The sky dropped low, weighted down by the dismal drear of massive, dimpled clouds of silver-grey, an incomprehensible luminosity to the shadowy substance of formless air that lent no aid to eyes, pouring a steady cascade of pattering rain that damped and deadened the sound of feet walking, lungs breathing, and voices whispering. An opaque cloak of obscurity enveloped the serene vale of Singing Falls and smothered that omnipresent glow of peaceful tranquility for which it was famed, inciting an unexpected prickling of incoherent and indefinable dread. All over the secluded haven laughter ceased, songs choked off mid-verse, dancers stumbled and clutched to one another in the gathering gloom.
Lamps were lit, windows and doors were shut tight, curtains were drawn. Behind them the Noldorin folk crouched in huddled apprehension, sensing a change in the wind, a shift in the pressure of the air about their ears, a sudden yet subtle diminishing of the placid atmosphere taken so much for granted under the protection of the Lord Elrond and his powerful Ring. Instincts not required since the founding of the realm, rusty from lack of use, prodded their hearts and minds with adrenalin and caused eyes to search for weapons long since set aside. What creature, what enemy had breached the defences of Glorfindel's bold warriors to stalk the last of the High Elves in their hallowed refuge? A night of strife was upon them, a night of ancient fears and terrors too dreadful to name, a night such as had never fallen upon Imladris.
It was a perfect fuin-en-ethir, a night for those that perceive in the dark, who hunt by scent and sound, a night well suited to sneakers and spies and prowling Wood Elves.
The sylvans flowed as water, drifted as misty fog, passed as puffs of wind amid the clouds, stealing through the backyards and terraced landscapes of ostentatious houses in silent pursuit of their objective. They slipped unseen through water-logged lawns and dripping gardens, navigating the dense shadows of shrubs and trees and ornamental statuary, invisible but not undetected, hidden but not indiscernible, relevant and menacing, perceptible in the hairs on the arms and napes of innumerable necks lifting stiffly before the advance of a storm felt long before the first bolt breaks, and that was to their purpose. The Trials demanded honourable behaviour and in all fairness the Imladrian citizens could not hope to detect an attack by Wood Elves unless the latter permitted it. Faron had decreed that to capitalise upon this weakness would be ignoble and so one and all allowed the strong feelings bound up in each and every heart to stream forth and herald their stealthy approach.
To their great surprise, they proceeded unchallenged.
As they moved on, Noldorin chests heaved in relief and aristocratic skin pimpled, shedding fear in shuddery jerks as the peril passed by their homes and let them be. None knew what provoked this precipitous and fleeting sense of doom, never guessed the predators had achieved their goal and surrounded the Last Homely House. Male elves came out into the night and conferred with their neighbours, reassured one another, convinced colleagues and comrades it was nothing. They did not go to their Lord in his palatial abode to report the strange sensation, but returned to their own houses and comforted frightened mates and children. The mood throughout the valley remained subdued while at Elrond's estate the tide of dread crested and lapped at the hedges and gardens bounding the courtyard. There, the Wood Elves readied their bows and awaited the signal from Faron, for their prince was not among them.
Faron watched the majestic mansion intently, noting the dull glimmer emitted by the fading embers of the hearth in the Hall of Fire, the blank, black gaps where windows stared from empty and unlighted chambers. Most of the servants had gone for the day; he had seen them pass out the rear through the cook-house. Those that remained within were residents of the Lord's household: Erestor and his pages and scribes ensconced in his suite of offices on the first floor; bright light bled from there. The minstrel's quarters in the east wing were not empty but the singer's voice had faltered and his curtains were drawn close; behind them the indefinite shadow of his pacing form passed to and fro. Almost all the upper rooms were dark, only a second story corridor illuminated. The main doors were thrown wide and out of the arched opening a wide swath of yellow radiance streamed, catching on individual drops as they fell so that a fine veil of fluid gold guarded the entry. Twice, the seneschal had come to stand in this space, hands on hips and face frowning, peering into the foreboding atmosphere. He had not remained there many minutes before retreating.
