Title: Wild Justice 22/?
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.
* * *
Elrohir opened his eyes and looked about. He immediately knew something was wrong, for he was supposed to be in a claustrophobic glade near the Misty Mountains, not on a grassy hillside studded with flowers. It was also supposed to be either late at night or early in the morning, depending on how long he'd slept once he finally dropped off, not mid-afternoon. The sky was wrong for more than just the position of the sun; it had looked overcast even before evening fell, and Elrohir would not have been surprised to wake up to rain, but where-ever he now was, the sun shone merrily. He looked down at himself and then he knew he must be dreaming. He had never, in all his long life, worn an outfit like this.
He had no more time to speculate, however, as a huge white horse reared up just over top of him, its massive hooves barely missing coming into contact with his skull. He rolled out of the way and leaped to his feet, ready to royally tell off the careless rider, when his eyes fell on the elf in question and his exclamations died on his lips. Oh.
Other kinds often made the assumption that elves were immortal. That wasn't exactly true. Elves were fated to live as long as Arda lasted, but just as Earth aged, so did they, with subtle differences obvious over time. It was not difficult, for instance, for any elf to tell the difference between a very young and a very old example of their kind, even if they had never before met. The latter would not only have ancient eyes, but his or her body would also look perceptively older, if still youthful in the mortal conception of that term. So it was that Elrohir immediately recognised the extreme youth--probably less than a hundred years--of the elf looking down at him from atop the restless horse. It was not his age that confounded him, however, to the point of speechlessness.
"Have a care!," the blond glared at him as he brought the massive stallion under control. "You should not hide in the grasses so, else someone will trample you one day!"
Elrohir just stood, looking at the extremely beautiful and ridiculously young elf on the horse, his waist length hair flowing about him like a golden cloud. Elrohir had never seen him wear it so long or so loosely, with strands able to drift into his eyes. He had also never seen his face so open, so clear, so free of cares and concerns. His eyes looked bigger, too, or perhaps his face had not yet fully filled out to its adult shape. By the Valar, but he was stunning!
"Do you speak, Sindar, or did you lose your tongue along with your clothes?" The mocking voice was familiar, and Elrohir bristled. Glancing down at himself once more, however, he could see that the rider, who was fully attired in a long white tunic and light grey leggings, had a point. He briefly wondered if this was one of those dreams where you wander around nude or nearly so, while everyone else makes fun of you. He sighed. Of course, Elbereth forbid that he should get a NICE dream for a change.
"I speak, just not to arrogant Noldor who don't bother to look where they're going." Turning his back, he walked down the hill, away from the vision that was close enough to the one he remembered to cause a fist to close around his heart. He had not gone a half dozen paces, however, before a strong arm caught him and whirled him around. Angry blue eyes met his and a scowl came over the perfect face.
"It is true what they say, then, that the Sindar are little more than barbarians, without even good manners to recommend them."
Elrohir shook off the hand attempting to encircle his bicep with ease. How interesting; in this dream he seemed as tall as his companion, and bulkier than usual. He rather liked the advantage this gave him, as well as the gleam of admiration in his companion's blue eyes that not even anger could mask. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a bad dream after all.
"If we're barbarians," he commented smoothly, "should you not take care, pretty Noldor? Riding about so carelessly, then issuing insults? What if I should . . . demand satisfaction . . . in a some truly barbaric way, of course?" Elrohir was delighted to see uncertainty come into the elf's eyes, and that he stepped back a pace. Pressing his advantage, Elrohir followed, for when would he ever have this chance again? "Here you are, in barbarian territory, too haughty to even follow local customs as to dress." He clicked his tongue and, in a blur of motion, pulled the elf's beautiful embroidered sash from about his waist. "I think I shall have to do something about that."
"Give that back!" The blond reached for it, but Elrohir danced back out of reach.
"Ah, but you are a Noldor lord, are you not? Surely, a mere barbarian such as myself could have no hope of eluding you?" He dangled the pretty sash from his fingers and grinned. "If you want it, come and take it." Then he was off, leaping onto the elf's horse and spurring its sides with his bare feet. It reared under him, then plunged for the distant line of trees along the horizon.
Elrohir loved the feel of the wind in his hair, and was intrigued by the strange smell in the air. It took him some time to place it, and then he became even more excited. It was the smell of salt and much water, the indefinable breath of the sea. He had only been to the ocean once, and that when he was very young, but he remembered its distinctive smell. For a moment he forgot about being pursued, forgot even that he was dreaming, in the rush of excitement the idea of the sea rose in him. The horse under him bucked and reared as they reached the summit of a hill, but Elrohir soon had him back under control. Glorfindel had taught him to ride, and he had taught well.
The trees formed but a thin line and behind them, golden dunes sparsely covered with vegetation soon gave way to a sandy shore, onto which little fingers of foam darted inland. Elrohir couldn't help it, he laughed in sheer joy at the sight, then leaped off the horse's back and plunged into the surf, heedless of the fact that the scarf he still held was getting soaked in the foamy water. When the waves surged against his thighs, he was grateful for the brief loincloth that was his only clothing, for it made bathing easy. Tossing it and the embroidered scarf onto the beach where they could dry, he plunged further into the water, unimpeded by anything except the jewelled armlets he wore.
Oh, but he would have to arrange another trip to the sea when they returned to Imladris! He wondered why he had not done so before, as this was true bliss. Laughing, he pushed outward until the waves broke across his chest and pushed him slightly back towards the shore with each crash of their foam, shimmering in every shade of green, from emerald to turquoise, under the bright blue sky.
So caught up was Elrohir in his pleasure that he almost didn't hear the mocking laughter from behind him. Some echo of it reached him past the call of the gulls and the ocean's song, however, and he turned to see the blond standing on the shore, holding a piece of cloth in each hand. "What do we have here? A stolen belt, a stolen horse and . . . what's this? A scrap of cloth? I'll take it with me as a souvenir of a most amusing morning, shall I?"
Elrohir knew that it was unimportant; he was dreaming, after all, so what did it matter if someone made off with his dream self's loincloth? It hadn't actually been much of a covering, although the material was a good, heavy silk. Still, he didn't like the mocking air in the elf's tone, nor his deliberately provocative words. Another thought occurred to Elrohir, and he smiled, beginning a leisurely stroll towards shore. If this WAS just a dream, and nothing he did mattered anyway, then why not enjoy himself? It had been a very long time and, considering everything he had been through, he rather thought he deserved a little . . . amusement.
"I never heard before that the Noldor are cowards." The blond had turned towards his horse, but Elrohir's words stopped him and he spun about, one hand still on the animal's bridle.
"Explain why you use such a term of me, Sindar, and be quick."
"Or what?" Elohir deliberately slowed his stride as he neared the beach, and did not bother to hide his smile when the elf could not keep his eyes on his face as he emerged from the waves. Deciding to play it for all it was worth, Elrohir stopped knee deep in the cool water and gathered his wet, dark hair off his shoulders and into a heavy club, which he proceeded to slowly wring dry. He couldn't see the picture he made, surrounded by the emerald sea, the diamonds on his armbands flashing in the sunlight, his body glistening with a thousand drops of water as the sun began to dry him, but he didn't need to. The effect was easy enough to read in the blond's suddenly dazed expression, and in the way his hand fell away from the bridle as if suddenly too heavy to lift.
Finishing his task, Elrohir ran his fingers through his damp hair and then finished closing the distance between them. "You didn't answer me," he commented, retrieving his loincloth from the elf's limp grasp. He twined it around his neck and drew him close. "What terrible fate awaits me? I'm trembling to find out."
