The Librarian 13/
LotR
NC17
Summery: Erestor = Erestor! w/ Glorfindel & Melpomean
Warnings: BDSM, kink, sudsy angst
Disclaimer: All LotR characters and settings are the exclusive property of
the Tolkien estate. I do not have permission to use them.
Summery: I lost my lighter, Dammit! How'm I supposed to write without a
damned cigarette?!! Krit? Did you take it?!!!
Feedback: Please – I'm using the comments to beta this mess
For Kharessa and Machiavellian, and Krit. Now will someone please call her
on the phone or poke her with sticks so I can crawl ahead here?
AN This is kinda short – it's the arch into a new phase of this story.
"...and God granted the English victory" War. War, I say!
It was always like this, afterwards. The warm afterglow of sex still cascading through him, his lovers fingers brushing lightly against his skin and he removed his ties, a sharp hiss of pain as fresh wound was exposed to air for the first time, then lips sealing the flesh, a gentle reminder of how pain and pleasure intertwined and Glorfindel could only watch in rapt awe. His captain, his dark hair slightly mussed, his grey eyes amused by the slack in Glorfindel's jaw. Those eyes. He could get lost in them. Forever lost where he was made to be, lost and rolling and... shaking? Something was shaking Glorfindel's shoulder. His eyes blinked into focus blearily, wise grey eyes replaced by anxious black ones. Black eyes attached to a disheveled elf that was frantically pawing his arm. Another blink. Erestor. Babbling incoherently. Something was very wrong.
*
Melpomaen was curled into a tight ball in the center of his bed. His breathing had slowed though his eyes fluttered rapidly. Glorfindel crouched next to him, brushing the hair gently from his face. The elf was shivering uncontrollably and Glorfindel pressed his lips to his forehead and whispered something to him. Almost immediately the shaking stopped, his eyes focused and he stared at Glorfindel. And Erestor burst into the room dragging a rather bedraggled Lord of Imladris behind him.
* "How did this come to pass?"
Elrond was sitting with his two chief advisors, young Melpomaen had drifted off to sleep from the draught Elrond had administered after he had examined him. Fortunately the injuries were more superficial than they had appeared. At least the physical ones.
"How did this come to pass?" Elrond repeated.
Almost dazed Erestor realized he had not answered, and the silence stretched as Elrond waited, his eyebrows sinking deeper each moment.
"It started with the scrolls" he was at last able to answer.
Then the sudden relief, of having someone to talk to about this bubbled over and Erestor spilled everything. Every last detail, from the feelings of lust that the Librarian's words had stirred in him, to allowing Melpomaen to restore the pictures, to the start of their experiments with pain. Erestor held nothing consciously back; he told of the dread and the self loathing he felt that something from Melkor's realm should stir him more than elfish love ever had, and how he tried to resist. And in halting words he told of Glorfindel's diary, and how knowing that one of the first born could love so made it seem more acceptable. Glorfindel shifted uneasily then, but he remained silent. When he finally stopped speaking Erestor felt his alarm return. Elrond hadn't answered him, or indeed responded in anyway. Instead he wore the perplexed expression of someone who had been told something entirely preposterous: if at that moment a wizard had arrived at his doorstep and told him some lowly creature, say a Halfling, held the fate of Middle Earth in his hand, he could not have been more stunned.
*
Haldir reread the scrolls in his hands. Copies, crude copies at that, hastily made in poor light, but the words were there. Between them he saw valor and courage, barely resembling the monster his mind had formed. More were coming, Melpomaen had promised him. Tears of streaming he pressed the parchment to his lips and began to recite the passages again.
*
At some point he must have stopped talking. Erestor knew this because his lips weren't moving and Glorfindel and Elrond were engaged in an intense conversation. He was exhausted. His head weighted down, hanging until with Herculean effort he swung it up, catching snatches from the conversation.
"...will fade! You must see that! Whatever his...
"...leave this in you're..."
Of course. He was a murderer. How had he forgotten that? When the madness and rage that had flooded his system left, they seemed to have washed away everything else. His mind was heavy. Just wanted to sleep. Just sleep. Just
Someone was shaking him, then a sharp pain across his cheek. A slap? It roused him a little, and he looked up into the dark blue storm of Glorfindel. Another slap, hard and welcome.
Murderer. Abomination.
But Glorfindel's eyes held no hatred, only concern, and that stung worse than his cheeks. He twisted away, away from Glorfindel's gaze only to find himself forcibly held face to face.
