Summary: If he can spare them pain, he will let them have it. For love can be both torment and fulfilment, and in them he thinks he sees the latter.

Pairing: Elladan/Elrohir, Elladan/Elrohir/Glorfindel

Rating: M

Warnings: Explicit slash, explicit twincest, threesome. I have tried to write it tastefully but, even so, if that is not your cup of tea, please make no effort to read this. Mild angst.

Disclaimer: Eä and the Void and all their inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

A/N: Liberties with the published material have been taken.

Wounds

o.O.o

Father

He sends Glorfindel away with firm instructions to not test the wound unnecessarily.

He shakes his head as he washes his hands, watching as the flakes of dried blood dissolve in the basin. A faint metallic smell rises from the water's surface. He refills the basin three times before Glorfindel's blood is entirely washed from his skin.

He had let his worry and frustration leak into his voice and it had come out as barely restrained anger. Possibly it was unfair but probably not. For he knows his Captain. He had hoped, though, that he would have had the sense to change.

He is putting back the linen bandages when a slender figure appears in the doorway. The noon sunlight that falls in through the open window rushes to play in her hair and it shines, gold upon silver. But worry creases her forehead.

"Will he be well?"

And though she is fair, shining like stars set about the sun, before his eyes the years blend together and the present dissolves into the past.

Healer

A pale wintry light sifted through the air and outside the frost covered the grass. Elrond threw another log onto the fire and then went to wash his hands. He must wash them twice before the dried blood was wholly gone from his skin.

He had held his tongue as he treated Glorfindel for, truthfully, he did not know if it was his place to speak up. The Captain had made quite light of his wound but Elrond knew better. And perhaps Glorfindel did, too, he reflected, but it seemed little ever troubled Glorfindel the Golden.

He was pouring out the water when he caught something move in the corner of his eye. A tall figure had appeared in the doorway and the modest daylight glanced off the slender gold circlet on the High King's brow.

Elrond put down the basin and inclined his head. "Your Grace."

Gil-galad's grey gaze was searching on his face, but he did not seem agitated. More curious, perhaps, than anything else.

"He will be well?"

"Of course." If his tone was clipped it was too late now. "Tell me, sire, what happened, if you will?"

The High King gave a shrug and, oddly, his lips curved in a small smile. "He was eager." He stepped across the threshold. "The orcs were plentiful."

Elrond watched him. He had disposed of his armour and changed into a fine woollen kirtle, tightly belted.

"Does the Captain intend to make a gamble of his life?"

"He guards his King," replied Gil-galad simply.

"Even so," said Elrond.

To this, Gil-galad said nothing. He sauntered into the room instead, glancing around the healing chamber.

"He serves you better alive," Elrond persisted. "You have the authority to speak plainly with him, sire."

Gil-galad turned to him, then. "Elrond, it is – I think – not Glorfindel's fate to perish in a mere skirmish in the Hithaeglir."

"Does he know as much?"

The High King actually chuckled at that. "Why don't you tell him?" His smile dwindled somewhat. "You have foresight, Elrond. "

"Not in all matters."

"No," the King agreed, but he spoke softly.

In silence, he resumed his perusing of Elrond's equipment. The cold light glinted off his circlet as he moved and shone in the fine wool of his attire. Finally, he came to stand opposite Elrond who looked into his face curiously.

"You speak of authority," said the King. His chin was proud but in his eyes was a searching light. "I would give it to you."

"Your Grace?"

"You have exceeded my every expectation of you," Gil-galad said. "This..." his firm gaze released Elrond and he made a gesture instead, indicating their surroundings. "You are building a home here, in this valley, whether you know it or not. A stronghold I requested of you and you have given it to me, and a refuge besides."

Elrond, too, looked around, in this moment seeing the healing chamber as if for the first time. To be sure, it could be further improved upon, and in his visions were forever well-stocked shelves. But it had served them well, what he had built, as Sauron's forces ravaged Eriador and clawed wounds into Elf and Dwarf and Man alike, and then, finally, during the siege of Imladris itself.

He looked again at Gil-galad. The High King was smiling and there was warmth in his face now.

"Keep this valley for me, Elrond, if you will, but do so in your own name." He paused. "For I would name you vice-regent."

He knew he was staring as Gil-galad took a step back and made towards the door.

"Think on it," said the King. "Then I shall hold a Council, and when you have accepted, we shall speak again and much shall be revealed to you."

Captain

What he had been thinking, he cannot truly say. He winces as he pushes open the door to their bedchamber. It had been mindless and reckless and Elrond had been perfectly within his rights to tell him as much and more. And so he had, too.

There is a dull but insistent pounding in his head and the wound stings sharply from Elrond's treatments. The scimitar had caught him just beneath his ribs and Glorfindel the Returned had doubled over. If Círdan's soldiers had not come to his rescue he might not be here now.

Reckless indeed.

The afternoon light is bronzing, spilling through the trees and the high windows. It is just as well that the twins are not home yet for it gives him a chance to collect himself. That had been his hope, at least, before he came in here. Now he sinks down upon their bed and a great breath escapes him. There is Elrohir's undershirt, thrown over the back of a chair. There, in the corner, are a pair of Elladan's boots. His own things, strewn across the room, and his lovers'. Little bits and pieces of their life together.