Elrohir dicovered that the last statement was almost true, for the fingers he ran into the heavy blond mane were less than steady, but fortunately his companion was too distracted to notice. Strong hands gripped his waist, but instead of pushing him away as he had half expected, they drew him close, pulling his wet skin up against the dry softness of the elf's tunic. Before he could warn him that he was going to get all wet, the blond leaned in to press soft lips on his in a tentative but eager kiss. Elrohir responded for an instant, tasting that sweet lower lip briefly, before pulling back. "Are you sure you want to do this?," he asked, somewhat amused and a little surprised at the youthful vulnerability on the face before him. "I'm a wicked barbarian, after all; who knows what terrible ideas I might have in store for you?"
The elf actually looked frightened for a moment, and his arms loosened. Elrohir wondered where he'd ever acquired his reputation for fearlessness; must have been at a later date. Sighing, he broke away, walking a little way up the beach, the pretty sash he'd reacquired trailing along in the waves that lapped around his feet. "I suppose it is true then," he tossed over his shoulder, "the Noldor really ARE all cowards."
Elrohir heard the quick intake of breath and the sudden sound of boots hitting wet sand behind him, but he didn't turn until the Noldor was almost on him. Then, with a quick spin, he grabbed his pursuer and brought him down into the waves with him. The elf was quick, but Elrohir was quicker--he'd learned these manoeuvres, and more, from Glorfindel of Imladris, had he not? He laughed delightedly, a sound of true joy that echoed over the beach and startled some nearby gulls into flight. Pressing the writhing, squirming body under him down into the wet sand, he held him until his struggles grew less with his dawning realisation that he couldn't break this hold. Then Elrohir began undressing him, the same delighted grin on his features.
First came the tunic, quickly becoming waterlogged but still possible to wrest over the elf's shining head. Elrohir tossed it several yards up the beach and then groaned as he looked down on what remained--why did he wear so many clothes on such a perfect day? Shaking his head, he wedged the infuriated Elda between his thighs and began to tug at the first of several shirts, the outer one, a deep grey embroidered with silver leaves and flowers, amused him--the Noldor had apparently always been a bit of a dandy--an impression reinforced by the fine silk of the white undershirt. Imagine, he thought as he tossed it aside too, wearing a whole shirt just for a tiny piece of it to show at one's neck! A serious waste of material, and a shame aesthetically, considering what it helped to hide.
"You are beautiful, cousin," he murmured, ignoring the poisonous look on the handsome face below him. "Why hide under so many layers? Surely, you cannot be cold on such a day?"
"Let me up, Morier, and I'll show you how I feel!"
Elrohir laughed again at that. By the gods, this was the best dream he had EVER had! "You are incapable of rising on your own Beleger?" He clicked his tongue and ran an appreciative hand down that beautiful torso, pausing as a slightly larger wave than most managed to coat them with spray. "That is a shame. I had not heard our Noldoran cousins were so weak."
The elf below him renewed his struggles in earnest then, as Elrohir had known he would, and it took some effort to avoid being thrown off. But Elrohir found that the form he had assumed in this dream was strong and well practised in the arts of war; all the blond managed to do despite his skill was to tire himself out. "Nadorhuan," he panted after some moments," Amin delotha lle! Let me up! I have done you no harm."
Elrohir smiled at that and ran a finger around the top of the Noldor's by now sopping wet leggings. "You call repeatedly insulting me no harm? Threatening to steal from me no harm? 'Tis true the Noldor have strange customs, but I cannot think these things are permitted among you?"
The blond flushed slightly, and looked a bit abashed. Elrohir found it utterly charming; he had never seen that expression on those usually perfectly composed features. "You stole from me first," the young elf commented petulantly. Elrohir regarded him silently for a moment, then they both broke into peals of laughter, which was only silenced by another wave crashing into them. "Let me up, cousin, and claim what forfeit you will for my unthinking discourtesy."
Elrohir felt his smile fading as he regarded the picture the elf made, his long blond hair floating about his head in the shallow water, his pale skin flushed and beaded with foam, his eyes the same colour as the sky. Something about Elrohir's expression must have registered on his companion, who flushed more and wriggled beneath him, worry coming into those sapphire eyes. "Let me up, cousin," he said again, but his tone was less sure.
"Oh, I will," Elrohir promised, "but I want my forfeit first." Without giving him time to complain, Elrohir dipped his head and captured that inviting mouth, sliding up the length of the blond's body as he did so. The figure beneath him squirmed in protest, but only for a moment, and then the hands trying to push him away were pulling him closer, and the mouth that had been closed so stubbornly against him opened invitingly.
The kiss was strangely familiar and yet strangely new. The taste was the one he knew, sweet and spicy and richly addictive, but there was hesitancy in the tongue that tentatively stroked his that had never been there before, and a naiveté in touch of the hands against his back that was definitely different. Elrohir was gentle, but insistent, and soon the body beneath his began to respond to his nearness in an unmistakable way. He dropped a hand to caress the young one's arousal through his wet leggings, but his action seemed to panic the elf instead of giving him pleasure as Elrohir had intended, and he renewed his struggles. Elrohir was so surprised by the thought that suddenly occurred to him that he let the blond slide out from under him without protest.
"Amin hiraetha, I did not realise, cousin," he told him truthfully.
The elf quickly gathered up his clothes, seeming flustered by the bulge in the front of his leggings. "I . . . I have to get back. I rode out with my friends and they will be looking for me."
Elrohir watched him with concern. He had not meant to frighten him, but it had been so long since he felt that body against his, that he hadn't been able to resist. "It was just a kiss, Heruamin--it was nothing to upset you."
The Noldor vaulted up on his horse and looked back at Elrohir, who remained reclining among the waves. The elf hesitated, and his eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from Elrohir's body, but a moment later he was gone without another word, galloping through the surf as if all the orcs in Middle Earth were after him. Elrohir lay back in the surf, finding the cool embrace of the water comforting, as he wondered why he cared so much that he had frightened a figment of his imagination.
* * *
Elrohir looked about the cool marble halls uncertainly. He knew that he had never seen this place before, yet somehow it was familiar. Had he dreamed it at some point and then forgotten until now? He didn't usually have recurring dreams, but then, he didn't usually have such vivid ones, either.
Somehow he knew he should not loiter here in a damp loincloth, even though the hall seemed deserted. He followed his instincts and took the west-facing hallway out of the centre atrium and, after some twists and turns, came on a large, heavily carved door through which an elf in flowing silver robes was disappearing, his arms around a large bundle. Elrohir followed him into an extensive suit of rooms with heavy furniture, much of it carved like the door with trailing vines and leaves. A huge silver shield on the wall caught his attention; it would have been difficult to ignore as it was situated to catch the light streaming in from a window on the opposite side of the chamber. And it certainly did, he thought in amazement, as a prism of colours sparkled off the thousands of diamonds or crystals set into a shimmering starburst pattern.
"Ah, my lord, you are back!" The dark haired elf he had followed came bustling across the room towards him, his face almost hidden by the huge breastplate he carried. "I was beginning to worry. The ceremony is in less than two hours! You must hurry and get ready."
Before he had a chance to protest, Elrohir was pushed unceremoniously onto a stool and the dark elf, who never seemed to stop talking, bustled about, brushing the salt out of his hair and braiding it carefully into warrior's braids at his temples, then slipping him into a padded tunic and leggings before beginning to help him into lightweight but sturdy mithril armor. Elrohir allowed himself to be pushed about like a puppet, as he was still a little confused about just why he had not woken up yet. Surely, this was a very long dream? And his father had never read him anything about this--was his brain just making it all up?
