelion had seemed his natural counterpart, dressed all in silver and diamonds like a sparkling moonbeam, his dark hair spilling about his shoulders and his grey eyes shimmering as brilliantly as his armor. Elrohir had comforted himself with the thought that, after all, it had been a very long time ago--before he was even born--and that Ecthelion was long dead. How ironic that the one he had looked at with such jealousy Erestor now believed him to be!
It would be almost laughable to compare him with such a legend, even if Glorfindel had not made it obvious that he vastly preferred the charms of the King of Mirkwood. That just raised the whole thing to a farce, as it was something, Elrohir thought fiercely, that would never have happened had he really been Ecthelion. The two warriors were said to have been inseparable from the time they first met in Nevrast, before Gondolin was even founded. Theirs was one of the great love stories of all time, held up as an example of the possible cooperation between Sindar and Noldor. It even had the requisite tragic ending when both died in the same way on the same day, in defense of Turgon's line. No, Elrohir thought sadly, Glorfindel would never have betrayed Ecthelion; Elrohir, however, was obviously another matter. Erestor's nonsense about Glorfindel being heartbroken over losing him was now shown to be just another strange fancy of his. Elrohir decided that he had best talk to Ada on their return about arranging some rest for Erestor; he had obviously been overworked and was becoming dangerously unstable.
Lord Celeborn called a halt soon thereafter, and to Elrohir's complete lack of surprise, he saw Erestor make his way towards him almost as soon as they had dismounted. Seeing the determination in Erestor's eyes, Elrohir briefly looked about for aid, but there was no one he knew well enough or trusted sufficiently to help him, Gildor having gone back with the wounded. He sighed. He had always heard that it was best to humour the mentally unstable, lest they become even more deranged and possibly dangerous. Erestor in a dangerous mood was not something Elrohir wanted to contemplate, especially since growing to know him a bit better recently. Yes, Elrohir decided as his father's counselor approached, best to just agree with him and wait to talk to Ada later.
* * *
Haldir looked up as someone knocked, feeling surprised. Lord Elrond was the only one who usually bothered with such a courtesy, although why he did Haldir had no idea. Yet Elrond had just left after stating that he would be unavailable for most of the day, as he would be occupied trying to help the elf they had rescued from the mines. Haldir's eyes narrowed. It could not be Rumil or Elwyyda, both of whom burst in on him without warning. It could not be a member of the guard, as they had all been removed when it was determined that Gildor's presence was sufficient to insure that Haldir would make no further attempts to escape. It could not be another well wisher for, although he had many friends in Caras Galadhon, the power hungry, sadistic and vengeful dwarf who guarded him allowed none through, on the flimsy excuse that he needed to rest. How talking with friends while sitting doing nothing in bed did not so qualify had not been explained.
The knock came again, and Haldir bit his lip in indecision. He knew who it had to be, of course, so where was that good-for-nothing dwarf when he needed her? He certainly could not afford to be alone with Gildor at the moment. The sudden wave of delicious hunger that even the thought produced was enough testimony to that. He looked wildly at the window, but there was no escape there, for even though the guard who had been perched rather ridiculously in the tree had been removed, Haldir could hardly climb down with his ankle as it was. Besides, he had rebroken it in his last escape attempt and been told that, if he did so again, he would be tied to the bed until fully healed. He had no doubt that Rumil would do exactly as he said, tyrant that he had become lately. He had obviously been taking lessons from the dwarf . . .
He had hesitated too long, for the door cracked open and Gildor's head poked around it, all tumbled curls and big brown eyes, followed soon by the rest of him when he saw that Haldir was awake. He had something tucked under his arm that on inspection turned out to be the chess set he had given Haldir for the anniversary of their first kiss. It had been a ridiculously sentimental gesture, which would have once elicited nothing more from him than a terse "thanks," but when Gildor did it he had merely adored. They had never had an opportunity to play, however, as trouble in the form of Orophin and the Peredhel brothers had fallen from the sky. Haldir was somewhat relieved to see the board as perhaps all his lover wanted was a few games. There was mischief in Gildor's bright eyes, however, and something about his smile as he joined Haldir on the bed that worried him.
* * *
The attack would be launched tomorrow at daybreak. Erestor had agreed with everyone else on the time, and he knew it to be logical. That didn't mean he had to like it. He had not managed to accomplish either of the main projects on his list, and was now running out of time. It was, he thought, likely to be a very long night.
