Title: Wild Justice 24/?
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
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. For anyone who is following this story arc, please understand that my life has been very stressful lately and I am going to be unable to update as frequently in future as has been usual for me. I will try to post at least one chapter per week, probably on the weekends, until this story is complete. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it.
* * *
Haldir lay against the soft pillows of his bed, in a room filled with light and the fresh scent of flowers from a vine the wind kept blowing in the open window. Despite the fact that he had just spent a passionate night with his lover, had an excellent breakfast, and been informed by Lord Elrond thereafter that he would likely be up and walking within a week, a deep frown was etched onto his features. There was no reason for his bad mood, except for the alarming possibility that had occurred to him only a few moments before.
Lord Elrond had requested at the end of his examination that Gildor leave Haldir alone for a few hours so that he might get some sleep. Gildor had acquiesced, walking out of the room at Lord Elrond's side after unselfconsciously kissing his lover goodbye. Haldir had fully intended to get the recommended rest, for he was tired and the bitter liquid Lord Elrond gave him had induced drowsiness almost immediately. However, he did not sleep. Instead, he was halfway to the door of his room before he even realised it, and only woke out of his trance when his weak ankle suddenly gave out under him. He managed to get back to bed without further incident, but had been sitting there, staring at the door with a frown on his face, ever since.
He had never had anything like that happen before. It was almost as if Gildor had pulled him along via some unseen cord, drawing him with no apparent effort, rather as if he was a dog on a leash! Haldir had seen enough hapless victims to know what this very unsettling experience meant, and he was appalled. Being fond of Gildor was one thing--even, he admitted it, being excessively fond--but this! No one controlled Haldir of Lorien. He remained in charge of all his relationships, unless he chose to submit for a brief period as he had with Lord Elrond. But even then, he always knew what he was doing and was in full possession of his faculties. For someone who had laughed at moonstruck, starry-eyed elves, who followed the object of their affection around with no concern whatsoever for their dignity, the fact that he had just acted no better was enough to make him seriously re-evaluate his relationship.
Something Rumil had laughingly said a few days before came back to him, and Haldir wondered if perhaps he had misunderstood his brother's meaning. Pulling the bell cord beside his bed, he determined to find out if he had unknowingly become the laughing stock of Lorien. Rumil arrived a few minutes later, and Haldir gave him no chance to avoid the issue. "Who do you think controls my relationship with Gildor?"
"What?" Rumil looked at him quizzically, balancing a silver tray in his hands. On it was a carafe of water, a glass and a bunch of elanor, their dark green stems wrapped in a yellow bow.
"You heard me. I want an answer, brother."
Rumil put the tray on the table beside Haldir's bed and placed a hand on his brow. "Are you feverish?"
Haldir caught his arm and glared at him. "I want to know. Who is it--Gildor or myself?" Rumil's shifty expression was enough of an answer for Haldir, who dropped his brother's wrist and collapsed back against the pillows, stricken. "By Elbereth! This cannot continue!"
Rumil sighed and looked at him with exasperation. "You have a lover who adores you and who you obviously adore. Many would feel themselves extremely fortunate to be in your position. Why are you so concerned about such a small thing?"
"It is not a small thing! I will be owned by no one!"
"He doesn't own you. And, anyway, love means giving up a certain amount of control to another, there is no way around it." Rumil put the elanor in a vase, tossing out the other flowers, which had wilted. "Gildor asked me to bring you these. He knows you like them."
"I never gave up any control in my past relationships! I stayed or left as I liked, and acted any way I chose. This will be no different!"
Rumil looked at him archly. "Your other relationships had the staying power of a few weeks at best. Gildor plans to be around for a good deal longer than that, it seems to me."
"And I suppose I have no say in the matter?"
Rumil shrugged. "I grow bored with this topic, brother. Shouldn't you be saying these things to him? Although I would wait until I'd calmed a bit, if I were you." Rumil tucked the sheet around his brother's neck and smiled down at the sleepy form below him. "Rest, and things may seem brighter when you awake."
"I will talk to him tonight," Haldir declared.
He heard the smile in Rumil's voice even as he drifted off to sleep. "That should be an interesting conversation."
* * *
"We are ready to depart, my lord." Erestor glanced up at the elf addressing Thranduil. He had once been a member of Elrond's special guard, known then as Tuor of Imladris. As a result of Glorfindel's unorthodox gift to the king five hundred years ago, he was now Tuor of Mirkwood.