Patiently the sylvans waited, silent and motionless, auras dimmed down, sharp eyes and fair faces camouflaged under hooded cloaks the colour of the rainy night. They could remain thus for days without effort or even mild discomfort, for the conditions here were luxurious compared with those at home. It was a lark they were on yet even so it was a serious endeavour and they were firm in their resolve, convinced duty and honour demanded a successful outcome. That result was assured; never for an instant did they contemplate defeat, for they had not only the advantage of surprise but the benefit of continuous and necessary practice in the arts of aggression. So they crouched amid the pretty flower beds behind twining vines and branching bushes, poised and confident as they awaited their prey, for the Lord of Imladris was not home yet.
But he would come.
Earlier reconnaissance had revealed the patients in the infirmary steadily improving, the danger of relapse over and recovery proceeding apace. The great healer would not need to rest in his tawdry little office behind the plain canvas curtains. No, the renowned lore-master would be returning to his plush apartment to relax in comfort and savour his inglorious conquest of the unsuspecting and guileless Prince of Greenwood. He would find his rest disturbed, however, and spend rather a thorny night attempting to recover both dignity and freedom. The trap was set and the Wood Elves needed only to wait; he would stroll right into it and be caught fast. Then let him squawk and howl in fear and then in misery, for dawn would reveal him to all and his humiliation would be complete. No physical harm would touch him, but the injury to his ego would be much more devastating.
The rain was slackening and the squelching sound of footfalls made every sylvan head turn in unison, brought a grin of predatory delight to every Wood Elf warrior's face; there he was hastening through the rain with his arms cast above his head to ward off the rain. Motionless in their mirth, the warriors readied themselves, but suddenly Faron issued a shrill, high whistle like that of a bat. Everyone tensed; a shadow dogged the elven Lord that was not his own. Consternation passed in silent looks from archer to archer for it could only be another Wood Elf and thus it could only be Legolas stalking the son of Eärendil. What now? Faron sent out three more shrill notes and was answered by his cousin; disappointed but obedient, the sylvans withdrew, melting into the night to seek another target.
Yet we should reverse a pace or two…
From the shelter of the infirmary veranda Elrond scanned the hazy contours of the rain-drenched grounds closely; he thought he'd seen something moving through the bosket that defined the bounds of the maze. Nothing met his scrutiny beyond the incessant precipitation and his ears detected only the sedating sounds of the steady down-pour. He had hoped for an instant it was Legolas coming to find him here, coming to demand an apology and reconciliation, coming to share the night with him. Oh, to see him coming again!
Elrond's cock twitched beneath his robes and he had to exert himself not to reach for it. He had not been this aroused in an Age or more and he positively ached with desperate need. He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted Legolas, a hungry and urgent desire that was at once a torment and an exquisite and delicious expectation of pleasure, temporarily delayed. He would have him again; he must. He would make that apology and mend the rift his thoughtless words had made. The reunion would be glorious, better than their initial coupling.
But I must find him first and that is not likely to happen tonight.
He sighed; his hand would have to do, but not here, not after last night. He strode from the porch into the drenching rain and hastened through the grounds, eager to gain the privacy of his rooms and cast off his clothing. He would order a hot bath and do it there in the tub. He picked up his pace and reached the house just as the cascade dwindled to a drizzle, bounded up the front steps and through the great doors thrown wide in anticipation of his return. Erestor emerged from his office as he trotted across the foyer and up the winding central stairway, dripping a wet trail as he proceeded.
"Elrond, a word if I may, cousin," the seneschal called to his Lord's retreating back and frowned. His aura glistened as though he were under some dire and mounting strain. "What is amiss?"
"Nothing, muindoren, nothing, but I cannot meet with you now. Later, or at the morning meal would be better," Elrond said without pausing, barely glancing at the seneschal, and continued on. He heard Erestor following and halted outside his chamber door, arms crossed over his chest, brows contracted, irritable in his impatience. "Not now, Erestor. I am soaked through and cold and need some time alone. I have much to consider."