He realised where he was, of course, for he had seen numerous paintings of Gondolin and this was definitely not the white city the scrolls said had rivaled Tirion itself in beauty. This must, then, be Nevrast, and Elrohir took a moment to bless his father's love of history as the last of his armor was buckled onto him. King Turgon, son of the High King Fingolfin, ruled here, and must be even now contemplating building the hidden city Ondolindë, or as it would more commonly be known, Gondolin. That meant that this had to be sometime in the early First Age, before 126 in any case, at that date marked the completion of the hidden city. He wanted to just ask the date, but even in a dream that would sound strange.
"Ah, yes!" His servant, and Elrohir somehow knew his name was Lothion, seemed pleased about something, and dragged him into the next room to look in a floor length mirror beside an elaborately decorated bed covered in silks and satins in bright, almost gaudy colours, and far too many pillows. Elrohir was about to protest--he needed to know just WHY he was being put into full armor--but stopped when he saw his reflection. He decided that what he really needed was to sit down.
The elf looking back at him resembled him in colouring and superficially in facial features, but it was not the similarities that caught his eye. He had never, he thought fervently, in his whole life looked that good. This elf appeared older, harder and somehow more experienced than he had ever been. None of his surprise or indecision showed on the face before him; its pewter coloured eyes were amused and its sensual lips were curved in a small smile. A mass of dark hair fell about the powerful shoulders, which were encased in the most spectacular armor he had ever seen. Its silver exterior shone mirror bright, except for patches where the diamond star pattern from the shield was repeated in dozens of small, miniature designs all over its surface.
"Your new armor is becoming, my lord," Lothion said, running a cloth over its already perfect surface. Elrohir didn't answer him--he doubted that he could have. Thankfully, Lothion was apparently as incapable of sitting still as he was of being quiet, meaning that Elrohir had to do very little as the other elf bustled about. Which was just as well, for his head was spinning and he felt weak at the knees. " . . . a certain victory!"
"What?" Elrohir wished that he had, at some point in his life, learned to pay more attention to what was happening around him, rather than going off into his own little world. Lothion hurried off to answer a knock at the door without answering him, and Elrohir suddenly felt in need of some fresh air to clear his head. He noticed a wide balcony beyond the bedroom, where a warm breeze beckoned. Leaning against its railing, he admired the beauty of the gardens beyond, which were rather wild but nonetheless attractive. Red petals from the wild rose that twined about one of the nearby posts blew across his vision as he heard Lothion's voice behind him. Elrohir turned and once again saw the golden haired elf, his blue eyes reflecting shock and something like panic as they met his, but Lothion had closed the balcony doors to give them some privacy and there was no escape for either of them.
"You didn't tell me!," he accused. He looked so outraged that Elrohir felt his own confusion momentarily submerged in laughter. "Do not dare to laugh at me you . . . you Sindar!"
"Don't you think we can call a truce, at least for the afternoon? I won't refer to you as a haughty Noldor, if you will refrain from calling me a barbarous Sindar." Elrohir smiled as winningly as he could, as he appreciatively took in the golden armor worn by the Noldor youth. He would gain some power with age, and add a little bulk to his musculature, but it was amazing how like his older self he was. "You look very handsome, Lord Glorfindel."
"You knew who I was all the time! Why did you never give me your name?"
Elrohir smiled--this was just too delicious. He did not even try to resist using Glorfindel's old phrase from the classroom, which had been levied at him enough times for not thinking things through. "You did not ask, lirimaer."
Glorfindel flushed. "You have no right to call me that."
Elrohir leaned against the wooden beam of the balcony and shrugged. "But it is true. You look well." The golden armor, as brightly polished as his own, the flowing white cape and the perfectly groomed blond tresses, which showed no ill effects from their seaside escapade, bore out his statement.
The elf before him shifted slightly, his expression uncertain, and he deliberately did not look at Elrohir. "We should go. The ceremony will begin soon. I am to escort you."
"Then I am doubly fortunate." Glorfindel shot him a suspicious glance at that, but said nothing. Elrohir took his shield from the wall as they passed through the inner rooms, assuming that whoever had arranged all this wanted the full effect, and followed Glorfindel out into the palace.
The main hall was deserted no longer, he noticed, and blinked slightly at the huge throng of elves lining the massive chamber and portico beyond. Through the main doorway leading to the front of the palace, he could see that banners had been set up and were fluttering in the breeze, their brightly coloured surfaces bearing the impressions of a hundred noble houses, some of which he recognized from his lessons and some that he did not. Elves bowed and curtsied as they passed by, the respect bordering on awe in their faces a new experience for Elrohir. His youth had always worked to negate much of the deference he might otherwise have received as Elrond's son, with even the servants at Imladris treating him more like a favourite pet than heir to the realm. If he or Elladan became too rambunctious as elflings, the older servants did not bother to wait for Lord Erestor to rebuke them, but hurried them out of the way with, like as not, a swat on their bottoms to speed them along. This, then, was a very new experience for Elrohir, who somehow knew that here he was being lauded for things he had done, not for whose son he happened to be.
In the main hall, the king--Turgon, he assumed--waited atop a large dais that had been draped with sapphire fabric. When Elrohir and Glorfindel entered, a line of trumpeters situated all along the cavernous room broke into a deafening salute. Elrohir managed to keep a smile on his face as they moved forward, and, he hoped, not to show the nervousness he was feeling. He was pleased that many of the faces in the crowd looked familiar, even if he could not put names to them at the moment.
The ceremony was short but impressive. He had been right about time; it was the seventy-fifth year of the First Age, and Morgoth had just sent floods of orcs to invade and attempt to destroy Beleriand. Fingolfin and Maedhros were raising armies to oppose them, part of which would be drawn from Nevrast. The ceremony was to strengthen the elvish alliance by formally uniting the Sindarin hosts of Nevrast with the Noldor under Turgon's leadership, and the means of doing so was to make a Sindarin prince one of the captains of the king's host. Elrohir had to give his companion credit; Glorfindel might be contemptuous of the Sindar, but he gave no sign of it during the ceremony.
Rising from his knees as a newly commissioned officer in the king's guard, Elrohir lost sight of Glorfindel as he was swept away by a crowd of rejoicing Sindar, and was soon caught up in a huge celebration. Everyone feasted and drank as if there was no tomorrow, which, he supposed, from their point of view there might not be. He, of course, knew that they would win an overwhelming victory, but no other elf present that night had that comfortable security. It suddenly occurred to him, sometime later, to wonder how a youth like Glorfindel, untried in battle as he must be at this point, was handling the pressure of the upcoming events. With difficulty, he broke away from the throng and went to search out his future lover.
He finally found him sitting on a bench on top of the hill that overlooked the palace complex, alone and looking up at the stars. "You look pensive, lirimaer."
Glorfindel did not even bother to turn around at his approach, just continued to look out over the star field that seemed to surround them at this height. The lights spilling out of the palace were far away and insignificant compared to the enveloping darkness. "I told you not to call me that," he finally said, after a significant pause.
Elrohir ignored him and settled himself on the bench at his side. "You have chosen a beautiful spot. It is good to recall that there is beauty in the world, before one has to witness the uglier side of life."
Glorfindel looked down at his hands, apparently lost in thought. Elrohir let him alone, remembering his own first encounter with violence. He had always thought it unfortunate that he grew up in a time when orcs menaced much of Middle Earth and it was foolish to go anywhere without a heavy escort. Now he wondered if that had not, in fact, given him an advantage. Since he had always known attack could come at any time, he had been prepared for it. Weapons use and battle tactics were as much a part of his studies as history, music or art. The first time he had encountered orcs, then, on a training mission with Glorfindel at barely age thirty, he had made his first kill almost as a matter of course; he had, after all, been training for it his whole life. But now he wondered what it was like to face battle mentally unprepared, for he doubted Glorfindel was old enough to have taken part in what would one day be called the Second Battle of Beleriand that marked the beginning of the First Age.