Thranduil, to Erestor's surprise, looked amused rather than annoyed. He also managed to seem his usual collected self, despite being shoved up against a tree by an enraged Peredhil only a few moments earlier. Erestor supposed that, sooner or later, he would learn to stop underestimating the king. "Ah, Tuor. No, I think we shall be . . . delaying . . . our approach to the mines somewhat."
Tuor nodded, but instead of going back to inform the others, he lingered. Something in his expression seemed a bit off to Erestor, who watched him without seeming to as Lord Celeborn laughingly asked Thranduil why he did not simply go fetch their missing members.
Thranduil lifted a blond brow and turned his clear green gaze on the Lord of Lorien. "Walk into a wood and disrupt the, er, activities, of the only two living balrog slayers?" He smiled, showing large white teeth. "I think not. Perhaps we will just wait until they choose to rejoin us!"
Erestor was not surprised to see Tuor look confused, as to him the remark must have seemed strange at the least. Yet another expression swiftly followed the confusion, one that caught Erestor's interest. "Excuse me, my lord, but how long shall I tell the troops we are to be delayed?" The elf's words were reasonable enough, and spoken in an appropriately light tone of voice, but his eyes showed more concern than they should have over something so trivial. For a brief moment, he looked almost fearful.
Thranduil stretched and seemed unconcerned; apparently he had noticed nothing amiss. "I don't have any idea. Tell your troops to use the reprieve to further their rest or to practice their techniques; but see that a proper guard remains in place. I don't want anyone sneaking up on us."
Tuor saluted smartly and left. Erestor gave him a few seconds head start, then melted into the forest after him.
* * *
Glorfindel watched Elrohir carefully, not sure exactly how much his lover had remembered. His expression when threatening Thranduil had been reminiscent of his battlefield mien, and his evident ability to take charge of their current activities was certainly different from his usual docile acceptance of Glorfindel's lead. However, he had said nothing to indicate much one way or the other, and Glorfindel was wary of causing him harm by bringing the subject up. He was also finding it difficult to analyse the situation with Elrohir pressing him down onto the forest floor and stripping off his clothing.
"I have waited patiently for you, lirimaer, but no more. I was tolerant while you played with the king, flirted with him for no reason, and tortured me. But my forbearance is not endless and now you WILL pay." Elrohir tugged the last of Glorfindel's clothes away and tossed them across the clearing. "You are mine, have always been mine, and always shall be," he added fiercely, straddling Glorfindel's thighs and trapping him against the warmth of his body.
The whole scene reminded Glorfindel vividly of the incident on the beach the first time they met. He thought that might have been the moment he fell in love with the maddening Sindar, even though he had certainly not been ready to admit it then, not even to himself. However, he had not been able to get the image out of his mind all day long, and he had galloped back to the palace with his head spinning. Who was the outrageous creature who would dare assault him, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, recently made head of one of the greatest Noldorin families after his father returned to the West? He might be young, but he was certainly no one to be treated with such easy contempt!
But no, he had to admit, in truth there had been no contempt in the stranger's gaze, although many other emotions--surprise, admiration, lust and something else he could not name--had been evident. Glorfindel had felt strangely as if he should know this one, even though they had certainly never before met. He would have remembered those mocking grey eyes, delighted laugh and easy manner no matter where he encountered them. The stranger had made him angry and confused, as well as ashamed of how easily his body responded. But by all the gods, who could have looked on him, so perfect and so unconsciously seductive, and not felt drawn to him?
Glorfindel had told himself that he was undoubtedly just concerned over the upcoming battle, and had let his emotions get out of control. Certainly the elf was attractive--unnervingly so in fact--but that was no excuse for losing his dignity along with most of his clothing to him in the space of a few minutes! He was nonetheless unable to keep himself from asking a number of people about the strange elf, who roamed about the countryside as if he owned it, and somehow managed to seem more intimidating while practically nude with bits of grass in his hair, than Glorfindel had felt properly attired and seated atop his horse. No one seemed to know who he might be, however, nor were they very interested in the question. Glorfindel was laughingly assured that all the Sindar were half barbarians anyway--although most did wear clothes!
He had been unable to stop thinking about him, however, and the image of those knowing dark eyes had remained in his mind while he readied himself for the evening's ceremony. He had been very puzzled, for that one brief encounter threatened to overturn all that he thought he knew about the Sindar. Glorfindel had always accepted the common attitude among the Noldor that any elves who had not seen the light of the Two Trees must be inferior, less enlightened and not quite civilized. Surely they were less wise and more given to outbursts of emotion, less in touch with the will of the Valar and more childlike in their attitudes. He had met few Sindar, as, although they had accepted Turgon as their king in Nevrast, it was primarily because a mediator was needed in the constant family bickering that went on among the leading houses. The two communities had afterwards shared a sovereign, but stayed largely separate. Only a few Sindar nobles were regularly seen at court, and they had tended to bear out the Noldorin attitudes--they were haughty, easily offended, and seemed more sly and cunning than wise. Glorfindel had been content to have little to do with them, keeping solely to his Noldorin friends.