"This you must hear," Erestor caught up and looked him over to satisfy himself that there was nothing really wrong, worried that perhaps he'd run afoul of the Wood Elves. "The Mirkwood contingent has disappeared from the barracks and have not been seen by anyone for hours." He paused, the next words frozen upon his parted lips. The saturated clothing clung to the Lord of Imladris and Erestor's sight honed in on the real reason for all this hasty and abruptly dismissive behaviour. He raised smirking eyes and found his kinsman blushing.
"Satisfied?" spat Elrond, angry and embarrassed for reasons he could not comprehend nor cared to try.
The brusque query took Erestor aback and his smile vanished. "I did not mean to pry," he insisted. "I was worried about you, nothing more. Please excuse me." He bowed formally.
"Oh forget it!" Elrond snapped, waving a hand before him in agitation. "What about the sylvans? Have they left Imladris, then?"
"Unfortunately, no. The sentries have seen no sign of them…"
"That means nothing! These are Wood Elves!" Elrond barked, frustrated and unwilling to tolerate such stupidity.
"…and all their gear is still in the barracks," Erestor finished his report dryly and gazed at Elrond with interest. The little prince must have made a considerable impact on him after all.
"Ah. Fine, good," Elrond nodded, uncrossed his arms then crossed them back, tried to think of something appropriate to say and failed. "Keep me informed," he ordered and turned to enter his suite, pausing and looking back sternly. "But do not disturb me unnecessarily, Erestor." He went in and shut the door.
"When have I ever?" Erestor asked, insulted. He heard the bolt engage and left, baffled by Elrond's bizarre mood. Was he truly enamoured of the woodland prince? Nay, it was surely mere lust and at least he was not attempting another coupling with Thranduil's son. Erestor had been quite severe in his condemnation of his kinsman's lapse in reason to behave so impulsively, but his personal observations of Legolas gave new depth to the elven Lord's callous attitude. Legolas was not only unusually impressive for a Wood elf, he was an outstanding example of the natural grace and dignity with which Eru had imbued the First-born. Erestor could understand the attraction must have touched Elrond on many levels, especially since he had not taken a lover for so lengthy a span of time. Even so, it would be inexcusable to continue the affair under the circumstances, since Elrond had no intentions of taking Legolas as his mate.
One night may not have been enough, but he'll have to be content with the memory of the encounter.
What a poor substitute masturbation would be. Served him right, Erestor thought, smirking again. He reached the second turning in the spiral stairs when a sudden gust pulled the front doors to with a loud bang and he jumped, filled anew with the unpleasant foreboding that had set in right about the time the rain began, which in and of itself was an unexpected occurrence seeing that word had come back from Elladan that the dragon was killed and the fires extinguished. Glorfindel and his patrols had all returned with no reports of anything else stalking the lands round Imladris. Elrond had let the storm dissipate and there was really no need for him to call up more after that thorough drenching. This made Erestor speculate as to his Lord's state of mind, for it had been exceptionally stormy and vile in the valley right after Celebrian left. Perhaps it was time to set Vilya aside again.
He had already suggested that as soon as it was certain the Mirkwood savages were on the way, but Elrond had scoffed at his concerns. Of course, he had not anticipated any contact with them, yet now he had undertaken the most intimate form of contact possible between two people. Did the Wood Elves know about the Ring? Erestor could not be sure, but suspected it was so. After the insult done to their prince, might the warriors seek revenge by stealing it? Indeed, since nightfall he had been suffering from a lingering sense that the house was surrounded and under siege.
Erestor ran down the stairs and yanked open the door, gazing out into the darkness to see if there was anyone there, but of course there was nothing to see. That meant less than nothing when one was dealing with Wood Elves, he knew. He shut the door and bolted it, sending a page to fetch Glorfindel and a contingent of warriors. He went to the back of the house to await them, fingering the hilt of his sabre as he leaned against the jamb.