"It will be all right," he commented, when Glorfindel continued to say nothing. "We WILL be victorious." He smiled ruefully, thinking that he could, if he wished, tell the young Glorfindel exactly how the battle would go, practically an hour-by-hour account. His harsh schoolmaster had, after all, drilled him on it often enough. Perhaps now he understood why; this must have been a formative influence on him.
"And if we fail? There is no other power capable of standing against Morgoth."
Elrohir shrugged. "We won't fail." He suddenly had an itch on his back and wished that, like Glorfindel, he had changed out of the all-enveloping armor as soon as the ceremony was over, but he had liked it too well. He had never seen any to equal it, not even that his father had worn in the Last Alliance, which was still preserved at Imladris.
"What are you doing?" Glorfindel looked up as he rose, and his face was pale in the moonlight. He looked very young to Elrohir.
"I have to get out of this armor--it is itching me terribly. Come back with me? We'll have a drink and talk about the battle and how we are going to make Morgoth very sorry he ever heard of Beleriand!"
Glorfindel looked uncertain. "Won't your friends miss you?"
"Won't yours miss you?"
Glorfindel smiled at that, and shrugged. "Everyone is too intent on drinking the night away to notice. For some, it will be their last night to celebrate. They were saying we should . . . "
"Yes?" Elrohir wished Glorfindel would make up his mind; the itch had spread and was driving him crazy.
Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment, his eyes dark in the dim light. "You look like part of the night," he finally said softly, "a herald from Elbereth, clothed in starlight, sent to bring us words of comfort . . . "
Elrohir laughed. "I can assure you, lirimaer, you need have no worries for the future." Well, he thought, not for another four hundred years or so, anyway . . .
Glorfindel seemed to suddenly decide something, for he stood, shaking out his robes. "I will have that drink." Elrohir wondered why he sounded as if some momentous decision had been reached.
They walked back in silence, dodging the groups of merry makers that populated the gardens, especially heavy near the hall where huge tables of food and wine were being replenished for the third time. Elrohir thought the atmosphere strange. Despite the music and laughter, cheerful banners and glowing lights, there was strain on most of the faces, and many of the smiles seemed forced. He would not have been tempted to linger in the torch lit gardens or the great hall, even if he had been less uncomfortable in his attire. The whole palace felt like a house in the middle of a wake.
He let Lothion help him out of his armour then dismissed him for the night. Let him go eat and drink with the others; he doubted that his loquacious servant would notice the undercurrents in the atmosphere. Glorfindel watched apprehensively as Elrohir pulled off the hot, scratchy tunic and headed for the bedroom, intent on finding something less uncomfortable to wear. He had just shed the padded leggings, which kept the mithril plates from chafing his legs, and was rummaging around in the huge wardrobe when he felt a hand slide tentatively down his back.
Elrohir didn't turn around, much though he was tempted, but continued his search as he tried to decide what to do. Berating himself as an utter and complete fool, he wondered why he hadn't anticipated this. Of course; the obligatory pre-combat coitus. Curse it, why weren't there any normal clothes in this wardrobe? He finally gave up, sympathizing with Ecthelion's preference for running about half nude if these overly ornate robes were his only options, and turned to face Glorfindel wearing nothing more than his loin cloth, once again.
"Lirimaer," he caught the young elf's wrist before he could go exploring any further. "I think you should ask yourself if this is what you really want."
Glorfindel didn't answer, just stepped back and pulled his tunic over his head. In the light from the candelabra his skin was as golden as his hair, and Elrohir had difficulty concentrating enough to form coherent sentences. He stood, feeling torn, as the shirt followed the tunic and the leggings followed the shirt. He should probably send him away, he thought vaguely; he is just nervous and doesn't want to think about the battle. He is using you the same way those other elves are using the king's cellars--to forget for a few hours what they are facing tomorrow when they ride off to join the High King.
Then again, he thought, as Glorfindel sat on the edge of the bed, looking lost, if you send him away, won't he just find someone else? Someone who may not be as gentle, may not care about him as much? He knew he was rationalising what he wanted to do, but he also knew that he was right. And he DID want this, wanted it so very much . . .
"Glorfindel," Elrohir sat beside him, and put out a hand to smooth the other elf's hair. "We can just talk if you like . . . have a few drinks . . . we don't have to do this if . . . "
He never had the chance to finish the thought, as his lips were captured in an inexpert but heartfelt kiss. Elrohir felt the tension drain from him as he relaxed into the embrace he knew so well. This was where he belonged, where he had always belonged, in the arms of the lover who was also his best friend. This was what he had been craving, all those lonely, tortured nights alone. Kissing Glorfindel felt like coming home.
When the elf in his arms moaned against his lips, Elrohir thought it the most sensual sound he had ever heard. He pressed him backwards onto the huge bed when they finally drew apart, and decided that he was going to enjoy this night, even if it was only a dream. He thought of Thranduil seeing Glorfindel like this, his golden hair spread out about his head, his eyes dark with passion, his lips glistening from where he'd just licked them in anticipation and nervousness. Elrohir decided that, as soon as he woke up, he would throw the king into a ravine. A really deep ravine.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he told Glorfindel truthfully, brushing a loose lock of hair from his lover's forehead. He wished he could speak of his love, his longing, his need for everything they had once had, but this Glorfindel would not understand that. He did seem to understand something else, however, for he took the initiative to draw him into a deep kiss, while sliding his hands down Elrohir's hips to push at the cloth separating them. Elrohir was happy to assist, and soon warm skin slid against warm skin, and he thought he would pass out from sheer happiness alone.
Then he woke up.
It took a few minutes to understand what had happened, as the early morning light shone in his eyes and Erestor's face, looking tired but somehow more tranquil than it had last night, appeared hovering above him with the news that they would be leaving shortly. "You look exhausted," Elrohir told him, as his mind tried to jump thousands of years in a few seconds. He felt dizzy, tired and extremely frustrated.
"So do you."
Elrohir blinked at him. "It was a busy night."
"Yes . . . yes it was."
Over Erestor's shoulder, Elrohir saw Glorfindel, looking so similar and yet so different from that other time, with lines of worry on his beautiful face and weariness in his blue eyes. An elf stood at his shoulder, a large, blond elf with a hearty laugh who looked perfectly rested and beautifully groomed as always. Elrohir didn't even hesitate. Throwing his blanket aside, he crossed the camp in half a dozen long strides, grabbed Thranduil by the front of his perfectly pressed robes, and slammed him against the trunk of a nearby tree.
The king's eyes widened in surprise, but Elrohir barely noticed. He wouldn't have cared anyway. "He. Is. Mine. Touch him again and I will personally castrate you." Dropping the king, who barely managed to avoid landing in an inelegant heap, Elrohir grabbed Glorfindel by the hand and dragged him into the forest.
Once they were sufficiently far away from camp, Elrohir turned and pulled his lover into a passionate kiss, wrapping one leg about him in case he had any idea of trying to leave. After a moment, it became obvious that Glorfindel intended no such thing. Elrohir looked at him with satisfaction when they came up for air. "Now. Where were we?"
TBC
Morier--dark one.
Beleger--Mighty one.
Nadorhuan--Cowardly dog.
Amin delotha lle--I hate you.
Amin hiraetha--I'm sorry.