But now there was this annoying, stunning, completely unsettling Sindar who did not seem to understand the situation. He should have been honoured to be addressed by a noble and a Noldoran one at that! He should have apologised profusely for upsetting his horse and disturbing his ride. Instead, he had acted as if Glorfindel should be honoured to meet HIM, and then stole his sash and his horse in an amazing show of effrontery and no small skill. No one else could ride Fain, had never been able to do so. He allowed one rider on his back only, which was how Glorfindel had acquired him several years before. He was a magnificent animal, but useless to his previous owner, who could not stay on his back for more than a few seconds. So it had been with utter shock that Glorfindel saw the barbarian leap onto Fain and ride off, having apparently no trouble at all controlling him.
He had further confused Glorfindel by proving that he could as easily master him as his horse, then had totally flummoxed him by letting him go, even though it had been obvious that he desired him. The elf seemingly took no offense at being called a barbarian, but he had not acted the part. Glorfindel could not understand why he behaved in such a contradictory manner, and was secretly almost disappointed when the Sindar let his noble impulses win out. He could not decide whether to be grateful to him for releasing him--for the experience had become truly frightening when Glorfindel realised that he simply could not move unless the other elf permitted it--or angry for arousing him with so little effort. He had still been puzzling over that when he went to collect Lord Ecthelion.
Glorfindel smiled in memory of how the glorious figure on the balcony had made him catch his breath in wonder. He had taken several seconds to realise that the face--the smug, smiling face--of the vision before him was the same as that of the infuriating elf from the hideously embarrassing experience earlier in the day. Glorfindel had momentarily thought about simply turning and walking away, but then the elf's servant had closed the door behind him and he had recalled that he had a duty to face, no matter how unpleasant of one.
Only it hadn't proven unpleasant. The gorgeous elf he had to escort proved to have equally pretty manners when he chose to exhibit them, and the way he was greeted by the droves of Sindarin elves who had arrived for the ceremony showed that he had quite a reputation; Glorfindel assumed it was for something other than seducing strangers. He had again felt almost disappointed when the elf--no, he supposed he must remember to refer to him as Lord Ecthelion--was dragged away by his friends and well wishers for a celebration almost as soon as the ceremony was completed. Glorfindel had dodged his own friends, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, and had soon sought out his favourite spot high on the hill overlooking the palace.
It had been a beautiful night, but the starlight was not soothing to his tattered nerves. The longer he sat there, the more concerned he became. Being leader of his house meant more than acting a part at ceremonies. It was also an administrative and, in times of war, a military position. He would not only be expected to fight well in the upcoming battle, but would also have to direct his elves, something he had never before done. There would, of course, be experienced commanders there, but he had the definite impression that, in the midst of battle, plans might well have to be changed at a moment's notice, and one mistake could cost many lives. He had been lost in his reverie when Ecthelion found him, and it had amazed him how nonchalant the older elf seemed about the battle. Indeed, the fact that his armor was uncomfortable had seemed to upset him more than the thought of facing the hordes of Morgoth! Glorfindel had envied him his easy calm, and had found, for the first time that night, a measure of peace in his company. Following him back to his rooms had almost seemed inevitable.
Now, as Elrohir began to claim him as he'd promised, Glorfindel could not help but make comparisons with that other joining. Ecthelion had been an ardent yet gentle lover, at least until their shared passion overcame them and they both lost control. Glorfindel had later wondered why that first encounter had been so intense, and had finally settled on the idea that desperation had played a part, namely the knowledge that his first time might also be his last. But of course it had not been--the battle had gone well, with Ecthelion lending him much needed support yet managing to be subtle about it, and they had ended up fighting side by side before the end. Their one night together had turned into two, for of course the victory had to be celebrated, and then three, to commemorate returning safely to Nevrast, and then four just because they both wanted it . . . in the end, the thrill of being together had never stopped.
Now Glorfindel wondered if he had known all along that there was something special between them, even that first time. There had been others in the long years alone, and many had been passionate and skilled, but it had never felt like this with anyone else.