Elrohir was humouring him, allowing him to share his fire without so much as a murmur of protest after avoiding him steadily for two days. Even knowing that, Erestor intended to give this his best effort, but he was beginning to believe that he was wasting his time. "You are no different today, Elrohir, than you were yesterday, or any other. You are you, no matter what name you bear. You are still a warrior, are you not? You are still in love with Glorfindel, are you not? These things transcend time and petty concerns over what skin we wear. The heart endures, the soul endures, and YOU endure."
"Yes, Erestor, of course." Elrohir looked at him with wary eyes as he began preparing dinner.
Erestor ran a tired hand through his uncharacteristically dusty hair and wished for the baths houses of Imladris or the hot springs at Lorien. He HATED campaigns and the inconveniences that invariably went with them. At the moment, he was not far from hating stubborn elves, too. "You said to me yesterday that you cannot accept my words because you would then not be Elrond's son. I have thought on this, but your reasoning makes little sense to me. Why is it that you are not Elrond's son, but Elladan is? You share the same things--the experience of growing up in Imladris, the education, the pranks you pulled, even your bodies are virtually the same. The only difference is that Elladan has a newly created Fea, while you have one imbued with the experiences and memories of many years--and most would consider that a great gift. Oh, I know, you don't remember it all now, but in time, you will. And you may find your recollections useful."
"Yes, of course, Erestor." Elrohir poked at the fire before him with a stick, then busied himself stirring the soup he had made in a little pot. Erestor was quite well aware that his former student had shut him out, almost as effectively as if he had not even been there, but he laboured on anyway, hoping that Elrohir might later think on his words.
"What is a soul, anyway? Our parents do not make it, they simply form the body that houses it. If Elrond had to break off a bit of his soul to make that of his children, then I would allow that, yes, you could not be his son. But our beliefs have never taught any such thing. We believe, do we not, that ALL souls come from the Valar. So if they choose to make use of one a second time, instead of creating a new one, why should that concern us? Again I say, you are you, no matter the time period in which you live."
"As you say, Erestor. Tea with your stew?"
Erestor sighed, but accepted the bowl and cup. He was famished, for they had ridden hard all day, and was too tired to attempt further arguments. He doubted that Elrohir truly understood, but at least he had explained things now to the best of his ability. Elrond would no doubt do much better. Erestor vowed to talk with him as soon as they returned to Lorien about his son's insistent denial.
Erestor looked up and caught Cam's eye across the width of the camp, but the Noldor immediately looked away. That was not surprising, as Cam had also scrupulously avoided him since THAT DAY, as Erestor had begun terming it to himself. He was yet another problem that Erestor didn't know how to resolve, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he did not know how to manage his own reactions. Elrohir wasn't the only one having to deal with new experiences lately.
* * *
"Your move." Haldir looked at Gildor, wondering what was taking him so long. If he had bought a chess board, surely he knew how to play? But Gildor had spent the last several minutes staring dreamily at him, and making no effort at all to move his pieces.
He smiled now at Haldir's comment, and hesitated a moment before replying. "I know it is. I'm just unsure of how to go about it."
"Well, those are pawns--the little ones in front. They have to be moved first, so your other pieces can get out. Except for knights, which can jump over them."
"Hmm." Gildor carefully selected a pawn, and rolled it through his fingers thoughtfully. His eyes weren't on the board, however, but instead were caressing--there really was no other word for it--Haldir's body in the same way that his fingers roamed over the little piece. He reached over and trailed the cool surface of the pawn down Haldir's chest, pausing only when it bumped one of the buttons on the partially unfastened front of his nightshirt. "I see what you mean--they are rather like scouts, feeling out the enemy's defenses."
Haldir caught Gildor's wrist, resolutely not stroking the soft skin although it begged for it. "Pawns never leave the board unless captured by another piece."
"You captured me a long time ago." Gildor slid the pawn lower, pushing buttons open as it went. Its surface was cool, or maybe it just felt that way against Haldir's suddenly overheated skin.
Haldir tried to glare at his lover, but doubted that he accomplished it. His features had the annoying habit of falling into a sloppy grin whenever his eyes lit on Gildor. "You promised when I said you could stay--just chess."
"Hmm, but there are many variations on the game, aren't there? I have a proposal." Gildor tossed his messy curls back over his shoulder, distracting Haldir who had always preferred his lover's hair unbraided. It required a surprising amount of willpower not to bury his hands in that gorgeous, shining mass, then drag Gildor down to him and . . .
