Title: Wild Justice 23/?
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.
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Elrond was surrounded by a landscape that resembled a battlefield, but it was the strangest one he had ever seen. In a great, black emptiness, shattered pieces of what looked like glass were haphazardly scattered about, none of them whole. A few stood on end and resembled full-length mirrors, only they were taller than his head and twice as broad as a mirror should be. Cracks could be seen even in those, however, and most lay in broken piles, a ruin of a puzzle that defied anyone to sort it out. But that, somehow, was precisely what he had to do.
Elrond had seen something like this odd scene before. He had occasionally been called on to help in cases of mental illness or injury, and knew that the velvety darkness surrounding him was his mind's interpretation of its interaction with another individual's brain. The memories were stored in mental projections that varied depending on the imagination and life experiences of the mind's owner. Most people envisioned huge chests of drawers or endless rows of boxes, but a few were more inventive. Once he had been in an old human woman's mind, trying to help her remember the face of the person who had attacked her family and stolen most of their possessions; he had finally located the memory and coaxed it forth, and the man who was responsible was brought to justice. Her mind had stored its memories in knitting baskets, with the strands of thought resembling the woolen yarn she had made into clothing for her family all her life.
Elrond still remembered kneeling for what had felt like hours, sorting though tangled strands of multicoloured wool in basket after basket, searching for the right one. But that had been child's play compared with this. At least the memories had all been whole; they were simply confused by her age and the strain of her recent experiences. The knotted strands had all been there, all that was needed was the patience to unravel them. This situation was far more serious. Elrond had originally thought that, to restore the High King's memory would merely entail removing the blocks and painful suggestions implanted by the Nazgul; never had he imagined damage like this.
For a while he sorted through blackened shards, most reflecting nothing more than his own face back to him, whatever memories they once held now irretrievable. Finally he came across a large sliver that glinted with colour and movement. Across its fractured surface he saw a ballroom filled with dancers, which he recognised immediately as the
main hall at the High King's court. It took him a few minutes, but he was even able to place the scene--the lavish ball that had been given to welcome Lady Arenal to court. Elrond could see her occasionally, a dark haired beauty with huge blue eyes, who danced as well as she seemingly did everything else.
She moved about the periphery of the scene, however, and the king's eyes did not linger on her despite the pretty picture she made. He would have perhaps paid her more attention if he had known what was coming, doubtless they both would, but that night they had still lived in the comfortable illusion of stability. They had thought that nothing could challenge their happiness, nothing could ever separate them. Elrond marveled now, as his own laughing visage came into sight on the king's right, how carefree he had looked then, with no idea of the shock that awaited him the very next day.
As the High King was the last of the great Noldorin rulers, many of his counselors had long encouraged him to marry and produce an heir. Elvin immortality had not saved his predecessors from meeting early deaths and there was no one to follow after him in direct succession. Ties between the elvin peoples were fragile even with a strong ruler to unite them. If his line should fail completely or a much younger, half-elvin successor be crowned, the resulting crisis in leadership could see the various groups in Lindon hopelessly divided, and their enemies would be quick to use the internal strife against them. The king had nonetheless demurred, time and again refusing proposed alliances, until, unknown to him or to Elrond, his senior advisors took it upon themselves to solve the issue. They believed that he could be persuaded to accept a bride if a suitable candidate was found and brought to court. Such a one was located and the councilors did all they could to insure that this time, he could not turn her down.
Elrond shut his eyes, remembering the scene as clearly as if it had just occurred. He had been awakened early the next morning by a message that the king wished to see him urgently. That had been unusual and spoke of some crisis, for they were accustomed to meet after breakfast to deal with the day's paperwork in the library, and that was only a few hours away. Elrond had thrown on some clothes and hastily made his way to the king's chambers where he found Gil-galad alone and pacing agitatedly about the room. The sight had stunned him, for the king was rarely daunted by even the greatest of trials, and to see him visibly upset was almost unprecedented.
"They have betrothed me, Elrond! Titton and Ithildin and the rest." The king's dark blue robes swirled about him as he strode back and forth over the huge carpet of his private study. They must have told him over breakfast, for he was only half dressed, with his velvet robe belted casually at the waist and his dark hair still mussed from sleep. They had both been tired after the banquet and dancing, which courtesy required the king to see through to the end, and had not paused the previous evening for more than a quick kiss before going to their separate chambers. Elrond regretted that as he stood, listening to the story the king poured out in fits and starts, his usually crystal clear voice hoarse and strangely muffled. He had wondered if they would ever be together again.
"The Lady Arenal--she is Sindarin as you know. They sat there and praised her beauty and learning and family line, as if they were discussing some brood mare I was to purchase! It was almost amusing, until they told me that they brought her here on the understanding that there is to be a betrothal! They pompously informed me that the union will strengthen the ties between our two peoples, as well as provide me with an heir, and that they were so sure of my acceptance of my duty that there was no need to ask me beforehand!" The king's voice shook on the last comment, and he abruptly sat, at the very table that his once trusted advisors had recently vacated.
"But, surely, they cannot force you to wed?" Elrond's head had been spinning so that he could hardly manage a clear thought.
"Have you not heard me, Elrond? Do your usually quick wits fail you? They have issued the summons to court in my name! Her family believes that I asked her here, that the idea of our union was mine! Almost her entire clan came with her, all under the impression that they are soon to have a Sindarin queen. Tell me, what do you think will happen if I refuse her now? How much damage would turning down, and thereby publicly humiliating, a daughter of one of the great Sindarin houses do?"
Elrond had understood in that instant just how many horns were attached to the dilemma with which they had been presented. To refuse her was impossible; it would, at best, do irreparable damage to Noldorin and Sindarin relations, and at worst . . . well, wars had started for less. It would certainly be seen as an insult to her entire family, and was likely to appear a direct snub to all the Sindar. To refuse the betrothal issued in his name would be tantamount to saying that the king considered the Sindar beneath him, and the already prickly Sindarin pride would never forget such a slight.