He was so caught up in the joy of finally having his love back in his arms, that he did not notice they were under attack until the battle horns sounded their cry across the forest.
* * *
Thranduil never knew what happened to the sentries. They should have given warning, but the first he knew of the attack was the landing of an orcish arrow a hair's breadth from his head. Before it had fully penetrated the oak's wood, he had his first arrow nocked and a second later had taken down his attacker. He soon emptied his quiver as a flood of the foul creatures burst across the clearing, but did not look for another as they were already upon him. Hand to hand fighting with his knives was something Thranduil had not done, other than in practice sessions, in hundreds of years, but that sort of skill was never really lost. The old familiar sensation of battle excitement filled his veins, and dropping into a suitable trance was as easy as breathing.
He noticed Celeborn run up the almost perpendicular side of a tree as easily as if it had been lying flat, and grinned. His Sindar blood was showing; Thranduil made a mental note to tease him about it later, for none of the Noldor with whom the Lord of Lorien was so closely allied could have copied that particular maneuver. No, Thranduil smiled as he grabbed hold of a large limb and then let it bounce back, slamming two orcs to the ground as it did so, and making them easy prey for his flashing knives, the Noldor simply did not have the same attachment to Arda that the Sindar possessed. Galadriel would have had a hard time with the elves of the Golden Wood, whose Silvan attachment to the trees in which they lived was foreign and incomprehensible to her. Luckily, she had shown the good taste to wed a Sindarin lord rather than another Noldor, and had bought by it acceptance she would not have received otherwise.
Celeborn had emptied his quiver and, from his high perch, was unable to easily obtain another, so Thranduil paused for long enough to toss him one from their now abandoned packs. He received a jaunty wave in thanks, before the deadly rain of arrows from above resumed. Thranduil continued to enjoy himself, cleaving orcs left and right, but he also kept an eye on the battlefield as he did so--at least what was visible through the thick growth of trees. This was not, he quickly realised, an ideal position from which to fight a prolonged battle. The trees were too thick to allow him to properly see the number or disposition of the enemy, and to thereby form a decent strategy. The number of their attackers also worried him. Orcs habitually raided in small parties, usually of no more than a hundred and often less than that. He knew, of course, that a much larger party had assaulted the Lorien contingent a few days before, but that was before his group of archers had joined them. Even orcs had scouts; and no orcish patrol had ever attacked a group of over six hundred elvish warriors--it would be suicide. The creatures preferred to vastly outnumber their prey, especially when going against elves. They were raiders and thieves, bandits and bullies, who fled any chance of a fair fight. The only exception to that had been when those orcs were under the leadership of a power they feared far more than the elves, such as at Barad-dur.
That was not a thought that brought Thranduil any comfort. He glanced upwards as his knives caught an orc head between them and sliced it off, the blades meeting in the middle of the creature's neck to ring dully against each other. Celeborn had acquired a helper in the form of one of the Galadrim, and there were now several quivers of extra arrows lodged nearby in the fork of the limb on which they stood. Yet Celeborn did not look pleased. Thranduil had never seen that particular expression on his usually impassive features. Little managed to rattle the Lorien lord, but he was certainly looking stunned by something now. Deciding to judge for himself, Thranduil grasped hold of the lowest tree limb, then pushed off from the ground, stepping on an orc's shoulders for added purchase as he did so.
A few seconds later and he stood beside Celeborn, who continued to nock and fire arrows almost automatically despite the savage expression on his face. Thranduil never had the chance to ask him what the problem was, for he glanced out over the battlefield only to see for himself. The hills that showed above the treetops were black with orcs, a countless, surging mass unlike any he had seen since the Last Alliance. It was virtually impossible to even discern any green on the hillsides for the writhing, jostling hoard that covered it. Elves battled well everywhere he looked, but none could stand against such numbers for long. He had not really believed there were that many orcs in all of Middle Earth! All the way back to the mountains they spread, a dirty black cloud that covered the good and pure with their stench. This was about more than a few elves, of that there was no longer a question. There was no argument to be made over something else either.
Grabbing the horn from the Galadrim's waist, Thranduil lifted it to his lips. Celeborn's eyes narrowed in distaste, but he said nothing. He, too, had fought often enough in the past to recognise inevitability now. Instead of the battle call that had played earlier, Thranduil prepared to form notes he had not heard since Sauron's forces swept over his father's in the marshes, leaving most of the Sindarin host dead on the ground. The call had not been heard by elvin ears for hundreds of years, but he knew all would know what it meant. Forcing back his distaste, Thranduil signaled the call for retreat.