Haldir reflected that he should have known better than to trust him. "You said you came here to play," he reminded him sternly, "so let's play."
"Exactly what I had in mind," Gildor grinned at him, eyes bright and open and positively dancing with mirth. Haldir looked away from the face in front of him before its expression undermined his already frayed will power. However, his eyes just used the opportunity to admire the well-muscled shoulders and creamy skin that was barely concealed by the thinnest of tunics. He'd be willing to bet that Gildor wasn't wearing anything under that thin, red cotton, and he KNEW Haldir loved him in that colour . . . "I am just proposing a slight change in the rules." Gildor put his little dragon egg back on the board and beamed innocently. "Whenever one of us takes a piece, he gets a reward from his opponent. That's fair, isn't it?"
"No." Haldir regarded him through slitted eyes. "I know what you are doing. And you know perfectly well that you are not up for it."
Gildor laughed delightedly, but a beautiful flush bloomed on his cheeks. "Well give me a moment, and we'll see."
"I don't know where you learned such appalling puns! You've been spending far too much time with my brothers."
"And not nearly enough with you, something I intend to remedy." Soft lips quickly caught his and Haldir opened to them before he thought about it, but he broke away a second later, breathing laboured from the effort of holding back.
"Lord Elrond said . . . "
"That I am recuperating nicely--he told me so just this morning." Gildor's knowing hands found just the right spot behind Haldir's knees, and delicately teased the sensitive flesh as he pushed his legs slightly apart and knelt between them. Haldir made attempts to pull down his nightshirt and to keep his naughty partner from running hands up the side of his thighs, telling himself that this was wrong until Lord Elrond certified Gildor completely well, but his body was not listening. It seemed to think that Gildor had very good ideas and should be listened to carefully. Feeling his lover weakening, Gildor pressed his advantage, capturing his mouth again in a commanding kiss as he gently pushed him back against the bed's softness and slid a hand up his back to tangle in his hair.
Haldir marveled again that kissing Gildor was so much more satisfying than doing so with anyone else. With his other partners, it had been a prelude only, and one he had rarely lingered on. But the current of mingled power and tenderness that Gildor conveyed was almost a climax in itself. It wasn't his lips, which although soft and warm and smooth, were no more so than any other elf's. It wasn't the way his body was so responsive, making Haldir's blood race as if he had fever, for he had known other receptive lovers. It wasn't the fact that his hard muscles felt so perfect under the soft contours of his tunic, for Haldir had known many who physically were closer to perfection. But he had never known one he wanted more, hungered for, melted for like this one. And he could never get enough of him.
Haldir could not keep from moaning against those lips, or from giving in to the burn of arousal that followed the hands stroking down his sides and seizing his hips. He could feel the evidence of the younger elf's excitement pressing firmly against his inner thigh as Gildor pushed his nightshirt the rest of the way up and off his body. "I've missed you," Gildor murmured, tugging off his own tunic before sliding fully against Haldir. He lost himself for a moment in the sheer rushing bliss that pulsed between them as skin met skin, and in the sweet smell of his lover that overwhelmed his defenses as easily as if they had not even existed.
Haldir was desperately trying to remember why he wasn't supposed to do this, but his brain was ignoring him, apparently having decided to join his body on this one. He suddenly realised that his hands were digging into the hard muscles of Gildor's back as he tried to meld their bodies even closer together, but his lover did not seem to mind, just used the maneuverability provided by Haldir's quickly loosened grip to begin kissing down his chest. Gildor missed nothing, alternately teasing and soothing, nibbling at his nipples, lapping at his naval, even sucking on his fingers when Haldir briefly tried to push him away.
Oh, he was talented, Haldir thought writhing; Gildor had always known exactly what he wanted, precisely what drove him completely mad, and his long enforced celibacy made this like a feast set before a famine victim. With tongue and teeth working in talented tandem with fingertips, Gildor soon reduced Haldir to something approaching complete mindlessness. He surrendered to his senses, and they all seemed heightened, refined to some purer essence than usual: he could feel the slight calluses on Gildor's bow hand as it ran over the sensitive skin of his arousal, and the warmth of his breath as his tongue followed; could detect the few reddish highlights in his lover's hair, shining in the sunlight from the window; could taste the residue of Gildor's kiss, and tell that he had eaten honey pastries sometime that morning, or perhaps that was just his usual flavor distilled. So heightened had Haldir's senses become that he could almost discern the scent of individual herbs in the oil Gildor used to prepare him. It never ceased to amaze him that making love with Gildor was pure ecstasy each and every time, an experience to be savored, treasured, and remembered.