Elrond could only look at his king in mounting horror, an expression Gil-galad was quick to note. Pouring him a cup of rapidly cooling tea, he pushed it across the table. "Sit, Elrond, drink something. You should see yourself--you look like a ghost. I need your counsel, my friend, as rarely before. It seems my other councilors are more devious than I ever supposed."
"But why would they do this?" Elrond had looked at the cup blankly, but did not drink. It was impossible to concentrate on something so trivial when his world was fragmenting.
"The rumours, of course." At his blank look, Gil-galad had sighed, and run a tired hand over his face. Neither of them had been at their best, having just gone to sleep a few hours before. "Oh, come, Elrond! I know I have shielded you, but certainly you must have heard something! Our liaison is by no means universally known, but the council suspects. They have proposed a number of matches for me before this, only to have me refuse them. Naturally, they would wonder why."
"They cannot know." Elrond was sure of this; he and the king had been so careful, worried lest their affair damage his credibility as a Sindarin champion at court. It had been difficult, never to so much as touch hands in public, but they had known the price of indiscretion and had put secrecy above all else.
"They don't need to KNOW," Gil-galad replied, drinking the tepid tea with a frown on his face. "Suspicion is enough." He sighed, regarding his tea leaves morosely. "This is partially my fault. I preferred not to lie, so I gave them no reason for my refusals, except to say that marriage does not suit me at present. I should have made something up . . . "
It was, they had agreed, a mute point at the moment. The problem had been what to do about the issue. Elrond could not remember if it had been he or the king who had first arrived at the obvious conclusion, but it had been decided even before breakfast was at an end that, since he could not refuse her, she must be convinced to refuse him. Elrond smiled ruefully at the memory of the High King, one of the most handsome and elegant of elves, going out of his way in the days that followed to be as unattractive, coarse and annoying as possible. It had not worked.
The gaudy colours and mismatched attire did not seem to bother the Lady Arenal, no matter how outrageous were the ensembles the king and Elrond managed to devise. His clumsiness--tripping over his own feet when entering a room or over hers when dancing, falling from his horse, even spilling a full glass of wine onto her lovely golden gown one night at dinner--was overlooked with indulgent smiles. "Either the lady is uncommonly forgiving," Gil-galad had ranted to Elrond a fortnight later, "or she wants the crown badly enough to put up with any number of antics from the clown who wears it!"
Elrond had not had the heart to inform his sovereign that, despite his best efforts, Gil-galad was still impressive. His carriage was regal, to the point that even his clumsiness almost looked elegant. His sculpted features and, especially, those beautiful eyes, were enough to make even the ugliest of costumes attractive; indeed, his worst effort--a purple and orange tunic with fringe nearly a foot long--had even started a bit of a fashion craze among the younger, more adventurous elves at court, much to the king's dismay. And despite his attempts to remember to be as discourteous as possible, Gil-galad's natural good manners and casual gallantry insured that his staged errors were shrugged off as minor flaws.
Elrond had lectured him unceasingly on how to appear less attractive, but they had both had to admit that it would likely take something far more than a wine stained dress or a few trodden toes to persuade Arenal to release her prize. In the end, pressured by his council on one side and the lady's relatives on the other, the king had had no choice but to agree to the betrothal being announced or risk insulting the lady. She began assembling her trousseau and planning for the elaborate ceremony, while Elrond started spending much more time in the cellars, choosing the best possible vintages for his and the king's now nightly attempts at oblivion.
A flash of colour caught his eye and Elrond stooped and picked up a small shard at his feet, seeing reflected in its surface a single red flower around which a woman's hand was clenched so tightly as to mangle the fragile bloom. He had no idea what it meant. Another, larger piece nearby was positioned as if it might have come from the same mirror, yet it showed a completely different scene. It looked faintly familiar, and Elrond carefully separated it from the bed of crushed, almost dust like fragments on which it lay. Reflected on its surface was a dark sky dusted with stars, and, as he watched, shapes moved across the dim landscape. He didn't need to see them clearly to know who they were; he remembered the night quite well.
Once the betrothal was made public, Elrond offered to go away from court, as Gil-galad was obviously disturbed by the thought of deliberately deceiving his future wife about their longstanding affair. Elrond had thought that his offer would ease his king's mind, allowing him to focus his attentions on his prospective bride, but he had also hoped to find relief from his own growing sorrow. Even though he knew it was only a political alliance, it became harder and harder to see Arenal about court and smile as if nothing could please him more than the upcoming nuptials. His frustration, pain and, yes, he could admit it now, anger steadily mounted as that over-painted, overdressed wench pranced about the castle, seeming to be everywhere he was, laughing with her friends, flaunting her position, planning out her perfect life. He knew now, of course, that she had probably been a perfectly nice young maid who had doubtless been given as little say in the marriage as the king, but then he had hated her. One more day having to look at those sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks and he had really thought he might go mad and accidentally push the lady out a window.
The fact that she and the king looked so well together did not help. As everyone was constantly commenting, their colouring was almost identical and their bearing equally regal. A fitting royal couple they would make, he had thought at dinner a week after the betrothal announcement, as he stared into his plate of uneaten food and wondered how long it would be before he could flee the dining hall and, hopefully, the whole realm of Lindon. Then he had received the note. It had been a little thing, on thick cream parchment with golden letters, a tiny scrap with his name inscribed on the outside in the king's flowing script. So long ago, but he could see it now, as he often had in uneasy dreams. Such a tiny thing, to cause the downfall of a realm . . .