TBC
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
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. For anyone who is following this story arc, please understand that my life has been very stressful lately and I am going to be unable to update as frequently in future as has been usual for me. I will try to post at least one chapter per week, probably on the weekends, until this story is complete. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it.
* * *
Haldir lay against the soft pillows of his bed, in a room filled with light and the fresh scent of flowers from a vine the wind kept blowing in the open window. Despite the fact that he had just spent a passionate night with his lover, had an excellent breakfast, and been informed by Lord Elrond thereafter that he would likely be up and walking within a week, a deep frown was etched onto his features. There was no reason for his bad mood, except for the alarming possibility that had occurred to him only a few moments before.
Lord Elrond had requested at the end of his examination that Gildor leave Haldir alone for a few hours so that he might get some sleep. Gildor had acquiesced, walking out of the room at Lord Elrond's side after unselfconsciously kissing his lover goodbye. Haldir had fully intended to get the recommended rest, for he was tired and the bitter liquid Lord Elrond gave him had induced drowsiness almost immediately. However, he did not sleep. Instead, he was halfway to the door of his room before he even realised it, and only woke out of his trance when his weak ankle suddenly gave out under him. He managed to get back to bed without further incident, but had been sitting there, staring at the door with a frown on his face, ever since.
He had never had anything like that happen before. It was almost as if Gildor had pulled him along via some unseen cord, drawing him with no apparent effort, rather as if he was a dog on a leash! Haldir had seen enough hapless victims to know what this very unsettling experience meant, and he was appalled. Being fond of Gildor was one thing--even, he admitted it, being excessively fond--but this! No one controlled Haldir of Lorien. He remained in charge of all his relationships, unless he chose to submit for a brief period as he had with Lord Elrond. But even then, he always knew what he was doing and was in full possession of his faculties. For someone who had laughed at moonstruck, starry-eyed elves, who followed the object of their affection around with no concern whatsoever for their dignity, the fact that he had just acted no better was enough to make him seriously re-evaluate his relationship.
Something Rumil had laughingly said a few days before came back to him, and Haldir wondered if perhaps he had misunderstood his brother's meaning. Pulling the bell cord beside his bed, he determined to find out if he had unknowingly become the laughing stock of Lorien. Rumil arrived a few minutes later, and Haldir gave him no chance to avoid the issue. "Who do you think controls my relationship with Gildor?"
"What?" Rumil looked at him quizzically, balancing a silver tray in his hands. On it was a carafe of water, a glass and a bunch of elanor, their dark green stems wrapped in a yellow bow.
"You heard me. I want an answer, brother."
Rumil put the tray on the table beside Haldir's bed and placed a hand on his brow. "Are you feverish?"
Haldir caught his arm and glared at him. "I want to know. Who is it--Gildor or myself?" Rumil's shifty expression was enough of an answer for Haldir, who dropped his brother's wrist and collapsed back against the pillows, stricken. "By Elbereth! This cannot continue!"
Rumil sighed and looked at him with exasperation. "You have a lover who adores you and who you obviously adore. Many would feel themselves extremely fortunate to be in your position. Why are you so concerned about such a small thing?"
"It is not a small thing! I will be owned by no one!"
"He doesn't own you. And, anyway, love means giving up a certain amount of control to another, there is no way around it." Rumil put the elanor in a vase, tossing out the other flowers, which had wilted. "Gildor asked me to bring you these. He knows you like them."
"I never gave up any control in my past relationships! I stayed or left as I liked, and acted any way I chose. This will be no different!"
Rumil looked at him archly. "Your other relationships had the staying power of a few weeks at best. Gildor plans to be around for a good deal longer than that, it seems to me."
"And I suppose I have no say in the matter?"
Rumil shrugged. "I grow bored with this topic, brother. Shouldn't you be saying these things to him? Although I would wait until I'd calmed a bit, if I were you." Rumil tucked the sheet around his brother's neck and smiled down at the sleepy form below him. "Rest, and things may seem brighter when you awake."
"I will talk to him tonight," Haldir declared.
He heard the smile in Rumil's voice even as he drifted off to sleep. "That should be an interesting conversation."
* * *
"We are ready to depart, my lord." Erestor glanced up at the elf addressing Thranduil. He had once been a member of Elrond's special guard, known then as Tuor of Imladris. As a result of Glorfindel's unorthodox gift to the king five hundred years ago, he was now Tuor of Mirkwood.