A heavy beating reverberated through the room, breaking into his reverie, and Haldir stared about blankly for a moment before he realised what it meant. "There's someone at the door." It sounded ridiculous, and his brain woke up enough to inform him that he didn't care.
Gildor apparently agreed. He smiled and slowly slid into him, the feeling so perfect that it caused Haldir's breath to catch in wonder. "No. There isn't."
* * *
"Lord Elrond, the door to Haldir's room is locked and I can't find the key. Rumil said he had it a little while ago, but doesn't know what happened to it. And I cannot find Gildor and Haldir will not open the door."
Elrond looked up from his book. He had been trying to elicit a response from the king by regaling him with a recitation of his favourite parts of the Fall of Gondolin, when Elwyyda burst into his rooms, looking frantic. Elrond had seen both his other patients earlier that day, and was encouraged by their rapid improvement. He supposed an incentive helped. "I would not worry, Elwyyda. There are many ways of recuperating, and I do believe they deserve this one."
TBC
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.
* * *
Gildor sat in bed, staring at the mountain of books and treats Elwyyda had spent most of the day showering on him, and felt like screaming. All right, he told himself, get under control, breathe, be calm, meditate . . . he barely refrained from throwing something at the door she had just closed. This was intolerable! He had been convalescing for three days, and felt, if not perfectly well, at least perfectly well for . . . certain things. But he was constantly watched, almost a prisoner in his own room!
He sighed, and wondered what was happening to him. He wasn't usually this edgy. He had learned to master his feelings through the long years alone, to concentrate on getting the job done, whatever it was, and not give in to isolation and loneliness. But now that he had tasted companionship and love and laughter and warmth, he had discovered a deep craving in him for more, a yearning that was made all the worse by the enforced inactivity of his convalescence.
The problem was not in getting to Haldir. Gildor was confident he could manage that, despite Elwyyda's insistence on checking on him every hour or so on the excuse of bringing him more things he did not want. The only thing he really required was some quality time alone with his lover, and that was exactly what he intended to get. That raised the real problem, however, which was how to get past Haldir's defenses; he was taking Lord Elrond's prescription for rest to a ludicrous degree.
Gildor had tried everything. He sent little love notes via Rumil, not one of which had received a reply. He asked that flowers be taken to Haldir's room from the gardens, combined with the wild elanor that he loved, but they had been ignored. He even went to the desperate length of ambushing Haldir on his way to the baths, dragging him momentarily into a linen closet, but he had fought his way free and hobbled off before much of interest had happened. It was as if Haldir was trying to prove something, although Gildor could not imagine what that might be, except perhaps that he could drive his lover crazy in less than a week. If that was it, he was well on the way to success.
Gildor had nothing else to do but sit and ponder his problem. Well, he supposed that he could worry over what the team was likely to find once they reached the mountain, which he was well aware would likely be today, but it would do nothing except to plunge him into a state of extreme anxiety. He wanted to be with them, but he couldn't, and that was that. Better to concentrate on something he had at least a chance with--namely, seducing his recalcitrant lover.
* * *
Elrohir could feel Erestor's eyes on him, as he had for several days. Everyone else avoided him, apparently not wanting to have anything to do with the freak, but Erestor had approached him three times and constantly watched him. Elrohir didn't know if Glorfindel was doing the same, because he resolutely stayed as far away from him as possible, afraid that his control would snap completely and he would drag him off into the woods and ravish him. The king was here now, anyway, so obviously he wasn't wanted or needed. The three of them--Glorfindel, Celeborn and Thranduil--went into the king's tent every night and stayed up late, planning strategy, he assumed. He didn't want to know what went on after that.
Erestor was not taking part in the strategy sessions, which seemed strange to Elrohir as he was his father's chief advisor and his counsel was usually sound. Of course, that had been true of the old, stable, sane Erestor, and might not be true of whoever he had recently become. Or maybe he had always been that way, and Elrohir had just never noticed. He wondered what you were supposed to do when your whole world shifted, and everyone you thought you could trust was suddenly shown to be not at all who you thought they were. He noticed that the sun was dropping lower, and soon they would be stopping for the night. Erestor would doubtless approach him again, and Elrohir had to think of some new way of getting rid of him.