But no, Elrond would not allow himself that comfortable lie. It had not been the note, but his response to it, and his own weakness afterwards that had brought about such ruin. The message was simple, merely a request for a talk. He had supposed that Gil-galad must have noticed his silent suffering, and wished to say some words of comfort before granting his request for an extended leave. He could see his own more youthful reflection in the shard of glass before him, see himself as the king had that night, as he sat, the note clenched tightly in his hand, biting his lip and trying to look unconcerned. Elrond was surprised that he had been so very transparent--even at that age, he would have thought that he hadmore self-control--but his inner debate was clear for any to see. He had not wanted to have a conversation that could only hold more grief, and would force him to wear the mask of indifference in private as well as in public. But in the end, the thought of not making any farewell was too much to bear.
The palace was not, of course, particularly safe for a private conversation. There were servants everywhere and one never knew what might not be overheard, especially lately. Every time Elrond turned around, it seemed that one of the king's councilors was there; indeed, they had given him so much extra work to do that he had barely even seen Gil-galad except at meals. He scribbled a reply on the back of the note, suggesting that they meet in the apple orchard on the far edge of the palace grounds, near the small mill that ground the fruit into juice for vinegars, perfumes, and ciders. The trees were blooming and their flowers provided a lacy canopy against the stars; it was a quiet bower where, he thought, their privacy would be assured, for who else would be walking the orchard in the middle of the night?
Elrond had barely arrived when the king stepped from the shadows. They sat on a bench under the trailing blossoms as Elrond recited his carefully rehearsed speech. It had been full of heartfelt wishes for the king's happiness, and for the bond between the divided colonies of elves that he would forge. It was expressed, he had thought at the time, quite beautifully--completely without self-pity or weak pleas for some place for himself in the king's new life. The voice in which he spoke might have been a little flat, and somewhat tinted with bitterness whenever he spoke Arenal's name, but overall, Elrond had been proud of his calm, polished phrases. He had spent much of dinner thinking them up, and Gil-galad had seemed to appreciate them, sitting quietly as they fell onto the clear night air and making no attempt to interrupt.
Elrond saw himself now, in that little piece of mirror, as the king had that night, and was amazed at his transparency. He had held himself too stiffly, although occasionally a small shiver broke across him, the skin of his face was too pale and dark circles showed under his eyes, their shadows elongated by the starlight. Adept now at reading others, Elrond realised how easy it must have been for the king to see through him. The pretty phrases he uttered were completely at odds with the pain in his eyes, which resolutely refused to meet those of the elf beside him. Yet, with his usual courtesy, Gil-galad had allowed him to finish. Then, without needing any of Elrond's elegantly crafted words, he destroyed the fragile grip his lover retained on his emotions with one simple query. Placing a warm hand on Elrond's thigh, he merely asked, "Do you really want to leave?"
Elrond remembered feeling as if his heart would burst, so great was the strain involved in not throwing himself at the king, not crawling into his embrace and refusing ever to let go, but instead he had merely nodded. Then he had made his great mistake. All throughout his speech, he had looked out over the gardens, trying to separate himself from the words he was saying and the heart wrenching pain they caused. He had been able to do it, to lie halfway effectively, as long as he did not look at the elf at his side. He was able to refuse to think about the way he would feel at never seeing him again, or of being no more to him than any of the other courtiers who surrounded him daily but never knew his heart. But looking into those wise blue eyes had caused that pretty facade to crack, and the abject misery that had consumed him over the past month showed clearly on his face.
The silence that fell between them then was heavy and dim like the shadows. The king had not attempted to pull a declaration from him, but had offered no words of comfort either. Instead, he had seemed pensive, his eyes searching the darkness as if looking for an answer to some unspoken question. Elrond had managed, after some moments, to calm himself, and had planned to make his final farewells, gather what dignity he could, and exit what had become a very uncomfortable scene as quickly as possible. But the king had not been willing to let him go so. When Elrond tried to move back from his loose embrace, Gil-galad had tightened his grip on his counselor's thigh and frowned. "I mean so little to you, then, that you are content merely to walk away?" Elrond had stared at him as if he had gone mad; "content" was hardly the word he would have used. "I suppose it is better this way, then," the king continued, finally releasing him and standing, all in one swift motion. "If your love is so cowardly, then I have to wonder if it was ever, in truth, love at all."
Elrond had stared up at the towering form above him. Gil-galad. It meant star of radiance, and that was what he had always been to him; from the moment they met, he was his shining light, the joy of his life, the first person he thought of every morning and the one who occupied his dreams at night. Even in the darkened garden, he was luminescent; the stars above in the cloudless sky were a pale reflection at best. Elrond thought they should have been named after him, not the other way around. He had watched in misery as his lover prepared to casually walk out of his life, taking with him all its pleasure. That was bad enough, but for him to imply that they had never had much of a relationship in the first place, that Elrond's love had been only a feeble thing that was easily put aside--it was too much. Elrond had surged to his feet and, without thinking, pulled the king into a passionate kiss. Into it he poured all his love, his longing, and the grief he felt at the collapse of something he had believed would last forever. Let him know the price Elrond would pay for this alliance, he had thought then, let him see that cooperation between their peoples was bought with his heart's blood.
The king had returned his embrace for a brief moment, then knelt, pulling Elrond to the ground with him. He had a choice then--get up and walk away, as his duty and every ethical code he had ever followed required, or stay and have one last, beautiful memory to take away with him. The brilliance of the eyes before him had made the decision; he had not even had to give it conscious thought. He could still remember the way the sweet scent of the blossoms hung in the air, and how the earth had been strangely warm beneath him as the cool night breezes caressed his face. His king's lips descended on his, rougher than usual, full of unspoken hunger, and Elrond had given himself over to what he believed would be their last time together.
He had intended it to be more loving than sensual--a beautiful, lyrical farewell--but all his suppressed feelings erupted into a passionate reaction such as he had never before dared with his king. Gil-galad had always let him take the lead, but Elrond had been ever conscious of the difference in their status, of the need to please his lord even as he mastered him. For the first time, he felt none of that; some part of him decided, without bothering to consult his higher emotions, that if this was truly their last time, then let there be no restraint. He quickly pushed the king onto his back, hands finding his wrists and pressing them into the soft earth below them, sliding along his whole length as he took control of the kiss, deepened it, and made sure that he showed the king just how much he had been holding back until now. He undulated against him, and the friction of the silk and velvet of their robes was more sensual than even bare skin would have been. The air in his lungs was fire, making speech impossible, but why would he need to talk now? In his king's eyes was love and wonder and all he needed to know, while Elrond let his body say for him all the things his lips could not.