Upstairs, Elrond had no inkling any of this activity was occurring. Other, more visceral concerns overwhelmed his famed faculties of foresight and intuition. He gave terse orders for hot water and waited impatiently on his balcony for the servant to see to it and then go. It seemed an eternity before the bath was ready and the cool night air brought chilblains to his flesh, yet his arousal did not abate and he actually imagined for an instant that he saw Legolas striding through the gardens and navigating the maze. That was impossible, of course, for the young prince had never been here before and would have no way of knowing the layout of the estate. He shivered, reflecting on Erestor's news, feeling both a sense of great relief that the archer was not gone and a sinking horror over the possibility that Legolas might leave at any moment, or again might not leave before satisfying his thirst for vengeance.
Really, Elrond had handled the situation badly, forgetting in his shock how vulnerable the ego was at sixty. He should not have been so insistent upon the finality of their single night of passion. And did he really say 'Everyone has a first'? How cold that was! This was all Erestor's fault for ranting on and on about the great insult tendered to the entire royal family of Greenwood and all her citizens. It was true enough that this unfortunate case of mutual subterfuge was likely to incite a rage in Thranduil not seen since his father's death at Dagorlad, but a gentler separation from Legolas might have mitigated that wrath considerably.
It would have been wiser to let the decision be the prince's, for surely he would have come to understand how untenable an extended affair between them must be. The reasons were numerous and obvious: Elrond was much too old for him, he already had a mate in Aman and a family here in Middle-earth, he and Legolas lived in regions separated by leagues of wild and mountainous terrain, their beliefs were entirely different, their tastes and preferences must be completely opposed. That was the short list. Erestor could likely add to it considerably and Glorfindel would have a few words on the topic as well, no doubt.
"All is ready, Hiren," announced the sour tempered water-bearer, the very same who had so gleefully insulted Legolas, not bothering to hide his grimace of distaste from Elrond either as he bowed his way toward the servants' exit.
"Thank you, Nengyll," Elrond smiled, but immediately the friendly expression vanished and his eyes narrowed. "Wait." He eyed the ellon closely, piercing the underling's efforts to shield his heart and mind, and quickly perceived the reason for the disrespectful tone. A dark rush of colour flooded the water-bearer's face and he dropped his guilty eyes. "So. You think yourself fit to pass judgement on my actions?"
"Nay, Hiren, I would not dream to do so," stammered the ellon, tone ingratiating, bowing low. "Forgive me."
"I don't care what your personal opinion about my private life is," Elrond informed coolly, "but if you display it in my presence again you will be dismissed from your post. Clear?"
"Aye, Hiren. It is only that I respect your family so highly that I felt such dismay." The odious lackey hastened away and Elrond locked the back stair's doorway behind him.
There's yet another reason I cannot court him.
He sighed, realising he had been doing quite a lot of that lately and wondered whether his touch of melancholy had perhaps made him susceptible to the woodland archer's charms. This thought and all others he discarded as he entered the steam-filled bath suite, pausing in the dressing room to peel off the sodden, cloying robes. Grinning, cock in hand, he ran and leaped into the tub, sending a delicious cascade of hot water up around him. He slid down into he deep basin with a long drawn groan of anguished self-indulgence, fist already at work as the oily, scented water lapped around his chin. His eyes fell shut and his mind brought forth the image of Legolas, naked, aroused, trembling in ecstasy, and Elrond moaned in wanton desperation.
"Ai! Maethoren, Ernilen, Maethoren!" his voice rolled and he pushed his bottom up in a forceful thrust. The bath water sloshed and some flooded his open, panting mouth. Spluttering, he sat up abruptly and coughed to clear his lungs. A sudden draft made him shiver and he rose to shut the dressing room door. The motion was never completed, for his eyes locked on the very vision he'd conjured for his fantasy. The Prince of the Woodland Realm stood tense and aroused in the space between the rooms, revealed in all his libidinous glory. "Legolas! How did you…
Elrond did not finish his question until some ten years later long after all this intrigue had become part of Imladris and Greenwood's history, for Legolas pounced, springing from his place and tackling the wet and slippery Noldorin Lord, briefly submerging him before hauling him above water and kissing him with ferocious command. He had the noble ellon effectively pinned and managed to snake a hand between the crush of their bodies and stroke the rigid column of flesh and blood, rubbing his own in the process, and they both moaned and bucked into the contact. Legolas relinquished the sensuous lips and smiled into the stunned countenance beneath him.
