Three of us in a tent. Too many, one too many. And I wish those two were not together all the time. Sometimes it seems they are each but half a man, the way one begins a sentence and the other finishes it.

But of course you my love, you are no half, you are whole. If only I could have you alone...

No, my heart, stay these foolish fancies! Do not conceive the death of a comrade in arms just because he happens to intrude on your privacy! I must not hope for the death of an ally.

But I wish he would be away for a while. I wish you my love would not follow him everywhere.

He may be your brother, but he is not your master. I cringe to see you obey him like a dog. Isildur, be wise, send your younger brother from you! Tell him you wish to be alone, go to some other tent, stay there all night.

Leave Anarion here with me. He will be in good hands...

Stop, my soul, forget now your fancies! There beside the table the brothers sit, immersed in a game of blacks-and-whites. A simple mortal game, that I am bored of playing, yet if only I could play with you... my knee brushing yours by accident... it would sustain me a week...

Anarion, you are the sunshine on my fields.

And Isildur is a cloud that comes between us!

What now! He has lost, and he is angry! Children's play, he calls it, says his mind is not here, he needs to write some strategy for tomorrow, he will go to the council tent because you, his "foolish little brother" have used all his parchment writing a poem about Numenor.

And finally he says:
'Do not expect me back for supper. I feel like writing all night. I take my lembas and wine with me, see, no need to worry about me starving.'

How long have I yearned for just such bitter words from his noble mouth!

'Well, Anarion,' I say after he has gone, 'It seems your brother only likes to play when he wins.'
'It's because he usually does beat me, in everything.'
'But not, I think, in writing poems about Numenor.'
Your eyes shine.
'Would you like to read it?'
'Indeed I would.'

It is a pretty little piece, not a lament as I expected, but a fond remembrance of a carefree childhood. There is a refrain;
"And your hills like a mother's bosom did cradle my dreams..."
But in the last verse it has turned into:
"And your vales like a maiden's lap they did cradle my dreams."

'It is beautiful. You do have a talent.'
'Really? You think so? You aren't just being nice?'
'I'd never be as stupid as to "be nice" to you, Anarion! Come to think of it, I'm never nice or nasty to anyone. Petty feelings are against my nature and upbringing. For elves, it's always love or hate, friendship or enmity, and perhaps, for the Sindar, sometimes ignorance.'

You pause in thought, and your brow wrinkled in concentration gives you a boyish appearance.

'You are my friend, Glorfindel, but not Isildur's. Why?'
'Your brother is a man of few friendships. It is not easy to get to know him. You are more open, at least when you are alone.'
'I hope you would learn to like Isildur.'
'Why?'
'Because I like you.'
'You do? I'm glad to hear that, for I love you, Anarion.'
'...love or hate,' you quote my words, 'do you hate Isildur then?'
'Not exactly. But I am jealous, for he alone has your love.'
'He, my father, my wife and children, and my mother's memory. I love my family, who else would I love?'
'Elves call friendship love, too.'
'Then indeed I do love you, Glorfindel, and you have no need for jealousy. Can a man not have several friends? Gil-Galad is your friend, too.'
'Several friends, perhaps, but only one the dearest.'
'Would you be my dearest? What do you mean, what is that strange light in your eyes?'
'Indeed I would be your dearest, and you would be my everything.'

I reach out to touch your curly golden hair. The look on your face is like that of an innocent maiden who is about to realise the fullness of her womanhood, a maiden looking at her first admirer and suddenly realising that he will not be satisfied just to look at her, he wants to touch.

You are married, and perhaps your wife once looked at you like that, but you never had an admirer of your own. And in the tears that suddenly fill your eyes I read another message: anywhere else you would not look twice at a male admirer, but here on the battlefield with no woman in sight, the thought is not so repulsive to you - indeed your flesh yearns for its satisfaction. And perhaps it helps that I with my golden plaits look a bit feminine.

I undress you like I would undress my bride on my wedding night; with care, with ceremony, forcing myself not to hurry.

Then I bestow my kisses all over your fair body, and I observe your desire grow and fill you, and you touch me, tentatively at first, then with passion, as you hear me whisper your name in lust. We caress each other as if the skin we touch were our own, as if we were but one being in the depths of loneliness caressing itself, rubbing its erect manhood in a hopeless lusting, yet enjoying itself for the moment - so much we are one, so well we know each other's bodies, so well, at last, at last, we fit together as I enter you and teach you a new game of love, and you repeat it to me and show you have learned perfectly, we are one, man and elf, one and yet more for we are not lonely.

An later, when we lie spent upon a blanket, and the echo of our throbbing blood still hums in our ears, and we hold onto each other, we are one and we fall asleep in each other's arms.

Isildur finds us there in the morning, and I am surprised that he is not angry. Then I look into his eyes and I know he neither has slept alone. There are no stains of ink in his fingers, no parchment in his pockets.

*****

This is dedicated to M, whom I desired and never had. He had golden curls and he would have been my everything.