He really wished Ada was here, as he needed someone to talk to who wouldn't tell him insane stories that were obviously lies. He couldn't imagine why Erestor was doing so--if it was all some great plot to keep him from noticing what Glorfindel and the king were up to, it was a little late. And if word that he was supposedly a legend come to life ever got out . . . Elrohir shivered at the very thought. He would be a laughing stock for YEARS, and what Elladan would have to say on the subject didn't even bear thinking about. Elrohir had tried to explain that to Erestor, but he apparently didn't understand.
All that ridiculous tripe about reincarnation was exactly that, no question. Everyone, even elflings, knew that reanimated elves lived in Valinor. It was true that Glorfindel did not, but he had been sent back specifically by the Valar to aid Elrond's family. He was an exception, rather like Elrohir's great-grandfather Tuor who, although born a man, was now living as an immortal in Valinor because of his service to Lord Ulmo. But there was absolutely NO evidence whatsoever that he was himself another such exception. He would have known. One didn't just forget an entire lifetime, especially one that eventful.
Elrohir shifted on his horse, and tried to think of something else, but it was impossible. All right, look at the thing logically. First, did he have any strange memories of some past life? No. He did dream odd things sometimes, but everyone did that. And, if some of those dreams occasionally centered around the events in Gondolin, well, that was hardly surprising. His father loved history, and many of their evening conversations had involved one of Elrond's favourite topics--how his grandparents escaped from the doomed city despite all odds against it. He had heard the story of Lord Ecthelion slaying Gothmog so many times it would be strange if he HADN'T dreamed about it occasionally.
Second, had he exhibited any abilities that could not be explained? No. He was a healer, trained for decades by Elrond of Imladris, so of course he had been able to help Camthalion. He had seen his father heal wounds like that before, if the injured was brought to him immediately. Elrohir himself had never before managed to do it, but then, he was young; perhaps that kind of talent took time to show itself. He would have to ask Ada on their return when he had begun to show signs of great healing ability; in all likelihood, it was at about Elrohir's age. At any event, he had never heard any stories about Ecthelion of Gondolin being a great healer, or even having any knowledge of the healing arts; so even if he was as powerful an elf as everyone was always saying, he could not have saved Camthalion, for he simply would not have known what to do.
As far as Erestor's point about Lady Galadriel's difficulty in discerning his thoughts, well, there was an obvious answer to that, too. She couldn't read Lord Celeborn, or so he had heard it said, nor Ada, without their acquiescence. Wouldn't it make sense, as a descendant of both of them, if Elrohir had a certain amount of natural resistance also? Of course, Elladan had always been an open book to her, but then, his brother was like that about everything--no feel at all for guile. Sometimes, Elrohir seriously worried about him.
The third point, however, was the deciding factor from Elrohir's perspective. Everyone knew of the great love between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. There was a painting in one of his father's books showing the two of them on horseback, Gondolin glimmering in the background. It was an image that had caused Elrohir a twinge of jealousy once he and Glorfindel came together, as the two warriors had looked so right together. Glorfindel had been clad in the gold and white of his house, the sunburst on his shield shining brightly in the morning light, his blue eyes reflecting the colour of the sky. Ecthelion had seemed his natural counterpart, dressed all in silver and diamonds like a sparkling moonbeam, his dark hair spilling about his shoulders and his grey eyes shimmering as brilliantly as his armor. Elrohir had comforted himself with the thought that, after all, it had been a very long time ago--before he was even born--and that Ecthelion was long dead. How ironic that the one he had looked at with such jealousy Erestor now believed him to be!
It would be almost laughable to compare him with such a legend, even if Glorfindel had not made it obvious that he vastly preferred the charms of the King of Mirkwood. That just raised the whole thing to a farce, as it was something, Elrohir thought fiercely, that would never have happened had he really been Ecthelion. The two warriors were said to have been inseparable from the time they first met in Nevrast, before Gondolin was even founded. Theirs was one of the great love stories of all time, held up as an example of the possible cooperation between Sindar and Noldor. It even had the requisite tragic ending when both died in the same way on the same day, in defense of Turgon's line. No, Elrohir thought sadly, Glorfindel would never have betrayed Ecthelion; Elrohir, however, was obviously another matter. Erestor's nonsense about Glorfindel being heartbroken over losing him was now shown to be just another strange fancy of his. Elrohir decided that he had best talk to Ada on their return about arranging some rest for Erestor; he had obviously been overworked and was becoming dangerously unstable.