"Yield to me, Penvuin," (Dearest) he crooned seductively, letting go the massive cock to trail the tips of his fingers over the tender perineum. Elrond gasped out a garbled grunt and wriggled about, eyes immense and colour high. "Aye, you want it; yield Nestaron nín," he chortled in his exalted victory, eyes half lidded as probing fingers breached the tight anus, for Elrond was practically begging him to do it. Legolas could hardly restrain himself.
"Ai!" Elrond cried as he was invaded and then shouted out a cry of pure delight as the clever fingers found the right spot and rubbed it gently, peering all the while into those incredible blue eyes, the fair face alive in triumphant joy. The ancient lore-master realised he was about to be mastered, taken forcefully and utterly as none had done since Gil-galad, and found this excited him verily beyond his limits to resist. His heart was thundering in his chest and simultaneously swelled with warm felicity, for Legolas was waiting for consent and would go no further until it was granted. Elrond had no wish to wait. He lifted his legs high and clasped them round the Wood Elf's waist, almost wept when the probing hand relocated to wind beneath his neck and support his head, carefully holding him well above the water. The firm and velvet-soft tip of the archer's penis pressed against his opening.
"Maethoren, do not torment me! I yield! Garo nin si! Si!" (Have me now! Now!)
"Elrond, melethron," Legolas groaned, pushing inside with admirable and deliberate self-control, penetrating the searing heat of the clenching channel in slow increments until at last he felt the skin of his sac flush against the mighty Lord's arse. "Melethron nín," he whispered, eyes focused intently on the dilated pupils rimmed in stormy grey. "Elrond," he sighed and kissed him, heart soaring, relishing the fingers that cupped his scull and carded his mane. He withdrew almost completely and rammed the willing body hard; raising a squeal of ecstasy which he swallowed hungrily before their mouths parted.
He needed air and huffed and panted as he drove time and again against the delicious friction enveloping his entire organ, his body locked in a nearly crushing grip of arms and legs, water splashing and sloshing everywhere, one arm grabbing onto the side of the tub for support as he moved, Elrond's cock rubbing his belly with every thrust, all these sensations beyond anything he had dreamed, an experience he hadn't the wherewithal to even imagine before. Eager and frantic, his motion was more to ensure his own pleasure but the loud, mostly incoherent exhortations issuing from the Noldo Lord reassured him he was not neglecting his lover's needs. He wanted them to reach orgasm together but had no idea how to make it happen and unconsciously prayed a simple mantra over and over: "Ah, Elrond, Penvuin, Nestaron nín!"
He needn't have worried about the outcome, for the coupling was as overwhelming for Elrond and for once the Lord of Imladris was completely beyond control, all his normal skill in love-making forgotten as he was swept up in the storm of their union. His every response was spontaneous and natural and beyond his ability to either inhibit or enhance. Legolas was completely in control and he could only submit, his body and soul both captive and captivated. It was happening and he could not stop it nor even feel any wish to delay it. Rational thought had long since given ground to pure sensation and almost immediately he learned Legolas' rhythm and matched it.
Together they drove toward a rapturous climax and if Legolas was a little ahead of him, neither ever realised it. They were lost in the unfolding coils of joy, a nearly suffocating inundation of physical delight that rolled them in the tide of their passions, buoyed in their surrender to one another. They sank in the water and Elrond snorted as his nose inhaled the fluid. Legolas at once withdrew and sat back, pulling his lover upright, too. For a moment they simply gazed upon one another, identically giddy smiles adorning their faces, and then simultaneously each reached for the other, arms encircling and holding fast, lips sealed anew. They disengaged grinning and settled contentedly into the mutual hug, heads resting on one another's shoulders.
"Elbereth," Elrond whispered, squeezing the warm body in his arms tighter. "You are amazing."
"Am I?" Legolas chuckled smugly. "I am not through," he announced and loosened his hold, leaned back against the tub to survey the results of his first conquest ever. The picture that met his eyes was beyond gratifying, for Elrond was flushed and spent and draped in boneless ease against the opposite rim of the basin. "So, now you are mine and I am yours."