Heruamin--My Lord.
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.
* * *
Elrohir opened his eyes and looked about. He immediately knew something was wrong, for he was supposed to be in a claustrophobic glade near the Misty Mountains, not on a grassy hillside studded with flowers. It was also supposed to be either late at night or early in the morning, depending on how long he'd slept once he finally dropped off, not mid-afternoon. The sky was wrong for more than just the position of the sun; it had looked overcast even before evening fell, and Elrohir would not have been surprised to wake up to rain, but where-ever he now was, the sun shone merrily. He looked down at himself and then he knew he must be dreaming. He had never, in all his long life, worn an outfit like this.
He had no more time to speculate, however, as a huge white horse reared up just over top of him, its massive hooves barely missing coming into contact with his skull. He rolled out of the way and leaped to his feet, ready to royally tell off the careless rider, when his eyes fell on the elf in question and his exclamations died on his lips. Oh.
Other kinds often made the assumption that elves were immortal. That wasn't exactly true. Elves were fated to live as long as Arda lasted, but just as Earth aged, so did they, with subtle differences obvious over time. It was not difficult, for instance, for any elf to tell the difference between a very young and a very old example of their kind, even if they had never before met. The latter would not only have ancient eyes, but his or her body would also look perceptively older, if still youthful in the mortal conception of that term. So it was that Elrohir immediately recognised the extreme youth--probably less than a hundred years--of the elf looking down at him from atop the restless horse. It was not his age that confounded him, however, to the point of speechlessness.
"Have a care!," the blond glared at him as he brought the massive stallion under control. "You should not hide in the grasses so, else someone will trample you one day!"
Elrohir just stood, looking at the extremely beautiful and ridiculously young elf on the horse, his waist length hair flowing about him like a golden cloud. Elrohir had never seen him wear it so long or so loosely, with strands able to drift into his eyes. He had also never seen his face so open, so clear, so free of cares and concerns. His eyes looked bigger, too, or perhaps his face had not yet fully filled out to its adult shape. By the Valar, but he was stunning!
"Do you speak, Sindar, or did you lose your tongue along with your clothes?" The mocking voice was familiar, and Elrohir bristled. Glancing down at himself once more, however, he could see that the rider, who was fully attired in a long white tunic and light grey leggings, had a point. He briefly wondered if this was one of those dreams where you wander around nude or nearly so, while everyone else makes fun of you. He sighed. Of course, Elbereth forbid that he should get a NICE dream for a change.
"I speak, just not to arrogant Noldor who don't bother to look where they're going." Turning his back, he walked down the hill, away from the vision that was close enough to the one he remembered to cause a fist to close around his heart. He had not gone a half dozen paces, however, before a strong arm caught him and whirled him around. Angry blue eyes met his and a scowl came over the perfect face.
"It is true what they say, then, that the Sindar are little more than barbarians, without even good manners to recommend them."
Elrohir shook off the hand attempting to encircle his bicep with ease. How interesting; in this dream he seemed as tall as his companion, and bulkier than usual. He rather liked the advantage this gave him, as well as the gleam of admiration in his companion's blue eyes that not even anger could mask. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a bad dream after all.
"If we're barbarians," he commented smoothly, "should you not take care, pretty Noldor? Riding about so carelessly, then issuing insults? What if I should . . . demand satisfaction . . . in a some truly barbaric way, of course?" Elrohir was delighted to see uncertainty come into the elf's eyes, and that he stepped back a pace. Pressing his advantage, Elrohir followed, for when would he ever have this chance again? "Here you are, in barbarian territory, too haughty to even follow local customs as to dress." He clicked his tongue and, in a blur of motion, pulled the elf's beautiful embroidered sash from about his waist. "I think I shall have to do something about that."
"Give that back!" The blond reached for it, but Elrohir danced back out of reach.
"Ah, but you are a Noldor lord, are you not? Surely, a mere barbarian such as myself could have no hope of eluding you?" He dangled the pretty sash from his fingers and grinned. "If you want it, come and take it." Then he was off, leaping onto the elf's horse and spurring its sides with his bare feet. It reared under him, then plunged for the distant line of trees along the horizon.
Elrohir loved the feel of the wind in his hair, and was intrigued by the strange smell in the air. It took him some time to place it, and then he became even more excited. It was the smell of salt and much water, the indefinable breath of the sea. He had only been to the ocean once, and that when he was very young, but he remembered its distinctive smell. For a moment he forgot about being pursued, forgot even that he was dreaming, in the rush of excitement the idea of the sea rose in him. The horse under him bucked and reared as they reached the summit of a hill, but Elrohir soon had him back under control. Glorfindel had taught him to ride, and he had taught well.
The trees formed but a thin line and behind them, golden dunes sparsely covered with vegetation soon gave way to a sandy shore, onto which little fingers of foam darted inland. Elrohir couldn't help it, he laughed in sheer joy at the sight, then leaped off the horse's back and plunged into the surf, heedless of the fact that the scarf he still held was getting soaked in the foamy water. When the waves surged against his thighs, he was grateful for the brief loincloth that was his only clothing, for it made bathing easy. Tossing it and the embroidered scarf onto the beach where they could dry, he plunged further into the water, unimpeded by anything except the jewelled armlets he wore.
Oh, but he would have to arrange another trip to the sea when they returned to Imladris! He wondered why he had not done so before, as this was true bliss. Laughing, he pushed outward until the waves broke across his chest and pushed him slightly back towards the shore with each crash of their foam, shimmering in every shade of green, from emerald to turquoise, under the bright blue sky.
So caught up was Elrohir in his pleasure that he almost didn't hear the mocking laughter from behind him. Some echo of it reached him past the call of the gulls and the ocean's song, however, and he turned to see the blond standing on the shore, holding a piece of cloth in each hand. "What do we have here? A stolen belt, a stolen horse and . . . what's this? A scrap of cloth? I'll take it with me as a souvenir of a most amusing morning, shall I?"
Elrohir knew that it was unimportant; he was dreaming, after all, so what did it matter if someone made off with his dream self's loincloth? It hadn't actually been much of a covering, although the material was a good, heavy silk. Still, he didn't like the mocking air in the elf's tone, nor his deliberately provocative words. Another thought occurred to Elrohir, and he smiled, beginning a leisurely stroll towards shore. If this WAS just a dream, and nothing he did mattered anyway, then why not enjoy himself? It had been a very long time and, considering everything he had been through, he rather thought he deserved a little . . . amusement.
"I never heard before that the Noldor are cowards." The blond had turned towards his horse, but Elrohir's words stopped him and he spun about, one hand still on the animal's bridle.
"Explain why you use such a term of me, Sindar, and be quick."
"Or what?" Elohir deliberately slowed his stride as he neared the beach, and did not bother to hide his smile when the elf could not keep his eyes on his face as he emerged from the waves. Deciding to play it for all it was worth, Elrohir stopped knee deep in the cool water and gathered his wet, dark hair off his shoulders and into a heavy club, which he proceeded to slowly wring dry. He couldn't see the picture he made, surrounded by the emerald sea, the diamonds on his armbands flashing in the sunlight, his body glistening with a thousand drops of water as the sun began to dry him, but he didn't need to. The effect was easy enough to read in the blond's suddenly dazed expression, and in the way his hand fell away from the bridle as if suddenly too heavy to lift.
Finishing his task, Elrohir ran his fingers through his damp hair and then finished closing the distance between them. "You didn't answer me," he commented, retrieving his loincloth from the elf's limp grasp. He twined it around his neck and drew him close. "What terrible fate awaits me? I'm trembling to find out."