Elrond smiled now, watching the images from that long ago tryst with tears in his eyes. He wondered how he had ever allowed himself to believe that he controlled their relationship when it was obvious that his lover had led him so easily. His younger self had clung to the king as a drowning victim does a life line, licking his neck, biting his earlobes, nuzzling his throat, all the while writhing under the touch that played his responses like a master musician does his favourite instrument. When Elrond fumbled with his robes, those experienced hands helped him remove them; when his desperation caused him to become clumsy, the king slowed him down in the most pleasurable way possible, bestowing soft kisses on his forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and throat before moving lower. As the king's lips moved down the smooth expanse of his chest, resting briefly on the ripples of his abdominal muscles, then at the dimple of his navel, Elrond shuddered and tried to hold on to his composure, but he had quickly lost the battle. Pulling his lover into a tight embrace, he buried his face in Gil-galad's neck, feeling the steady thrum of his lover's pulse against his cheek, and tried to make himself believe that this would never end.
It was strange, Elrond thought now, watching their love making through the king's eyes, how much he had never noticed about himself. The way his pupils expanded in his need, the soft, yearning moans he made as his tongue tasted the warm flesh of his lover's throat, the long, slow shudder that racked him when the king stroked him, those strong fingers wrapping so knowingly about his flesh. Elrond could almost feel it all again, his pulse beating harder under that hand, his entire world narrowing to the sound of his breathing and the dizzying intoxication of his familiar scent. The king had smiled as he noticed the hot hardness pressing against his thigh and the way his lover was thrusting slightly against him. Elrond remembered with perfect clarity the blazing heat that had built within him, driving him towards release, and how badly he had wanted to be inside his king when he came. Without a word being said, with no other communication needed between them, Gil-galad had slightly spread his legs and Elrond moved between them.
He remembered now that it had all seemed a little too intense, almost frightening, as if he was trying to push all the futures that would never be into one, perfect moment. It was better than he might have expected under the circumstances, despite the sense of urgency that made him clumsy and a bit frantic, to the point that he finished far earlier than he'd intended. The king had not seemed to mind, but held him close afterwards, his fingers smoothing his lover's messy hair as he gently kissed him. Elrond had known in that instant that he would never give him up--not for any price, not even for a peace that might last for all the ages to come. It had been weak and selfish and supremely foolish, but he knew in his heart that, given the chance to go back, he would make the same choice all over again.
"Am I to take it that you do not wish to leave me after all?," Gil-galad had asked, and Elrond would have felt proud of how breathless the king's voice was, except that he was too overwhelmed himself to comment.
As it was, he never had an opportunity, for Arenal suddenly stepped into the glade, the dim starlight insufficient to allow her features to be clearly seen, but the venom in her tone was more than enough to lend force to her words. "Since you are so happy with one another, don't let me interfere," and she pulled the ring from her finger and threw it on the ground. Elrond twisted Vilya on his hand now, remembering how it had been bestowed on him much later for a different purpose; he had no idea what had happened to that other ring--it had not been needed, for his relationship with the king transcended such things. Arenal had turned and left, not hurrying, and Elrond had to admit that she had been queenly in her bearing even then. He had not noticed the flower she held and must have mangled as she watched them, but apparently Gil-galad had been more observant. Staring at the images on the memory shard, Elrond realised that the king had known she was there all along.
It was easy to see now that Elrond thought about it, although at the time it had not been so clear. Betrothals are not lightly made between the Eldar and are difficult to break. Once his counselors proposed the marriage, it would have been difficult for the king to refuse it without giving a valid reason. Arenal was of faultless bloodline and unimpeachable breeding, how then could she be said to be an unacceptable queen? Unable to refuse the match without dragging Elrond into what was certain to be a very ugly situation, the king had managed the matter in his usual understated way, by allowing the lady the chance to see for herself that this would be no love match, and why. If she still wanted the name and title, perhaps the marriage could be completed after all, with the understanding that Elrond would remain at his side. If not, then she had the chance to break it off, and he had apparently understood her enough to know that she would be too proud to give the real reason. To be replaced by anyone would be embarrassing, but by a male, and not even a full elf at that?
Arenal had indeed said nothing of it, merely commenting that she found the king not to her liking. That there was more to it than that had been obvious to all, however, and the old rumours about Gil-galad and his young advisor had surfaced once again. Never thereafter had his counselors suggested another match, but it also soon became apparent that the aborted marriage had weakened the ties between the two great elvish hosts. Thinking on it now from the comfortable distance of centuries, Elrond supposed it should have been obvious that such would be the case. But then, they had been so hopeful that all could be smoothed over, that the sundering of two individuals who had, after all, never truly been joined, did not have to mean the parting of their peoples as well. Yet the Sindar had, under various leaders, started to drift away shortly thereafter, many under the command of Arenal's cousin Oropher, and no argument had been enough to prevent it.
Elrond felt himself weakening with the huge effort required to maintain the link between him and the king. He looked about the wreckage of what had once been a great mind, and sighed in hopelessness. How could this amount of damage ever be repaired? And yet, somehow he must manage it. At present the king was little better than a newborn. His concentration wandered aimlessly, making the smallest mental task a great hurdle. Elrond could not bear seeing one who had once planned entire campaigns, down to the merest detail, with consummate ease, who had been able to recite whole scrolls of ancient knowledge from memory alone, who rarely bothered to look up a fact because his mind was far better than any library, now nothing but a ruined shell. They had weathered much in their long attachment; this, too, somehow they would conquer. He had meant what he had said in his heart that night--he would never let him go.