Lord Celeborn called a halt soon thereafter, and to Elrohir's complete lack of surprise, he saw Erestor make his way towards him almost as soon as they had dismounted. Seeing the determination in Erestor's eyes, Elrohir briefly looked about for aid, but there was no one he knew well enough or trusted sufficiently to help him, Gildor having gone back with the wounded. He sighed. He had always heard that it was best to humour the mentally unstable, lest they become even more deranged and possibly dangerous. Erestor in a dangerous mood was not something Elrohir wanted to contemplate, especially since growing to know him a bit better recently. Yes, Elrohir decided as his father's counselor approached, best to just agree with him and wait to talk to Ada later.
* * *
Haldir looked up as someone knocked, feeling surprised. Lord Elrond was the only one who usually bothered with such a courtesy, although why he did Haldir had no idea. Yet Elrond had just left after stating that he would be unavailable for most of the day, as he would be occupied trying to help the elf they had rescued from the mines. Haldir's eyes narrowed. It could not be Rumil or Elwyyda, both of whom burst in on him without warning. It could not be a member of the guard, as they had all been removed when it was determined that Gildor's presence was sufficient to insure that Haldir would make no further attempts to escape. It could not be another well wisher for, although he had many friends in Caras Galadhon, the power hungry, sadistic and vengeful dwarf who guarded him allowed none through, on the flimsy excuse that he needed to rest. How talking with friends while sitting doing nothing in bed did not so qualify had not been explained.
The knock came again, and Haldir bit his lip in indecision. He knew who it had to be, of course, so where was that good-for-nothing dwarf when he needed her? He certainly could not afford to be alone with Gildor at the moment. The sudden wave of delicious hunger that even the thought produced was enough testimony to that. He looked wildly at the window, but there was no escape there, for even though the guard who had been perched rather ridiculously in the tree had been removed, Haldir could hardly climb down with his ankle as it was. Besides, he had rebroken it in his last escape attempt and been told that, if he did so again, he would be tied to the bed until fully healed. He had no doubt that Rumil would do exactly as he said, tyrant that he had become lately. He had obviously been taking lessons from the dwarf . . .
He had hesitated too long, for the door cracked open and Gildor's head poked around it, all tumbled curls and big brown eyes, followed soon by the rest of him when he saw that Haldir was awake. He had something tucked under his arm that on inspection turned out to be the chess set he had given Haldir for the anniversary of their first kiss. It had been a ridiculously sentimental gesture, which would have once elicited nothing more from him than a terse "thanks," but when Gildor did it he had merely adored. They had never had an opportunity to play, however, as trouble in the form of Orophin and the Peredhel brothers had fallen from the sky. Haldir was somewhat relieved to see the board as perhaps all his lover wanted was a few games. There was mischief in Gildor's bright eyes, however, and something about his smile as he joined Haldir on the bed that worried him.
* * *
The attack would be launched tomorrow at daybreak. Erestor had agreed with everyone else on the time, and he knew it to be logical. That didn't mean he had to like it. He had not managed to accomplish either of the main projects on his list, and was now running out of time. It was, he thought, likely to be a very long night.
Elrohir was humouring him, allowing him to share his fire without so much as a murmur of protest after avoiding him steadily for two days. Even knowing that, Erestor intended to give this his best effort, but he was beginning to believe that he was wasting his time. "You are no different today, Elrohir, than you were yesterday, or any other. You are you, no matter what name you bear. You are still a warrior, are you not? You are still in love with Glorfindel, are you not? These things transcend time and petty concerns over what skin we wear. The heart endures, the soul endures, and YOU endure."
"Yes, Erestor, of course." Elrohir looked at him with wary eyes as he began preparing dinner.
Erestor ran a tired hand through his uncharacteristically dusty hair and wished for the baths houses of Imladris or the hot springs at Lorien. He HATED campaigns and the inconveniences that invariably went with them. At the moment, he was not far from hating stubborn elves, too. "You said to me yesterday that you cannot accept my words because you would then not be Elrond's son. I have thought on this, but your reasoning makes little sense to me. Why is it that you are not Elrond's son, but Elladan is? You share the same things--the experience of growing up in Imladris, the education, the pranks you pulled, even your bodies are virtually the same. The only difference is that Elladan has a newly created Fea, while you have one imbued with the experiences and memories of many years--and most would consider that a great gift. Oh, I know, you don't remember it all now, but in time, you will. And you may find your recollections useful."