Elrohir dicovered that the last statement was almost true, for the fingers he ran into the heavy blond mane were less than steady, but fortunately his companion was too distracted to notice. Strong hands gripped his waist, but instead of pushing him away as he had half expected, they drew him close, pulling his wet skin up against the dry softness of the elf's tunic. Before he could warn him that he was going to get all wet, the blond leaned in to press soft lips on his in a tentative but eager kiss. Elrohir responded for an instant, tasting that sweet lower lip briefly, before pulling back. "Are you sure you want to do this?," he asked, somewhat amused and a little surprised at the youthful vulnerability on the face before him. "I'm a wicked barbarian, after all; who knows what terrible ideas I might have in store for you?"
The elf actually looked frightened for a moment, and his arms loosened. Elrohir wondered where he'd ever acquired his reputation for fearlessness; must have been at a later date. Sighing, he broke away, walking a little way up the beach, the pretty sash he'd reacquired trailing along in the waves that lapped around his feet. "I suppose it is true then," he tossed over his shoulder, "the Noldor really ARE all cowards."
Elrohir heard the quick intake of breath and the sudden sound of boots hitting wet sand behind him, but he didn't turn until the Noldor was almost on him. Then, with a quick spin, he grabbed his pursuer and brought him down into the waves with him. The elf was quick, but Elrohir was quicker--he'd learned these manoeuvres, and more, from Glorfindel of Imladris, had he not? He laughed delightedly, a sound of true joy that echoed over the beach and startled some nearby gulls into flight. Pressing the writhing, squirming body under him down into the wet sand, he held him until his struggles grew less with his dawning realisation that he couldn't break this hold. Then Elrohir began undressing him, the same delighted grin on his features.
First came the tunic, quickly becoming waterlogged but still possible to wrest over the elf's shining head. Elrohir tossed it several yards up the beach and then groaned as he looked down on what remained--why did he wear so many clothes on such a perfect day? Shaking his head, he wedged the infuriated Elda between his thighs and began to tug at the first of several shirts, the outer one, a deep grey embroidered with silver leaves and flowers, amused him--the Noldor had apparently always been a bit of a dandy--an impression reinforced by the fine silk of the white undershirt. Imagine, he thought as he tossed it aside too, wearing a whole shirt just for a tiny piece of it to show at one's neck! A serious waste of material, and a shame aesthetically, considering what it helped to hide.
"You are beautiful, cousin," he murmured, ignoring the poisonous look on the handsome face below him. "Why hide under so many layers? Surely, you cannot be cold on such a day?"
"Let me up, Morier, and I'll show you how I feel!"
Elrohir laughed again at that. By the gods, this was the best dream he had EVER had! "You are incapable of rising on your own Beleger?" He clicked his tongue and ran an appreciative hand down that beautiful torso, pausing as a slightly larger wave than most managed to coat them with spray. "That is a shame. I had not heard our Noldoran cousins were so weak."
The elf below him renewed his struggles in earnest then, as Elrohir had known he would, and it took some effort to avoid being thrown off. But Elrohir found that the form he had assumed in this dream was strong and well practised in the arts of war; all the blond managed to do despite his skill was to tire himself out. "Nadorhuan," he panted after some moments," Amin delotha lle! Let me up! I have done you no harm."
Elrohir smiled at that and ran a finger around the top of the Noldor's by now sopping wet leggings. "You call repeatedly insulting me no harm? Threatening to steal from me no harm? 'Tis true the Noldor have strange customs, but I cannot think these things are permitted among you?"
The blond flushed slightly, and looked a bit abashed. Elrohir found it utterly charming; he had never seen that expression on those usually perfectly composed features. "You stole from me first," the young elf commented petulantly. Elrohir regarded him silently for a moment, then they both broke into peals of laughter, which was only silenced by another wave crashing into them. "Let me up, cousin, and claim what forfeit you will for my unthinking discourtesy."
Elrohir felt his smile fading as he regarded the picture the elf made, his long blond hair floating about his head in the shallow water, his pale skin flushed and beaded with foam, his eyes the same colour as the sky. Something about Elrohir's expression must have registered on his companion, who flushed more and wriggled beneath him, worry coming into those sapphire eyes. "Let me up, cousin," he said again, but his tone was less sure.
"Oh, I will," Elrohir promised, "but I want my forfeit first." Without giving him time to complain, Elrohir dipped his head and captured that inviting mouth, sliding up the length of the blond's body as he did so. The figure beneath him squirmed in protest, but only for a moment, and then the hands trying to push him away were pulling him closer, and the mouth that had been closed so stubbornly against him opened invitingly.
The kiss was strangely familiar and yet strangely new. The taste was the one he knew, sweet and spicy and richly addictive, but there was hesitancy in the tongue that tentatively stroked his that had never been there before, and a naiveté in touch of the hands against his back that was definitely different. Elrohir was gentle, but insistent, and soon the body beneath his began to respond to his nearness in an unmistakable way. He dropped a hand to caress the young one's arousal through his wet leggings, but his action seemed to panic the elf instead of giving him pleasure as Elrohir had intended, and he renewed his struggles. Elrohir was so surprised by the thought that suddenly occurred to him that he let the blond slide out from under him without protest.
"Amin hiraetha, I did not realise, cousin," he told him truthfully.
The elf quickly gathered up his clothes, seeming flustered by the bulge in the front of his leggings. "I . . . I have to get back. I rode out with my friends and they will be looking for me."
Elrohir watched him with concern. He had not meant to frighten him, but it had been so long since he felt that body against his, that he hadn't been able to resist. "It was just a kiss, Heruamin--it was nothing to upset you."
The Noldor vaulted up on his horse and looked back at Elrohir, who remained reclining among the waves. The elf hesitated, and his eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from Elrohir's body, but a moment later he was gone without another word, galloping through the surf as if all the orcs in Middle Earth were after him. Elrohir lay back in the surf, finding the cool embrace of the water comforting, as he wondered why he cared so much that he had frightened a figment of his imagination.
* * *
Elrohir looked about the cool marble halls uncertainly. He knew that he had never seen this place before, yet somehow it was familiar. Had he dreamed it at some point and then forgotten until now? He didn't usually have recurring dreams, but then, he didn't usually have such vivid ones, either.
Somehow he knew he should not loiter here in a damp loincloth, even though the hall seemed deserted. He followed his instincts and took the west-facing hallway out of the centre atrium and, after some twists and turns, came on a large, heavily carved door through which an elf in flowing silver robes was disappearing, his arms around a large bundle. Elrohir followed him into an extensive suit of rooms with heavy furniture, much of it carved like the door with trailing vines and leaves. A huge silver shield on the wall caught his attention; it would have been difficult to ignore as it was situated to catch the light streaming in from a window on the opposite side of the chamber. And it certainly did, he thought in amazement, as a prism of colours sparkled off the thousands of diamonds or crystals set into a shimmering starburst pattern.
"Ah, my lord, you are back!" The dark haired elf he had followed came bustling across the room towards him, his face almost hidden by the huge breastplate he carried. "I was beginning to worry. The ceremony is in less than two hours! You must hurry and get ready."
Before he had a chance to protest, Elrohir was pushed unceremoniously onto a stool and the dark elf, who never seemed to stop talking, bustled about, brushing the salt out of his hair and braiding it carefully into warrior's braids at his temples, then slipping him into a padded tunic and leggings before beginning to help him into lightweight but sturdy mithril armor. Elrohir allowed himself to be pushed about like a puppet, as he was still a little confused about just why he had not woken up yet. Surely, this was a very long dream? And his father had never read him anything about this--was his brain just making it all up?