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.
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Elrond was surrounded by a landscape that resembled a battlefield, but it was the strangest one he had ever seen. In a great, black emptiness, shattered pieces of what looked like glass were haphazardly scattered about, none of them whole. A few stood on end and resembled full-length mirrors, only they were taller than his head and twice as broad as a mirror should be. Cracks could be seen even in those, however, and most lay in broken piles, a ruin of a puzzle that defied anyone to sort it out. But that, somehow, was precisely what he had to do.
Elrond had seen something like this odd scene before. He had occasionally been called on to help in cases of mental illness or injury, and knew that the velvety darkness surrounding him was his mind's interpretation of its interaction with another individual's brain. The memories were stored in mental projections that varied depending on the imagination and life experiences of the mind's owner. Most people envisioned huge chests of drawers or endless rows of boxes, but a few were more inventive. Once he had been in an old human woman's mind, trying to help her remember the face of the person who had attacked her family and stolen most of their possessions; he had finally located the memory and coaxed it forth, and the man who was responsible was brought to justice. Her mind had stored its memories in knitting baskets, with the strands of thought resembling the woolen yarn she had made into clothing for her family all her life.
Elrond still remembered kneeling for what had felt like hours, sorting though tangled strands of multicoloured wool in basket after basket, searching for the right one. But that had been child's play compared with this. At least the memories had all been whole; they were simply confused by her age and the strain of her recent experiences. The knotted strands had all been there, all that was needed was the patience to unravel them. This situation was far more serious. Elrond had originally thought that, to restore the High King's memory would merely entail removing the blocks and painful suggestions implanted by the Nazgul; never had he imagined damage like this.
For a while he sorted through blackened shards, most reflecting nothing more than his own face back to him, whatever memories they once held now irretrievable. Finally he came across a large sliver that glinted with colour and movement. Across its fractured surface he saw a ballroom filled with dancers, which he recognised immediately as the
main hall at the High King's court. It took him a few minutes, but he was even able to place the scene--the lavish ball that had been given to welcome Lady Arenal to court. Elrond could see her occasionally, a dark haired beauty with huge blue eyes, who danced as well as she seemingly did everything else.
She moved about the periphery of the scene, however, and the king's eyes did not linger on her despite the pretty picture she made. He would have perhaps paid her more attention if he had known what was coming, doubtless they both would, but that night they had still lived in the comfortable illusion of stability. They had thought that nothing could challenge their happiness, nothing could ever separate them. Elrond marveled now, as his own laughing visage came into sight on the king's right, how carefree he had looked then, with no idea of the shock that awaited him the very next day.
As the High King was the last of the great Noldorin rulers, many of his counselors had long encouraged him to marry and produce an heir. Elvin immortality had not saved his predecessors from meeting early deaths and there was no one to follow after him in direct succession. Ties between the elvin peoples were fragile even with a strong ruler to unite them. If his line should fail completely or a much younger, half-elvin successor be crowned, the resulting crisis in leadership could see the various groups in Lindon hopelessly divided, and their enemies would be quick to use the internal strife against them. The king had nonetheless demurred, time and again refusing proposed alliances, until, unknown to him or to Elrond, his senior advisors took it upon themselves to solve the issue. They believed that he could be persuaded to accept a bride if a suitable candidate was found and brought to court. Such a one was located and the councilors did all they could to insure that this time, he could not turn her down.
Elrond shut his eyes, remembering the scene as clearly as if it had just occurred. He had been awakened early the next morning by a message that the king wished to see him urgently. That had been unusual and spoke of some crisis, for they were accustomed to meet after breakfast to deal with the day's paperwork in the library, and that was only a few hours away. Elrond had thrown on some clothes and hastily made his way to the king's chambers where he found Gil-galad alone and pacing agitatedly about the room. The sight had stunned him, for the king was rarely daunted by even the greatest of trials, and to see him visibly upset was almost unprecedented.
"They have betrothed me, Elrond! Titton and Ithildin and the rest." The king's dark blue robes swirled about him as he strode back and forth over the huge carpet of his private study. They must have told him over breakfast, for he was only half dressed, with his velvet robe belted casually at the waist and his dark hair still mussed from sleep. They had both been tired after the banquet and dancing, which courtesy required the king to see through to the end, and had not paused the previous evening for more than a quick kiss before going to their separate chambers. Elrond regretted that as he stood, listening to the story the king poured out in fits and starts, his usually crystal clear voice hoarse and strangely muffled. He had wondered if they would ever be together again.
"The Lady Arenal--she is Sindarin as you know. They sat there and praised her beauty and learning and family line, as if they were discussing some brood mare I was to purchase! It was almost amusing, until they told me that they brought her here on the understanding that there is to be a betrothal! They pompously informed me that the union will strengthen the ties between our two peoples, as well as provide me with an heir, and that they were so sure of my acceptance of my duty that there was no need to ask me beforehand!" The king's voice shook on the last comment, and he abruptly sat, at the very table that his once trusted advisors had recently vacated.
"But, surely, they cannot force you to wed?" Elrond's head had been spinning so that he could hardly manage a clear thought.
"Have you not heard me, Elrond? Do your usually quick wits fail you? They have issued the summons to court in my name! Her family believes that I asked her here, that the idea of our union was mine! Almost her entire clan came with her, all under the impression that they are soon to have a Sindarin queen. Tell me, what do you think will happen if I refuse her now? How much damage would turning down, and thereby publicly humiliating, a daughter of one of the great Sindarin houses do?"
Elrond had understood in that instant just how many horns were attached to the dilemma with which they had been presented. To refuse her was impossible; it would, at best, do irreparable damage to Noldorin and Sindarin relations, and at worst . . . well, wars had started for less. It would certainly be seen as an insult to her entire family, and was likely to appear a direct snub to all the Sindar. To refuse the betrothal issued in his name would be tantamount to saying that the king considered the Sindar beneath him, and the already prickly Sindarin pride would never forget such a slight.