Thranduil, to Erestor's surprise, looked amused rather than annoyed. He also managed to seem his usual collected self, despite being shoved up against a tree by an enraged Peredhil only a few moments earlier. Erestor supposed that, sooner or later, he would learn to stop underestimating the king. "Ah, Tuor. No, I think we shall be . . . delaying . . . our approach to the mines somewhat."
Tuor nodded, but instead of going back to inform the others, he lingered. Something in his expression seemed a bit off to Erestor, who watched him without seeming to as Lord Celeborn laughingly asked Thranduil why he did not simply go fetch their missing members.
Thranduil lifted a blond brow and turned his clear green gaze on the Lord of Lorien. "Walk into a wood and disrupt the, er, activities, of the only two living balrog slayers?" He smiled, showing large white teeth. "I think not. Perhaps we will just wait until they choose to rejoin us!"
Erestor was not surprised to see Tuor look confused, as to him the remark must have seemed strange at the least. Yet another expression swiftly followed the confusion, one that caught Erestor's interest. "Excuse me, my lord, but how long shall I tell the troops we are to be delayed?" The elf's words were reasonable enough, and spoken in an appropriately light tone of voice, but his eyes showed more concern than they should have over something so trivial. For a brief moment, he looked almost fearful.
Thranduil stretched and seemed unconcerned; apparently he had noticed nothing amiss. "I don't have any idea. Tell your troops to use the reprieve to further their rest or to practice their techniques; but see that a proper guard remains in place. I don't want anyone sneaking up on us."
Tuor saluted smartly and left. Erestor gave him a few seconds head start, then melted into the forest after him.
* * *
Glorfindel watched Elrohir carefully, not sure exactly how much his lover had remembered. His expression when threatening Thranduil had been reminiscent of his battlefield mien, and his evident ability to take charge of their current activities was certainly different from his usual docile acceptance of Glorfindel's lead. However, he had said nothing to indicate much one way or the other, and Glorfindel was wary of causing him harm by bringing the subject up. He was also finding it difficult to analyse the situation with Elrohir pressing him down onto the forest floor and stripping off his clothing.
"I have waited patiently for you, lirimaer, but no more. I was tolerant while you played with the king, flirted with him for no reason, and tortured me. But my forbearance is not endless and now you WILL pay." Elrohir tugged the last of Glorfindel's clothes away and tossed them across the clearing. "You are mine, have always been mine, and always shall be," he added fiercely, straddling Glorfindel's thighs and trapping him against the warmth of his body.
The whole scene reminded Glorfindel vividly of the incident on the beach the first time they met. He thought that might have been the moment he fell in love with the maddening Sindar, even though he had certainly not been ready to admit it then, not even to himself. However, he had not been able to get the image out of his mind all day long, and he had galloped back to the palace with his head spinning. Who was the outrageous creature who would dare assault him, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, recently made head of one of the greatest Noldorin families after his father returned to the West? He might be young, but he was certainly no one to be treated with such easy contempt!
But no, he had to admit, in truth there had been no contempt in the stranger's gaze, although many other emotions--surprise, admiration, lust and something else he could not name--had been evident. Glorfindel had felt strangely as if he should know this one, even though they had certainly never before met. He would have remembered those mocking grey eyes, delighted laugh and easy manner no matter where he encountered them. The stranger had made him angry and confused, as well as ashamed of how easily his body responded. But by all the gods, who could have looked on him, so perfect and so unconsciously seductive, and not felt drawn to him?
Glorfindel had told himself that he was undoubtedly just concerned over the upcoming battle, and had let his emotions get out of control. Certainly the elf was attractive--unnervingly so in fact--but that was no excuse for losing his dignity along with most of his clothing to him in the space of a few minutes! He was nonetheless unable to keep himself from asking a number of people about the strange elf, who roamed about the countryside as if he owned it, and somehow managed to seem more intimidating while practically nude with bits of grass in his hair, than Glorfindel had felt properly attired and seated atop his horse. No one seemed to know who he might be, however, nor were they very interested in the question. Glorfindel was laughingly assured that all the Sindar were half barbarians anyway--although most did wear clothes!
He had been unable to stop thinking about him, however, and the image of those knowing dark eyes had remained in his mind while he readied himself for the evening's ceremony. He had been very puzzled, for that one brief encounter threatened to overturn all that he thought he knew about the Sindar. Glorfindel had always accepted the common attitude among the Noldor that any elves who had not seen the light of the Two Trees must be inferior, less enlightened and not quite civilized. Surely they were less wise and more given to outbursts of emotion, less in touch with the will of the Valar and more childlike in their attitudes. He had met few Sindar, as, although they had accepted Turgon as their king in Nevrast, it was primarily because a mediator was needed in the constant family bickering that went on among the leading houses. The two communities had afterwards shared a sovereign, but stayed largely separate. Only a few Sindar nobles were regularly seen at court, and they had tended to bear out the Noldorin attitudes--they were haughty, easily offended, and seemed more sly and cunning than wise. Glorfindel had been content to have little to do with them, keeping solely to his Noldorin friends.