"He's not going to fade"
Erestor shook, his mind not understanding.
"...not going to fade"
Comprehension struck forcefully, and Erestor fainted.
Elrond stood and nodded.
"It shall be as you say then, my friend. I have skill enough to help this young one, but Erestor is beyond my skill."
"...and God granted the English victory" War. War, I say!
It was always like this, afterwards. The warm afterglow of sex still cascading through him, his lovers fingers brushing lightly against his skin and he removed his ties, a sharp hiss of pain as fresh wound was exposed to air for the first time, then lips sealing the flesh, a gentle reminder of how pain and pleasure intertwined and Glorfindel could only watch in rapt awe. His captain, his dark hair slightly mussed, his grey eyes amused by the slack in Glorfindel's jaw. Those eyes. He could get lost in them. Forever lost where he was made to be, lost and rolling and... shaking? Something was shaking Glorfindel's shoulder. His eyes blinked into focus blearily, wise grey eyes replaced by anxious black ones. Black eyes attached to a disheveled elf that was frantically pawing his arm. Another blink. Erestor. Babbling incoherently. Something was very wrong.
*
Melpomaen was curled into a tight ball in the center of his bed. His breathing had slowed though his eyes fluttered rapidly. Glorfindel crouched next to him, brushing the hair gently from his face. The elf was shivering uncontrollably and Glorfindel pressed his lips to his forehead and whispered something to him. Almost immediately the shaking stopped, his eyes focused and he stared at Glorfindel. And Erestor burst into the room dragging a rather bedraggled Lord of Imladris behind him.
* "How did this come to pass?"
Elrond was sitting with his two chief advisors, young Melpomaen had drifted off to sleep from the draught Elrond had administered after he had examined him. Fortunately the injuries were more superficial than they had appeared. At least the physical ones.
"How did this come to pass?" Elrond repeated.
Almost dazed Erestor realized he had not answered, and the silence stretched as Elrond waited, his eyebrows sinking deeper each moment.
"It started with the scrolls" he was at last able to answer.
Then the sudden relief, of having someone to talk to about this bubbled over and Erestor spilled everything. Every last detail, from the feelings of lust that the Librarian's words had stirred in him, to allowing Melpomaen to restore the pictures, to the start of their experiments with pain. Erestor held nothing consciously back; he told of the dread and the self loathing he felt that something from Melkor's realm should stir him more than elfish love ever had, and how he tried to resist. And in halting words he told of Glorfindel's diary, and how knowing that one of the first born could love so made it seem more acceptable. Glorfindel shifted uneasily then, but he remained silent. When he finally stopped speaking Erestor felt his alarm return. Elrond hadn't answered him, or indeed responded in anyway. Instead he wore the perplexed expression of someone who had been told something entirely preposterous: if at that moment a wizard had arrived at his doorstep and told him some lowly creature, say a Halfling, held the fate of Middle Earth in his hand, he could not have been more stunned.
*
Haldir reread the scrolls in his hands. Copies, crude copies at that, hastily made in poor light, but the words were there. Between them he saw valor and courage, barely resembling the monster his mind had formed. More were coming, Melpomaen had promised him. Tears of streaming he pressed the parchment to his lips and began to recite the passages again.
*
At some point he must have stopped talking. Erestor knew this because his lips weren't moving and Glorfindel and Elrond were engaged in an intense conversation. He was exhausted. His head weighted down, hanging until with Herculean effort he swung it up, catching snatches from the conversation.
"...will fade! You must see that! Whatever his...
"...leave this in you're..."
Of course. He was a murderer. How had he forgotten that? When the madness and rage that had flooded his system left, they seemed to have washed away everything else. His mind was heavy. Just wanted to sleep. Just sleep. Just
Someone was shaking him, then a sharp pain across his cheek. A slap? It roused him a little, and he looked up into the dark blue storm of Glorfindel. Another slap, hard and welcome.
Murderer. Abomination.
But Glorfindel's eyes held no hatred, only concern, and that stung worse than his cheeks. He twisted away, away from Glorfindel's gaze only to find himself forcibly held face to face.
"He's not going to fade"
Erestor shook, his mind not understanding.
"...not going to fade"
Comprehension struck forcefully, and Erestor fainted.
Elrond stood and nodded.
"It shall be as you say then, my friend. I have skill enough to help this young one, but Erestor is beyond my skill."