Elrond could only look at his king in mounting horror, an expression Gil-galad was quick to note. Pouring him a cup of rapidly cooling tea, he pushed it across the table. "Sit, Elrond, drink something. You should see yourself--you look like a ghost. I need your counsel, my friend, as rarely before. It seems my other councilors are more devious than I ever supposed."
"But why would they do this?" Elrond had looked at the cup blankly, but did not drink. It was impossible to concentrate on something so trivial when his world was fragmenting.
"The rumours, of course." At his blank look, Gil-galad had sighed, and run a tired hand over his face. Neither of them had been at their best, having just gone to sleep a few hours before. "Oh, come, Elrond! I know I have shielded you, but certainly you must have heard something! Our liaison is by no means universally known, but the council suspects. They have proposed a number of matches for me before this, only to have me refuse them. Naturally, they would wonder why."
"They cannot know." Elrond was sure of this; he and the king had been so careful, worried lest their affair damage his credibility as a Sindarin champion at court. It had been difficult, never to so much as touch hands in public, but they had known the price of indiscretion and had put secrecy above all else.
"They don't need to KNOW," Gil-galad replied, drinking the tepid tea with a frown on his face. "Suspicion is enough." He sighed, regarding his tea leaves morosely. "This is partially my fault. I preferred not to lie, so I gave them no reason for my refusals, except to say that marriage does not suit me at present. I should have made something up . . . "
It was, they had agreed, a mute point at the moment. The problem had been what to do about the issue. Elrond could not remember if it had been he or the king who had first arrived at the obvious conclusion, but it had been decided even before breakfast was at an end that, since he could not refuse her, she must be convinced to refuse him. Elrond smiled ruefully at the memory of the High King, one of the most handsome and elegant of elves, going out of his way in the days that followed to be as unattractive, coarse and annoying as possible. It had not worked.
The gaudy colours and mismatched attire did not seem to bother the Lady Arenal, no matter how outrageous were the ensembles the king and Elrond managed to devise. His clumsiness--tripping over his own feet when entering a room or over hers when dancing, falling from his horse, even spilling a full glass of wine onto her lovely golden gown one night at dinner--was overlooked with indulgent smiles. "Either the lady is uncommonly forgiving," Gil-galad had ranted to Elrond a fortnight later, "or she wants the crown badly enough to put up with any number of antics from the clown who wears it!"
Elrond had not had the heart to inform his sovereign that, despite his best efforts, Gil-galad was still impressive. His carriage was regal, to the point that even his clumsiness almost looked elegant. His sculpted features and, especially, those beautiful eyes, were enough to make even the ugliest of costumes attractive; indeed, his worst effort--a purple and orange tunic with fringe nearly a foot long--had even started a bit of a fashion craze among the younger, more adventurous elves at court, much to the king's dismay. And despite his attempts to remember to be as discourteous as possible, Gil-galad's natural good manners and casual gallantry insured that his staged errors were shrugged off as minor flaws.
Elrond had lectured him unceasingly on how to appear less attractive, but they had both had to admit that it would likely take something far more than a wine stained dress or a few trodden toes to persuade Arenal to release her prize. In the end, pressured by his council on one side and the lady's relatives on the other, the king had had no choice but to agree to the betrothal being announced or risk insulting the lady. She began assembling her trousseau and planning for the elaborate ceremony, while Elrond started spending much more time in the cellars, choosing the best possible vintages for his and the king's now nightly attempts at oblivion.
A flash of colour caught his eye and Elrond stooped and picked up a small shard at his feet, seeing reflected in its surface a single red flower around which a woman's hand was clenched so tightly as to mangle the fragile bloom. He had no idea what it meant. Another, larger piece nearby was positioned as if it might have come from the same mirror, yet it showed a completely different scene. It looked faintly familiar, and Elrond carefully separated it from the bed of crushed, almost dust like fragments on which it lay. Reflected on its surface was a dark sky dusted with stars, and, as he watched, shapes moved across the dim landscape. He didn't need to see them clearly to know who they were; he remembered the night quite well.
Once the betrothal was made public, Elrond offered to go away from court, as Gil-galad was obviously disturbed by the thought of deliberately deceiving his future wife about their longstanding affair. Elrond had thought that his offer would ease his king's mind, allowing him to focus his attentions on his prospective bride, but he had also hoped to find relief from his own growing sorrow. Even though he knew it was only a political alliance, it became harder and harder to see Arenal about court and smile as if nothing could please him more than the upcoming nuptials. His frustration, pain and, yes, he could admit it now, anger steadily mounted as that over-painted, overdressed wench pranced about the castle, seeming to be everywhere he was, laughing with her friends, flaunting her position, planning out her perfect life. He knew now, of course, that she had probably been a perfectly nice young maid who had doubtless been given as little say in the marriage as the king, but then he had hated her. One more day having to look at those sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks and he had really thought he might go mad and accidentally push the lady out a window.
The fact that she and the king looked so well together did not help. As everyone was constantly commenting, their colouring was almost identical and their bearing equally regal. A fitting royal couple they would make, he had thought at dinner a week after the betrothal announcement, as he stared into his plate of uneaten food and wondered how long it would be before he could flee the dining hall and, hopefully, the whole realm of Lindon. Then he had received the note. It had been a little thing, on thick cream parchment with golden letters, a tiny scrap with his name inscribed on the outside in the king's flowing script. So long ago, but he could see it now, as he often had in uneasy dreams. Such a tiny thing, to cause the downfall of a realm . . .
But no, Elrond would not allow himself that comfortable lie. It had not been the note, but his response to it, and his own weakness afterwards that had brought about such ruin. The message was simple, merely a request for a talk. He had supposed that Gil-galad must have noticed his silent suffering, and wished to say some words of comfort before granting his request for an extended leave. He could see his own more youthful reflection in the shard of glass before him, see himself as the king had that night, as he sat, the note clenched tightly in his hand, biting his lip and trying to look unconcerned. Elrond was surprised that he had been so very transparent--even at that age, he would have thought that he hadmore self-control--but his inner debate was clear for any to see. He had not wanted to have a conversation that could only hold more grief, and would force him to wear the mask of indifference in private as well as in public. But in the end, the thought of not making any farewell was too much to bear.