"Yes, of course, Erestor." Elrohir poked at the fire before him with a stick, then busied himself stirring the soup he had made in a little pot. Erestor was quite well aware that his former student had shut him out, almost as effectively as if he had not even been there, but he laboured on anyway, hoping that Elrohir might later think on his words.
"What is a soul, anyway? Our parents do not make it, they simply form the body that houses it. If Elrond had to break off a bit of his soul to make that of his children, then I would allow that, yes, you could not be his son. But our beliefs have never taught any such thing. We believe, do we not, that ALL souls come from the Valar. So if they choose to make use of one a second time, instead of creating a new one, why should that concern us? Again I say, you are you, no matter the time period in which you live."
"As you say, Erestor. Tea with your stew?"
Erestor sighed, but accepted the bowl and cup. He was famished, for they had ridden hard all day, and was too tired to attempt further arguments. He doubted that Elrohir truly understood, but at least he had explained things now to the best of his ability. Elrond would no doubt do much better. Erestor vowed to talk with him as soon as they returned to Lorien about his son's insistent denial.
Erestor looked up and caught Cam's eye across the width of the camp, but the Noldor immediately looked away. That was not surprising, as Cam had also scrupulously avoided him since THAT DAY, as Erestor had begun terming it to himself. He was yet another problem that Erestor didn't know how to resolve, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he did not know how to manage his own reactions. Elrohir wasn't the only one having to deal with new experiences lately.
* * *
"Your move." Haldir looked at Gildor, wondering what was taking him so long. If he had bought a chess board, surely he knew how to play? But Gildor had spent the last several minutes staring dreamily at him, and making no effort at all to move his pieces.
He smiled now at Haldir's comment, and hesitated a moment before replying. "I know it is. I'm just unsure of how to go about it."
"Well, those are pawns--the little ones in front. They have to be moved first, so your other pieces can get out. Except for knights, which can jump over them."
"Hmm." Gildor carefully selected a pawn, and rolled it through his fingers thoughtfully. His eyes weren't on the board, however, but instead were caressing--there really was no other word for it--Haldir's body in the same way that his fingers roamed over the little piece. He reached over and trailed the cool surface of the pawn down Haldir's chest, pausing only when it bumped one of the buttons on the partially unfastened front of his nightshirt. "I see what you mean--they are rather like scouts, feeling out the enemy's defenses."
Haldir caught Gildor's wrist, resolutely not stroking the soft skin although it begged for it. "Pawns never leave the board unless captured by another piece."
"You captured me a long time ago." Gildor slid the pawn lower, pushing buttons open as it went. Its surface was cool, or maybe it just felt that way against Haldir's suddenly overheated skin.
Haldir tried to glare at his lover, but doubted that he accomplished it. His features had the annoying habit of falling into a sloppy grin whenever his eyes lit on Gildor. "You promised when I said you could stay--just chess."
"Hmm, but there are many variations on the game, aren't there? I have a proposal." Gildor tossed his messy curls back over his shoulder, distracting Haldir who had always preferred his lover's hair unbraided. It required a surprising amount of willpower not to bury his hands in that gorgeous, shining mass, then drag Gildor down to him and . . .
Haldir reflected that he should have known better than to trust him. "You said you came here to play," he reminded him sternly, "so let's play."
"Exactly what I had in mind," Gildor grinned at him, eyes bright and open and positively dancing with mirth. Haldir looked away from the face in front of him before its expression undermined his already frayed will power. However, his eyes just used the opportunity to admire the well-muscled shoulders and creamy skin that was barely concealed by the thinnest of tunics. He'd be willing to bet that Gildor wasn't wearing anything under that thin, red cotton, and he KNEW Haldir loved him in that colour . . . "I am just proposing a slight change in the rules." Gildor put his little dragon egg back on the board and beamed innocently. "Whenever one of us takes a piece, he gets a reward from his opponent. That's fair, isn't it?"
"No." Haldir regarded him through slitted eyes. "I know what you are doing. And you know perfectly well that you are not up for it."
Gildor laughed delightedly, but a beautiful flush bloomed on his cheeks. "Well give me a moment, and we'll see."
"I don't know where you learned such appalling puns! You've been spending far too much time with my brothers."
"And not nearly enough with you, something I intend to remedy." Soft lips quickly caught his and Haldir opened to them before he thought about it, but he broke away a second later, breathing laboured from the effort of holding back.