But now there was this annoying, stunning, completely unsettling Sindar who did not seem to understand the situation. He should have been honoured to be addressed by a noble and a Noldoran one at that! He should have apologised profusely for upsetting his horse and disturbing his ride. Instead, he had acted as if Glorfindel should be honoured to meet HIM, and then stole his sash and his horse in an amazing show of effrontery and no small skill. No one else could ride Fain, had never been able to do so. He allowed one rider on his back only, which was how Glorfindel had acquired him several years before. He was a magnificent animal, but useless to his previous owner, who could not stay on his back for more than a few seconds. So it had been with utter shock that Glorfindel saw the barbarian leap onto Fain and ride off, having apparently no trouble at all controlling him.
He had further confused Glorfindel by proving that he could as easily master him as his horse, then had totally flummoxed him by letting him go, even though it had been obvious that he desired him. The elf seemingly took no offense at being called a barbarian, but he had not acted the part. Glorfindel could not understand why he behaved in such a contradictory manner, and was secretly almost disappointed when the Sindar let his noble impulses win out. He could not decide whether to be grateful to him for releasing him--for the experience had become truly frightening when Glorfindel realised that he simply could not move unless the other elf permitted it--or angry for arousing him with so little effort. He had still been puzzling over that when he went to collect Lord Ecthelion.
Glorfindel smiled in memory of how the glorious figure on the balcony had made him catch his breath in wonder. He had taken several seconds to realise that the face--the smug, smiling face--of the vision before him was the same as that of the infuriating elf from the hideously embarrassing experience earlier in the day. Glorfindel had momentarily thought about simply turning and walking away, but then the elf's servant had closed the door behind him and he had recalled that he had a duty to face, no matter how unpleasant of one.
Only it hadn't proven unpleasant. The gorgeous elf he had to escort proved to have equally pretty manners when he chose to exhibit them, and the way he was greeted by the droves of Sindarin elves who had arrived for the ceremony showed that he had quite a reputation; Glorfindel assumed it was for something other than seducing strangers. He had again felt almost disappointed when the elf--no, he supposed he must remember to refer to him as Lord Ecthelion--was dragged away by his friends and well wishers for a celebration almost as soon as the ceremony was completed. Glorfindel had dodged his own friends, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, and had soon sought out his favourite spot high on the hill overlooking the palace.
It had been a beautiful night, but the starlight was not soothing to his tattered nerves. The longer he sat there, the more concerned he became. Being leader of his house meant more than acting a part at ceremonies. It was also an administrative and, in times of war, a military position. He would not only be expected to fight well in the upcoming battle, but would also have to direct his elves, something he had never before done. There would, of course, be experienced commanders there, but he had the definite impression that, in the midst of battle, plans might well have to be changed at a moment's notice, and one mistake could cost many lives. He had been lost in his reverie when Ecthelion found him, and it had amazed him how nonchalant the older elf seemed about the battle. Indeed, the fact that his armor was uncomfortable had seemed to upset him more than the thought of facing the hordes of Morgoth! Glorfindel had envied him his easy calm, and had found, for the first time that night, a measure of peace in his company. Following him back to his rooms had almost seemed inevitable.
Now, as Elrohir began to claim him as he'd promised, Glorfindel could not help but make comparisons with that other joining. Ecthelion had been an ardent yet gentle lover, at least until their shared passion overcame them and they both lost control. Glorfindel had later wondered why that first encounter had been so intense, and had finally settled on the idea that desperation had played a part, namely the knowledge that his first time might also be his last. But of course it had not been--the battle had gone well, with Ecthelion lending him much needed support yet managing to be subtle about it, and they had ended up fighting side by side before the end. Their one night together had turned into two, for of course the victory had to be celebrated, and then three, to commemorate returning safely to Nevrast, and then four just because they both wanted it . . . in the end, the thrill of being together had never stopped.
Now Glorfindel wondered if he had known all along that there was something special between them, even that first time. There had been others in the long years alone, and many had been passionate and skilled, but it had never felt like this with anyone else.