The palace was not, of course, particularly safe for a private conversation. There were servants everywhere and one never knew what might not be overheard, especially lately. Every time Elrond turned around, it seemed that one of the king's councilors was there; indeed, they had given him so much extra work to do that he had barely even seen Gil-galad except at meals. He scribbled a reply on the back of the note, suggesting that they meet in the apple orchard on the far edge of the palace grounds, near the small mill that ground the fruit into juice for vinegars, perfumes, and ciders. The trees were blooming and their flowers provided a lacy canopy against the stars; it was a quiet bower where, he thought, their privacy would be assured, for who else would be walking the orchard in the middle of the night?
Elrond had barely arrived when the king stepped from the shadows. They sat on a bench under the trailing blossoms as Elrond recited his carefully rehearsed speech. It had been full of heartfelt wishes for the king's happiness, and for the bond between the divided colonies of elves that he would forge. It was expressed, he had thought at the time, quite beautifully--completely without self-pity or weak pleas for some place for himself in the king's new life. The voice in which he spoke might have been a little flat, and somewhat tinted with bitterness whenever he spoke Arenal's name, but overall, Elrond had been proud of his calm, polished phrases. He had spent much of dinner thinking them up, and Gil-galad had seemed to appreciate them, sitting quietly as they fell onto the clear night air and making no attempt to interrupt.
Elrond saw himself now, in that little piece of mirror, as the king had that night, and was amazed at his transparency. He had held himself too stiffly, although occasionally a small shiver broke across him, the skin of his face was too pale and dark circles showed under his eyes, their shadows elongated by the starlight. Adept now at reading others, Elrond realised how easy it must have been for the king to see through him. The pretty phrases he uttered were completely at odds with the pain in his eyes, which resolutely refused to meet those of the elf beside him. Yet, with his usual courtesy, Gil-galad had allowed him to finish. Then, without needing any of Elrond's elegantly crafted words, he destroyed the fragile grip his lover retained on his emotions with one simple query. Placing a warm hand on Elrond's thigh, he merely asked, "Do you really want to leave?"
Elrond remembered feeling as if his heart would burst, so great was the strain involved in not throwing himself at the king, not crawling into his embrace and refusing ever to let go, but instead he had merely nodded. Then he had made his great mistake. All throughout his speech, he had looked out over the gardens, trying to separate himself from the words he was saying and the heart wrenching pain they caused. He had been able to do it, to lie halfway effectively, as long as he did not look at the elf at his side. He was able to refuse to think about the way he would feel at never seeing him again, or of being no more to him than any of the other courtiers who surrounded him daily but never knew his heart. But looking into those wise blue eyes had caused that pretty facade to crack, and the abject misery that had consumed him over the past month showed clearly on his face.
The silence that fell between them then was heavy and dim like the shadows. The king had not attempted to pull a declaration from him, but had offered no words of comfort either. Instead, he had seemed pensive, his eyes searching the darkness as if looking for an answer to some unspoken question. Elrond had managed, after some moments, to calm himself, and had planned to make his final farewells, gather what dignity he could, and exit what had become a very uncomfortable scene as quickly as possible. But the king had not been willing to let him go so. When Elrond tried to move back from his loose embrace, Gil-galad had tightened his grip on his counselor's thigh and frowned. "I mean so little to you, then, that you are content merely to walk away?" Elrond had stared at him as if he had gone mad; "content" was hardly the word he would have used. "I suppose it is better this way, then," the king continued, finally releasing him and standing, all in one swift motion. "If your love is so cowardly, then I have to wonder if it was ever, in truth, love at all."
Elrond had stared up at the towering form above him. Gil-galad. It meant star of radiance, and that was what he had always been to him; from the moment they met, he was his shining light, the joy of his life, the first person he thought of every morning and the one who occupied his dreams at night. Even in the darkened garden, he was luminescent; the stars above in the cloudless sky were a pale reflection at best. Elrond thought they should have been named after him, not the other way around. He had watched in misery as his lover prepared to casually walk out of his life, taking with him all its pleasure. That was bad enough, but for him to imply that they had never had much of a relationship in the first place, that Elrond's love had been only a feeble thing that was easily put aside--it was too much. Elrond had surged to his feet and, without thinking, pulled the king into a passionate kiss. Into it he poured all his love, his longing, and the grief he felt at the collapse of something he had believed would last forever. Let him know the price Elrond would pay for this alliance, he had thought then, let him see that cooperation between their peoples was bought with his heart's blood.
The king had returned his embrace for a brief moment, then knelt, pulling Elrond to the ground with him. He had a choice then--get up and walk away, as his duty and every ethical code he had ever followed required, or stay and have one last, beautiful memory to take away with him. The brilliance of the eyes before him had made the decision; he had not even had to give it conscious thought. He could still remember the way the sweet scent of the blossoms hung in the air, and how the earth had been strangely warm beneath him as the cool night breezes caressed his face. His king's lips descended on his, rougher than usual, full of unspoken hunger, and Elrond had given himself over to what he believed would be their last time together.
He had intended it to be more loving than sensual--a beautiful, lyrical farewell--but all his suppressed feelings erupted into a passionate reaction such as he had never before dared with his king. Gil-galad had always let him take the lead, but Elrond had been ever conscious of the difference in their status, of the need to please his lord even as he mastered him. For the first time, he felt none of that; some part of him decided, without bothering to consult his higher emotions, that if this was truly their last time, then let there be no restraint. He quickly pushed the king onto his back, hands finding his wrists and pressing them into the soft earth below them, sliding along his whole length as he took control of the kiss, deepened it, and made sure that he showed the king just how much he had been holding back until now. He undulated against him, and the friction of the silk and velvet of their robes was more sensual than even bare skin would have been. The air in his lungs was fire, making speech impossible, but why would he need to talk now? In his king's eyes was love and wonder and all he needed to know, while Elrond let his body say for him all the things his lips could not.