He realised where he was, of course, for he had seen numerous paintings of Gondolin and this was definitely not the white city the scrolls said had rivaled Tirion itself in beauty. This must, then, be Nevrast, and Elrohir took a moment to bless his father's love of history as the last of his armor was buckled onto him. King Turgon, son of the High King Fingolfin, ruled here, and must be even now contemplating building the hidden city Ondolindë, or as it would more commonly be known, Gondolin. That meant that this had to be sometime in the early First Age, before 126 in any case, at that date marked the completion of the hidden city. He wanted to just ask the date, but even in a dream that would sound strange.
"Ah, yes!" His servant, and Elrohir somehow knew his name was Lothion, seemed pleased about something, and dragged him into the next room to look in a floor length mirror beside an elaborately decorated bed covered in silks and satins in bright, almost gaudy colours, and far too many pillows. Elrohir was about to protest--he needed to know just WHY he was being put into full armor--but stopped when he saw his reflection. He decided that what he really needed was to sit down.
The elf looking back at him resembled him in colouring and superficially in facial features, but it was not the similarities that caught his eye. He had never, he thought fervently, in his whole life looked that good. This elf appeared older, harder and somehow more experienced than he had ever been. None of his surprise or indecision showed on the face before him; its pewter coloured eyes were amused and its sensual lips were curved in a small smile. A mass of dark hair fell about the powerful shoulders, which were encased in the most spectacular armor he had ever seen. Its silver exterior shone mirror bright, except for patches where the diamond star pattern from the shield was repeated in dozens of small, miniature designs all over its surface.
"Your new armor is becoming, my lord," Lothion said, running a cloth over its already perfect surface. Elrohir didn't answer him--he doubted that he could have. Thankfully, Lothion was apparently as incapable of sitting still as he was of being quiet, meaning that Elrohir had to do very little as the other elf bustled about. Which was just as well, for his head was spinning and he felt weak at the knees. " . . . a certain victory!"
"What?" Elrohir wished that he had, at some point in his life, learned to pay more attention to what was happening around him, rather than going off into his own little world. Lothion hurried off to answer a knock at the door without answering him, and Elrohir suddenly felt in need of some fresh air to clear his head. He noticed a wide balcony beyond the bedroom, where a warm breeze beckoned. Leaning against its railing, he admired the beauty of the gardens beyond, which were rather wild but nonetheless attractive. Red petals from the wild rose that twined about one of the nearby posts blew across his vision as he heard Lothion's voice behind him. Elrohir turned and once again saw the golden haired elf, his blue eyes reflecting shock and something like panic as they met his, but Lothion had closed the balcony doors to give them some privacy and there was no escape for either of them.
"You didn't tell me!," he accused. He looked so outraged that Elrohir felt his own confusion momentarily submerged in laughter. "Do not dare to laugh at me you . . . you Sindar!"
"Don't you think we can call a truce, at least for the afternoon? I won't refer to you as a haughty Noldor, if you will refrain from calling me a barbarous Sindar." Elrohir smiled as winningly as he could, as he appreciatively took in the golden armor worn by the Noldor youth. He would gain some power with age, and add a little bulk to his musculature, but it was amazing how like his older self he was. "You look very handsome, Lord Glorfindel."
"You knew who I was all the time! Why did you never give me your name?"
Elrohir smiled--this was just too delicious. He did not even try to resist using Glorfindel's old phrase from the classroom, which had been levied at him enough times for not thinking things through. "You did not ask, lirimaer."
Glorfindel flushed. "You have no right to call me that."
Elrohir leaned against the wooden beam of the balcony and shrugged. "But it is true. You look well." The golden armor, as brightly polished as his own, the flowing white cape and the perfectly groomed blond tresses, which showed no ill effects from their seaside escapade, bore out his statement.
The elf before him shifted slightly, his expression uncertain, and he deliberately did not look at Elrohir. "We should go. The ceremony will begin soon. I am to escort you."
"Then I am doubly fortunate." Glorfindel shot him a suspicious glance at that, but said nothing. Elrohir took his shield from the wall as they passed through the inner rooms, assuming that whoever had arranged all this wanted the full effect, and followed Glorfindel out into the palace.
The main hall was deserted no longer, he noticed, and blinked slightly at the huge throng of elves lining the massive chamber and portico beyond. Through the main doorway leading to the front of the palace, he could see that banners had been set up and were fluttering in the breeze, their brightly coloured surfaces bearing the impressions of a hundred noble houses, some of which he recognized from his lessons and some that he did not. Elves bowed and curtsied as they passed by, the respect bordering on awe in their faces a new experience for Elrohir. His youth had always worked to negate much of the deference he might otherwise have received as Elrond's son, with even the servants at Imladris treating him more like a favourite pet than heir to the realm. If he or Elladan became too rambunctious as elflings, the older servants did not bother to wait for Lord Erestor to rebuke them, but hurried them out of the way with, like as not, a swat on their bottoms to speed them along. This, then, was a very new experience for Elrohir, who somehow knew that here he was being lauded for things he had done, not for whose son he happened to be.
In the main hall, the king--Turgon, he assumed--waited atop a large dais that had been draped with sapphire fabric. When Elrohir and Glorfindel entered, a line of trumpeters situated all along the cavernous room broke into a deafening salute. Elrohir managed to keep a smile on his face as they moved forward, and, he hoped, not to show the nervousness he was feeling. He was pleased that many of the faces in the crowd looked familiar, even if he could not put names to them at the moment.
The ceremony was short but impressive. He had been right about time; it was the seventy-fifth year of the First Age, and Morgoth had just sent floods of orcs to invade and attempt to destroy Beleriand. Fingolfin and Maedhros were raising armies to oppose them, part of which would be drawn from Nevrast. The ceremony was to strengthen the elvish alliance by formally uniting the Sindarin hosts of Nevrast with the Noldor under Turgon's leadership, and the means of doing so was to make a Sindarin prince one of the captains of the king's host. Elrohir had to give his companion credit; Glorfindel might be contemptuous of the Sindar, but he gave no sign of it during the ceremony.
Rising from his knees as a newly commissioned officer in the king's guard, Elrohir lost sight of Glorfindel as he was swept away by a crowd of rejoicing Sindar, and was soon caught up in a huge celebration. Everyone feasted and drank as if there was no tomorrow, which, he supposed, from their point of view there might not be. He, of course, knew that they would win an overwhelming victory, but no other elf present that night had that comfortable security. It suddenly occurred to him, sometime later, to wonder how a youth like Glorfindel, untried in battle as he must be at this point, was handling the pressure of the upcoming events. With difficulty, he broke away from the throng and went to search out his future lover.
He finally found him sitting on a bench on top of the hill that overlooked the palace complex, alone and looking up at the stars. "You look pensive, lirimaer."
Glorfindel did not even bother to turn around at his approach, just continued to look out over the star field that seemed to surround them at this height. The lights spilling out of the palace were far away and insignificant compared to the enveloping darkness. "I told you not to call me that," he finally said, after a significant pause.
Elrohir ignored him and settled himself on the bench at his side. "You have chosen a beautiful spot. It is good to recall that there is beauty in the world, before one has to witness the uglier side of life."
Glorfindel looked down at his hands, apparently lost in thought. Elrohir let him alone, remembering his own first encounter with violence. He had always thought it unfortunate that he grew up in a time when orcs menaced much of Middle Earth and it was foolish to go anywhere without a heavy escort. Now he wondered if that had not, in fact, given him an advantage. Since he had always known attack could come at any time, he had been prepared for it. Weapons use and battle tactics were as much a part of his studies as history, music or art. The first time he had encountered orcs, then, on a training mission with Glorfindel at barely age thirty, he had made his first kill almost as a matter of course; he had, after all, been training for it his whole life. But now he wondered what it was like to face battle mentally unprepared, for he doubted Glorfindel was old enough to have taken part in what would one day be called the Second Battle of Beleriand that marked the beginning of the First Age.