"Aye, aye," Elrond breathed out the affirmation in wondrous amazement to hear it and could not feel anything but how right it was to admit it. He marvelled that this untried youth had so unequivocally won him, satisfying him body and soul as none had save for that one, lost so long ago. Gil-galad himself could have done no better and Gil-galad had never submitted to him. Elrond found he was eager for Legolas' promise of more to be fulfilled. His eyes traversed the beautiful ellon on display before him, the prince all peachy and pink, the organ that had so enthralled him now lax and limp, bobbing in the undulating water, a slick smear painted across the smoothly muscled chest. Elrond gave a short laugh and leaned forward, ran his finger through the cooling ejaculate, tasted it, sucked it noisily off.
"Ai! That is disgusting, Elrond," Legolas complained, hastily washing off the spent seed, nose wrinkled in revulsion.
"Nay, it is not," Elrond corrected, "as you will someday come to understand." Someday soon, I hope.
"Never," Legolas shook his head, eyes bright, and stood in the water. His cock was already coming awake after the brief rest and he held out his hand. Elrond gave his into it and was hauled up, the prince kissing him as they stepped out of the tub.
No sooner had their feet touched the floor than Elrond seized the opportunity to scoop up the unsuspecting warrior and carry him off. He issued a loud whoop of wild abandon that drowned out Legolas' shout of surprised indignation. The elven Lord ran with his burden to the bedroom and tossed his lover atop the mattress, bounding atop him before Legolas could recover, yet even so only just grabbed hold of a slippery leg as the archer wriggled away. Elrond hauled him back, flipped him onto his stomach, and entered him, sheathing himself fully in the initial advance. Legolas cried aloud and bucked under him, but Elrond growled, pushed him down and bit his shoulder, driving forward in a pounding assault that brought the prince to howling orgasm in minutes, Elrond right behind him. They collapsed like that, conjoined and drained. After a time, Legolas rolled in his arms and they lay in one another's embrace, kissing and murmuring endearments, sated and happy.
"Did you really think you could give this up, Penvuil?" Legolas asked quietly, wrapping a long, ebony tress round his finger.
"Impossible," Elrond gave him a wry grin and kissed his nose.
"Indeed." Legolas agreed wholeheartedly and snuggled closer, tucking his face under Elrond's chin, lapped at the hollow where his collarbones met.
"We shall find means to appease your Adar and make this work," Elrond said, hoping for strong confirmation of this notion.
"Ada would never oppose the needs of my heart," Legolas informed, "nor even of my body."
This addendum rang an unexpected warning note and Elrond felt his heart lurch. Surely this was more than just physical lust; Legolas' angry outburst earlier could not have been a ruse. He knew his own feelings were growing deeper by the instant and he almost blurted out those fateful words that would commit his heart forever. Fear restrained his tongue; fear spawned by those four casually stated words. "You will stay?" he ventured instead and held his breath for the answer.
Feeling the tension in him, Legolas moved to look in his lover's eyes and felt such a surge of triumph he nearly burst into song. Oh, he had touched him, all right. "Of course I will stay," he said indulgently, tracing the contours of the noble face with lethal fingers. "I promised your sons to remain until Solstice." He settled a swift kiss on the worried lips and rose to his knees, straddled the supine figure and bent low to kiss him deeply, working his cock as it filled, Elrond's rejuvenating beneath him. He broke away and showed off his potent erection, poked, prodded, and lifted Elrond, turning him over, positioning the narrow hips to suit his stance, and fucked the Lord of Imladris thoroughly and well. The room was redolent with the scent of sweat and seminal fluid when he was done.
They moved into the study where Elrond kept a selection of fine wines and poured them both a cup of miruvor to strengthen them. They made love again before the fireplace, Elrond on top, Legolas curled in upon himself, long legs propped high on the elder's shoulders. After that and a refreshing glass of wine, he was introduced to the string of graduated anal beads, standing with hands braced upon the mantle and legs wide as Elrond shoved them deep inside, then struggled not to collapse as the lore-master knelt before him and sucked his cock, yanking them back out slowly, one by one. He gloried in a dry orgasm and was still quivering when Elrond draped him over a chair and fucked him first with his tongue and then with the hard, hot organ that seemed made specifically to fit him and filled him to perfection.