Elrond smiled now, watching the images from that long ago tryst with tears in his eyes. He wondered how he had ever allowed himself to believe that he controlled their relationship when it was obvious that his lover had led him so easily. His younger self had clung to the king as a drowning victim does a life line, licking his neck, biting his earlobes, nuzzling his throat, all the while writhing under the touch that played his responses like a master musician does his favourite instrument. When Elrond fumbled with his robes, those experienced hands helped him remove them; when his desperation caused him to become clumsy, the king slowed him down in the most pleasurable way possible, bestowing soft kisses on his forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and throat before moving lower. As the king's lips moved down the smooth expanse of his chest, resting briefly on the ripples of his abdominal muscles, then at the dimple of his navel, Elrond shuddered and tried to hold on to his composure, but he had quickly lost the battle. Pulling his lover into a tight embrace, he buried his face in Gil-galad's neck, feeling the steady thrum of his lover's pulse against his cheek, and tried to make himself believe that this would never end.
It was strange, Elrond thought now, watching their love making through the king's eyes, how much he had never noticed about himself. The way his pupils expanded in his need, the soft, yearning moans he made as his tongue tasted the warm flesh of his lover's throat, the long, slow shudder that racked him when the king stroked him, those strong fingers wrapping so knowingly about his flesh. Elrond could almost feel it all again, his pulse beating harder under that hand, his entire world narrowing to the sound of his breathing and the dizzying intoxication of his familiar scent. The king had smiled as he noticed the hot hardness pressing against his thigh and the way his lover was thrusting slightly against him. Elrond remembered with perfect clarity the blazing heat that had built within him, driving him towards release, and how badly he had wanted to be inside his king when he came. Without a word being said, with no other communication needed between them, Gil-galad had slightly spread his legs and Elrond moved between them.
He remembered now that it had all seemed a little too intense, almost frightening, as if he was trying to push all the futures that would never be into one, perfect moment. It was better than he might have expected under the circumstances, despite the sense of urgency that made him clumsy and a bit frantic, to the point that he finished far earlier than he'd intended. The king had not seemed to mind, but held him close afterwards, his fingers smoothing his lover's messy hair as he gently kissed him. Elrond had known in that instant that he would never give him up--not for any price, not even for a peace that might last for all the ages to come. It had been weak and selfish and supremely foolish, but he knew in his heart that, given the chance to go back, he would make the same choice all over again.
"Am I to take it that you do not wish to leave me after all?," Gil-galad had asked, and Elrond would have felt proud of how breathless the king's voice was, except that he was too overwhelmed himself to comment.
As it was, he never had an opportunity, for Arenal suddenly stepped into the glade, the dim starlight insufficient to allow her features to be clearly seen, but the venom in her tone was more than enough to lend force to her words. "Since you are so happy with one another, don't let me interfere," and she pulled the ring from her finger and threw it on the ground. Elrond twisted Vilya on his hand now, remembering how it had been bestowed on him much later for a different purpose; he had no idea what had happened to that other ring--it had not been needed, for his relationship with the king transcended such things. Arenal had turned and left, not hurrying, and Elrond had to admit that she had been queenly in her bearing even then. He had not noticed the flower she held and must have mangled as she watched them, but apparently Gil-galad had been more observant. Staring at the images on the memory shard, Elrond realised that the king had known she was there all along.
It was easy to see now that Elrond thought about it, although at the time it had not been so clear. Betrothals are not lightly made between the Eldar and are difficult to break. Once his counselors proposed the marriage, it would have been difficult for the king to refuse it without giving a valid reason. Arenal was of faultless bloodline and unimpeachable breeding, how then could she be said to be an unacceptable queen? Unable to refuse the match without dragging Elrond into what was certain to be a very ugly situation, the king had managed the matter in his usual understated way, by allowing the lady the chance to see for herself that this would be no love match, and why. If she still wanted the name and title, perhaps the marriage could be completed after all, with the understanding that Elrond would remain at his side. If not, then she had the chance to break it off, and he had apparently understood her enough to know that she would be too proud to give the real reason. To be replaced by anyone would be embarrassing, but by a male, and not even a full elf at that?
Arenal had indeed said nothing of it, merely commenting that she found the king not to her liking. That there was more to it than that had been obvious to all, however, and the old rumours about Gil-galad and his young advisor had surfaced once again. Never thereafter had his counselors suggested another match, but it also soon became apparent that the aborted marriage had weakened the ties between the two great elvish hosts. Thinking on it now from the comfortable distance of centuries, Elrond supposed it should have been obvious that such would be the case. But then, they had been so hopeful that all could be smoothed over, that the sundering of two individuals who had, after all, never truly been joined, did not have to mean the parting of their peoples as well. Yet the Sindar had, under various leaders, started to drift away shortly thereafter, many under the command of Arenal's cousin Oropher, and no argument had been enough to prevent it.
Elrond felt himself weakening with the huge effort required to maintain the link between him and the king. He looked about the wreckage of what had once been a great mind, and sighed in hopelessness. How could this amount of damage ever be repaired? And yet, somehow he must manage it. At present the king was little better than a newborn. His concentration wandered aimlessly, making the smallest mental task a great hurdle. Elrond could not bear seeing one who had once planned entire campaigns, down to the merest detail, with consummate ease, who had been able to recite whole scrolls of ancient knowledge from memory alone, who rarely bothered to look up a fact because his mind was far better than any library, now nothing but a ruined shell. They had weathered much in their long attachment; this, too, somehow they would conquer. He had meant what he had said in his heart that night--he would never let him go.
TBC