"It will be all right," he commented, when Glorfindel continued to say nothing. "We WILL be victorious." He smiled ruefully, thinking that he could, if he wished, tell the young Glorfindel exactly how the battle would go, practically an hour-by-hour account. His harsh schoolmaster had, after all, drilled him on it often enough. Perhaps now he understood why; this must have been a formative influence on him.
"And if we fail? There is no other power capable of standing against Morgoth."
Elrohir shrugged. "We won't fail." He suddenly had an itch on his back and wished that, like Glorfindel, he had changed out of the all-enveloping armor as soon as the ceremony was over, but he had liked it too well. He had never seen any to equal it, not even that his father had worn in the Last Alliance, which was still preserved at Imladris.
"What are you doing?" Glorfindel looked up as he rose, and his face was pale in the moonlight. He looked very young to Elrohir.
"I have to get out of this armor--it is itching me terribly. Come back with me? We'll have a drink and talk about the battle and how we are going to make Morgoth very sorry he ever heard of Beleriand!"
Glorfindel looked uncertain. "Won't your friends miss you?"
"Won't yours miss you?"
Glorfindel smiled at that, and shrugged. "Everyone is too intent on drinking the night away to notice. For some, it will be their last night to celebrate. They were saying we should . . . "
"Yes?" Elrohir wished Glorfindel would make up his mind; the itch had spread and was driving him crazy.
Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment, his eyes dark in the dim light. "You look like part of the night," he finally said softly, "a herald from Elbereth, clothed in starlight, sent to bring us words of comfort . . . "
Elrohir laughed. "I can assure you, lirimaer, you need have no worries for the future." Well, he thought, not for another four hundred years or so, anyway . . .
Glorfindel seemed to suddenly decide something, for he stood, shaking out his robes. "I will have that drink." Elrohir wondered why he sounded as if some momentous decision had been reached.
They walked back in silence, dodging the groups of merry makers that populated the gardens, especially heavy near the hall where huge tables of food and wine were being replenished for the third time. Elrohir thought the atmosphere strange. Despite the music and laughter, cheerful banners and glowing lights, there was strain on most of the faces, and many of the smiles seemed forced. He would not have been tempted to linger in the torch lit gardens or the great hall, even if he had been less uncomfortable in his attire. The whole palace felt like a house in the middle of a wake.
He let Lothion help him out of his armour then dismissed him for the night. Let him go eat and drink with the others; he doubted that his loquacious servant would notice the undercurrents in the atmosphere. Glorfindel watched apprehensively as Elrohir pulled off the hot, scratchy tunic and headed for the bedroom, intent on finding something less uncomfortable to wear. He had just shed the padded leggings, which kept the mithril plates from chafing his legs, and was rummaging around in the huge wardrobe when he felt a hand slide tentatively down his back.
Elrohir didn't turn around, much though he was tempted, but continued his search as he tried to decide what to do. Berating himself as an utter and complete fool, he wondered why he hadn't anticipated this. Of course; the obligatory pre-combat coitus. Curse it, why weren't there any normal clothes in this wardrobe? He finally gave up, sympathizing with Ecthelion's preference for running about half nude if these overly ornate robes were his only options, and turned to face Glorfindel wearing nothing more than his loin cloth, once again.
"Lirimaer," he caught the young elf's wrist before he could go exploring any further. "I think you should ask yourself if this is what you really want."
Glorfindel didn't answer, just stepped back and pulled his tunic over his head. In the light from the candelabra his skin was as golden as his hair, and Elrohir had difficulty concentrating enough to form coherent sentences. He stood, feeling torn, as the shirt followed the tunic and the leggings followed the shirt. He should probably send him away, he thought vaguely; he is just nervous and doesn't want to think about the battle. He is using you the same way those other elves are using the king's cellars--to forget for a few hours what they are facing tomorrow when they ride off to join the High King.
Then again, he thought, as Glorfindel sat on the edge of the bed, looking lost, if you send him away, won't he just find someone else? Someone who may not be as gentle, may not care about him as much? He knew he was rationalising what he wanted to do, but he also knew that he was right. And he DID want this, wanted it so very much . . .
"Glorfindel," Elrohir sat beside him, and put out a hand to smooth the other elf's hair. "We can just talk if you like . . . have a few drinks . . . we don't have to do this if . . . "
He never had the chance to finish the thought, as his lips were captured in an inexpert but heartfelt kiss. Elrohir felt the tension drain from him as he relaxed into the embrace he knew so well. This was where he belonged, where he had always belonged, in the arms of the lover who was also his best friend. This was what he had been craving, all those lonely, tortured nights alone. Kissing Glorfindel felt like coming home.
When the elf in his arms moaned against his lips, Elrohir thought it the most sensual sound he had ever heard. He pressed him backwards onto the huge bed when they finally drew apart, and decided that he was going to enjoy this night, even if it was only a dream. He thought of Thranduil seeing Glorfindel like this, his golden hair spread out about his head, his eyes dark with passion, his lips glistening from where he'd just licked them in anticipation and nervousness. Elrohir decided that, as soon as he woke up, he would throw the king into a ravine. A really deep ravine.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he told Glorfindel truthfully, brushing a loose lock of hair from his lover's forehead. He wished he could speak of his love, his longing, his need for everything they had once had, but this Glorfindel would not understand that. He did seem to understand something else, however, for he took the initiative to draw him into a deep kiss, while sliding his hands down Elrohir's hips to push at the cloth separating them. Elrohir was happy to assist, and soon warm skin slid against warm skin, and he thought he would pass out from sheer happiness alone.
Then he woke up.
It took a few minutes to understand what had happened, as the early morning light shone in his eyes and Erestor's face, looking tired but somehow more tranquil than it had last night, appeared hovering above him with the news that they would be leaving shortly. "You look exhausted," Elrohir told him, as his mind tried to jump thousands of years in a few seconds. He felt dizzy, tired and extremely frustrated.
"So do you."
Elrohir blinked at him. "It was a busy night."
"Yes . . . yes it was."
Over Erestor's shoulder, Elrohir saw Glorfindel, looking so similar and yet so different from that other time, with lines of worry on his beautiful face and weariness in his blue eyes. An elf stood at his shoulder, a large, blond elf with a hearty laugh who looked perfectly rested and beautifully groomed as always. Elrohir didn't even hesitate. Throwing his blanket aside, he crossed the camp in half a dozen long strides, grabbed Thranduil by the front of his perfectly pressed robes, and slammed him against the trunk of a nearby tree.
The king's eyes widened in surprise, but Elrohir barely noticed. He wouldn't have cared anyway. "He. Is. Mine. Touch him again and I will personally castrate you." Dropping the king, who barely managed to avoid landing in an inelegant heap, Elrohir grabbed Glorfindel by the hand and dragged him into the forest.
Once they were sufficiently far away from camp, Elrohir turned and pulled his lover into a passionate kiss, wrapping one leg about him in case he had any idea of trying to leave. After a moment, it became obvious that Glorfindel intended no such thing. Elrohir looked at him with satisfaction when they came up for air. "Now. Where were we?"
TBC
Morier--dark one.
Beleger--Mighty one.
Nadorhuan--Cowardly dog.
Amin delotha lle--I hate you.
Amin hiraetha--I'm sorry.
Heruamin--My Lord.