"Lord Elrond said . . . "
"That I am recuperating nicely--he told me so just this morning." Gildor's knowing hands found just the right spot behind Haldir's knees, and delicately teased the sensitive flesh as he pushed his legs slightly apart and knelt between them. Haldir made attempts to pull down his nightshirt and to keep his naughty partner from running hands up the side of his thighs, telling himself that this was wrong until Lord Elrond certified Gildor completely well, but his body was not listening. It seemed to think that Gildor had very good ideas and should be listened to carefully. Feeling his lover weakening, Gildor pressed his advantage, capturing his mouth again in a commanding kiss as he gently pushed him back against the bed's softness and slid a hand up his back to tangle in his hair.
Haldir marveled again that kissing Gildor was so much more satisfying than doing so with anyone else. With his other partners, it had been a prelude only, and one he had rarely lingered on. But the current of mingled power and tenderness that Gildor conveyed was almost a climax in itself. It wasn't his lips, which although soft and warm and smooth, were no more so than any other elf's. It wasn't the way his body was so responsive, making Haldir's blood race as if he had fever, for he had known other receptive lovers. It wasn't the fact that his hard muscles felt so perfect under the soft contours of his tunic, for Haldir had known many who physically were closer to perfection. But he had never known one he wanted more, hungered for, melted for like this one. And he could never get enough of him.
Haldir could not keep from moaning against those lips, or from giving in to the burn of arousal that followed the hands stroking down his sides and seizing his hips. He could feel the evidence of the younger elf's excitement pressing firmly against his inner thigh as Gildor pushed his nightshirt the rest of the way up and off his body. "I've missed you," Gildor murmured, tugging off his own tunic before sliding fully against Haldir. He lost himself for a moment in the sheer rushing bliss that pulsed between them as skin met skin, and in the sweet smell of his lover that overwhelmed his defenses as easily as if they had not even existed.
Haldir was desperately trying to remember why he wasn't supposed to do this, but his brain was ignoring him, apparently having decided to join his body on this one. He suddenly realised that his hands were digging into the hard muscles of Gildor's back as he tried to meld their bodies even closer together, but his lover did not seem to mind, just used the maneuverability provided by Haldir's quickly loosened grip to begin kissing down his chest. Gildor missed nothing, alternately teasing and soothing, nibbling at his nipples, lapping at his naval, even sucking on his fingers when Haldir briefly tried to push him away.
Oh, he was talented, Haldir thought writhing; Gildor had always known exactly what he wanted, precisely what drove him completely mad, and his long enforced celibacy made this like a feast set before a famine victim. With tongue and teeth working in talented tandem with fingertips, Gildor soon reduced Haldir to something approaching complete mindlessness. He surrendered to his senses, and they all seemed heightened, refined to some purer essence than usual: he could feel the slight calluses on Gildor's bow hand as it ran over the sensitive skin of his arousal, and the warmth of his breath as his tongue followed; could detect the few reddish highlights in his lover's hair, shining in the sunlight from the window; could taste the residue of Gildor's kiss, and tell that he had eaten honey pastries sometime that morning, or perhaps that was just his usual flavor distilled. So heightened had Haldir's senses become that he could almost discern the scent of individual herbs in the oil Gildor used to prepare him. It never ceased to amaze him that making love with Gildor was pure ecstasy each and every time, an experience to be savored, treasured, and remembered.
A heavy beating reverberated through the room, breaking into his reverie, and Haldir stared about blankly for a moment before he realised what it meant. "There's someone at the door." It sounded ridiculous, and his brain woke up enough to inform him that he didn't care.
Gildor apparently agreed. He smiled and slowly slid into him, the feeling so perfect that it caused Haldir's breath to catch in wonder. "No. There isn't."
* * *
"Lord Elrond, the door to Haldir's room is locked and I can't find the key. Rumil said he had it a little while ago, but doesn't know what happened to it. And I cannot find Gildor and Haldir will not open the door."
Elrond looked up from his book. He had been trying to elicit a response from the king by regaling him with a recitation of his favourite parts of the Fall of Gondolin, when Elwyyda burst into his rooms, looking frantic. Elrond had seen both his other patients earlier that day, and was encouraged by their rapid improvement. He supposed an incentive helped. "I would not worry, Elwyyda. There are many ways of recuperating, and I do believe they deserve this one."
TBC