He was so caught up in the joy of finally having his love back in his arms, that he did not notice they were under attack until the battle horns sounded their cry across the forest.
* * *
Thranduil never knew what happened to the sentries. They should have given warning, but the first he knew of the attack was the landing of an orcish arrow a hair's breadth from his head. Before it had fully penetrated the oak's wood, he had his first arrow nocked and a second later had taken down his attacker. He soon emptied his quiver as a flood of the foul creatures burst across the clearing, but did not look for another as they were already upon him. Hand to hand fighting with his knives was something Thranduil had not done, other than in practice sessions, in hundreds of years, but that sort of skill was never really lost. The old familiar sensation of battle excitement filled his veins, and dropping into a suitable trance was as easy as breathing.
He noticed Celeborn run up the almost perpendicular side of a tree as easily as if it had been lying flat, and grinned. His Sindar blood was showing; Thranduil made a mental note to tease him about it later, for none of the Noldor with whom the Lord of Lorien was so closely allied could have copied that particular maneuver. No, Thranduil smiled as he grabbed hold of a large limb and then let it bounce back, slamming two orcs to the ground as it did so, and making them easy prey for his flashing knives, the Noldor simply did not have the same attachment to Arda that the Sindar possessed. Galadriel would have had a hard time with the elves of the Golden Wood, whose Silvan attachment to the trees in which they lived was foreign and incomprehensible to her. Luckily, she had shown the good taste to wed a Sindarin lord rather than another Noldor, and had bought by it acceptance she would not have received otherwise.
Celeborn had emptied his quiver and, from his high perch, was unable to easily obtain another, so Thranduil paused for long enough to toss him one from their now abandoned packs. He received a jaunty wave in thanks, before the deadly rain of arrows from above resumed. Thranduil continued to enjoy himself, cleaving orcs left and right, but he also kept an eye on the battlefield as he did so--at least what was visible through the thick growth of trees. This was not, he quickly realised, an ideal position from which to fight a prolonged battle. The trees were too thick to allow him to properly see the number or disposition of the enemy, and to thereby form a decent strategy. The number of their attackers also worried him. Orcs habitually raided in small parties, usually of no more than a hundred and often less than that. He knew, of course, that a much larger party had assaulted the Lorien contingent a few days before, but that was before his group of archers had joined them. Even orcs had scouts; and no orcish patrol had ever attacked a group of over six hundred elvish warriors--it would be suicide. The creatures preferred to vastly outnumber their prey, especially when going against elves. They were raiders and thieves, bandits and bullies, who fled any chance of a fair fight. The only exception to that had been when those orcs were under the leadership of a power they feared far more than the elves, such as at Barad-dur.
That was not a thought that brought Thranduil any comfort. He glanced upwards as his knives caught an orc head between them and sliced it off, the blades meeting in the middle of the creature's neck to ring dully against each other. Celeborn had acquired a helper in the form of one of the Galadrim, and there were now several quivers of extra arrows lodged nearby in the fork of the limb on which they stood. Yet Celeborn did not look pleased. Thranduil had never seen that particular expression on his usually impassive features. Little managed to rattle the Lorien lord, but he was certainly looking stunned by something now. Deciding to judge for himself, Thranduil grasped hold of the lowest tree limb, then pushed off from the ground, stepping on an orc's shoulders for added purchase as he did so.
A few seconds later and he stood beside Celeborn, who continued to nock and fire arrows almost automatically despite the savage expression on his face. Thranduil never had the chance to ask him what the problem was, for he glanced out over the battlefield only to see for himself. The hills that showed above the treetops were black with orcs, a countless, surging mass unlike any he had seen since the Last Alliance. It was virtually impossible to even discern any green on the hillsides for the writhing, jostling hoard that covered it. Elves battled well everywhere he looked, but none could stand against such numbers for long. He had not really believed there were that many orcs in all of Middle Earth! All the way back to the mountains they spread, a dirty black cloud that covered the good and pure with their stench. This was about more than a few elves, of that there was no longer a question. There was no argument to be made over something else either.
Grabbing the horn from the Galadrim's waist, Thranduil lifted it to his lips. Celeborn's eyes narrowed in distaste, but he said nothing. He, too, had fought often enough in the past to recognise inevitability now. Instead of the battle call that had played earlier, Thranduil prepared to form notes he had not heard since Sauron's forces swept over his father's in the marshes, leaving most of the Sindarin host dead on the ground. The call had not been heard by elvin ears for hundreds of years, but he knew all would know what it meant. Forcing back his distaste, Thranduil signaled the call for retreat.
TBC