Dawn found them in the bath again, washing away the musky result of their vigourous exercise. Dressed in his wrinkled and rain-rumpled clothes, hair brushed and braided, Legolas gave his lover a lingering kiss and departed, refusing to discuss the future beyond the immediate day ahead. They would meet at the House of Healing after the morning meal, as planned. Disconsolate, garbed in hunting habit instead of his formal robes, Elrond followed him down the stairs and kissed him again before the front door, which he opened and then stood within, watching as the prince strutted away boldly across the grounds and round the back, heading for the barracks. Elrond sighed and shuffled uneasily to the morning room where Erestor was already waiting, brow arched in censure. The seneschal wasted no time berating his Lord.
"The word about the house is that the Mirkwood prince spent the night in your quarters?" Erestor offered it as a question though the house had echoed with their noisy cries of passion and shouts of ecstatic delight.
"Yes, that is so," Elrond said tersely, taking up his tea and having a soothing sip, eyeing his kinsman over the rim of the cup. He decided he did not like that grim and rather sneering expression on his face. He set the cup down primly and dabbed his lips with a napkin. "You are not my Adar, Erestor, and I am hardly a child for you to make such inquiries. I am almost seven-thousand years old and your elder by at least a century. Who I have in my quarters is my own business and none of yours. And I meant that double entendre. I had him, Erestor, and will do so again as often as I can for as long as I can."
"I see. And what of the woodland King?"
"You do not see at all," scoffed Elrond. "Legolas has already assured me his father will do nothing to hinder his son's desires, granting him the dignity adulthood demands and the concomitant confidence that he possesses the ability to order such affairs without aid. Yes, I said affairs, and again the double meaning was intentional."
"So you are going to keep the Prince of Mirkwood, Thranduil's youngest child, an ellon young enough to be Arwen's grandson, whom you have already divested of innocence, for your personal catamite without benefit of bond or betrothal for the duration of the summer?" Erestor hoped stressing these points might jolt his kinsman's reason into activity. He was not only disappointed by the response; he was struck speechless in shock and dismay.
"No, that is not what I mean to do at all. I intend to make him mine and mine alone. We have to uncover some lawful premise for dissolving this ludicrous excuse for a bond with Celebrian. She deserted me, for Eru's sake. Look into it at once, Erestor," Elrond announced, and would have continued, but a strange sight attracted his attention.
He stood and uttered an incoherent noise of mingled mirth and repugnance, pointing into the gardens. Erestor turned to spy a tall figure striding toward the terrace, anger radiating from it in almost visible waves. An elf, probably, though it was impossible to tell for certain beneath the layers of mud, slimy green algae, assorted rotted leaves, shells, various other types of detritus often found at the bottom of lakes and ponds, and horse manure which coated his naked frame and matted his fabled golden hair. The stench was abominable and both Elrond and Erestor clapped hands over their noses and mouths as the walking offal pit neared. It sported crackling blue eyes ablaze with monumental outrage. It was of substantial bulk and stature to slay a Balrog. It was in fact Glorfindel. Erestor got up and moved down wind; Elrond bravely stayed put and fought not to gag.
"Mellon, what on Arda happened to you?" he asked, but there was really no doubt as to the answer.
TBC
© 03/10/2012 Ellen Robey
Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.
Elvish names and such:
Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filigod's Official Title)
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)
Ernil (Prince)
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)
Minya'mmë (grandmother)
thêl dithen. (little sister)
muindor laes, (baby brother)
nâr (rat)
muindoren (my brother - often used between close kindred like cousins)
Gondaran (Stone-lord - an Imladrian page)
Peredhel fuiad (Half-elven Scum)
ragnâ, atata-nibê njadrî (crooked, two-faced rats)
fuin-en-ethir (Spy's Night)
Nengyll (water-bearer)
Garo nin si (Have me now!)