He toes off his boots and scoots a bit higher up on the bed, unable to swallow down a groan at the stabbing pain. Gingerly, he lowers himself down. His wound screams but he stretches out nonetheless. A faint wind comes to rustle the leaves and the warm light plays against his skin and his eyes drift closed. And Glorfindel drifts as well, forces his mind to let go and leave the red agony of torn skin and tissue behind and he breathes in the sunlight and soars.

A gentle touch to his cheek brings him back. The sun has wandered westwards and flows now like molten copper into the bedchamber. He blinks in the light, tries to concentrate, but the pain slices through him and he grimaces around it instead.

"He is alive." No wit in that tone – only relief. Not even an attempt at jest.

The bed dips. Glorfindel wills his eyes to focus and a pale face slowly comes into view. It is Elrohir beside him on the bed, with his long hair pulled back and still clad in riding gear, it appears; and Glorfindel wants nothing so much as to stroke that pale cheek, but his hands are stone-heavy upon the bedspread.

"Roh," he manages instead, voice rough.

"Do you intend to leave us?" Elrohir's grey eyes are on his face, searching, as if he truly believes that Glorfindel would willingly cast himself before the gates to the Halls of Awaiting once again.

"No," he croaks. He is not himself, he thinks. He was never this irrational.

"Then why did you ride out?"

"I serve your father." It is, surely, the worst explanation. It is not really an explanation at all, and the twins know as much.

Indeed, from somewhere to his right comes a snort. Carefully, Glorfindel turns his head and there is Elladan, similarly dressed but with another expression entirely.

"Elladan," he tries, but the other elf only half turns away.

To his left, Elrohir shifts. "Father said you rode out alone."

He had. He is a fool.

"Words came speeding on the wind," he says, watching Elladan's back, while wishing he could look at them both simultaneously, "of a band of orcs close to the border. It seemed a simple enough task." And it should have been, but he had been gravely outnumbered in the end. "I was lucky Círdan's company was not far away."

Elladan makes a sound, halfway between acknowledgement and dismissal.

There is a space of silence after that. His heart aches now in tune with his wound and his head. He wishes he could offer them more, but he himself does not know what madness had seized him. Maybe it was that he needed to prove himself. To the twins? To Elrond, perhaps.

After what feels like an eternity, Elrohir's fingertips trail down his cheek again. Glorfindel turns back to face him and he sees liquid silver in his lover's eyes.

"Do not leave us," whispers Elrohir.

He will not. Set against his love for the twins, a band of orcs is nothing. He needs to remember it, though. But, truth be told, he is unused to this. Glorfindel was ever alone and he is having some trouble adjusting to this new life, however much of a blessing it is. It has only been a couple of years, after all.

Lover

The air was thick, filling the space between kicked-up dirt and the heavy clouds above with an imposing density. When the iron-clad skies had opened up at last and rain began falling like it was sent to completely drench the earth, he and the twins had finally been chased from the archery grounds.

They had run for it, bows and arrows and laughter flying through the late autumn storm. When they had reached the armoury, they had nigh on tumbled inside, like elflings, pushing and shoving.

Glorfindel was soaked through and, rather than drag half the field in with him, had stepped out of his boots and pulled off his leather jerkin. His hair was plastered to his neck and his undershirt to his chest.

The twins looked much the same. They had shared another laugh about something unimportant as Elrohir discarded his belt and bracer. They had stood a few feet apart, the twins, when Glorfindel turned his back to them to hang up his quiver. When he turned around to face them anew, everything changed forever.

Elladan had stepped up behind his brother and it looked as though he had been about to help him with his jerkin, but his hands had stilled under leather and linen, on his brother's waist.

Glorfindel stilled, too. Always unable had he been to avert his eyes when he should. It was the same now also. Only this time, as he was being watched in turn, touch was added.

Elrohir's silver gaze was piercing. In that hour it saw, Glorfindel knew, without a doubt, into his very soul. Those eyes were on him as Elladan slowly began moving his hands over Elrohir's flat belly, mapping skin under clothes. They were sharp on him as Elladan bent his head and kissed a spot behind Elrohir's ear. And that gaze did not waver even as Elladan smoothed his hand over his twin's crotch slowly, pointedly.

Glorfindel's mouth went dry. He had desired them for a long time. Loved them even longer. But always had he stayed his words and his touch for they were not his to claim. They were the sons of he who could claim to be High King, and who was a close friend no less.

But now, as the rain beat down upon the roof and made a drumming sound that worked its way under his skin, he watched. He drank in the vision before him – this dream-come-to-life. He stood transfixed as Elladan boldly palmed his brother's wakening length and Glorfindel's lips parted slightly. Elrohir's head finally fell back to rest upon his twin's shoulder and the loss of the weight of his gaze upon Glorfindel came as both relief and grief.

"Ai…" Elrohir's breath came lighter and quicker now. He leaned back against his brother, eyes drifting closed. His voice was hardly above a breath, but Glorfindel could hear him as though he were speaking loud and clear and the rain weren't pounding on the roof.

Elladan's mouth curved into an amused smile. "Ai, brother, you have wanted this all day," he murmured and then his mouth was on his twin's throat.

The exchange made Glorfindel wonder. He knew they were impossibly close, fëa fused but hröa cloven into two identical halves, but mind-speak as well? Or perhaps it was only that they knew each other so well.

But then Elladan parted the fabric that covered Elrohir and Glorfindel's attention was once more called back to the present. The mud-smeared floor shifted underfoot as Elladan's clever fingers revealed his brother's arousal and fire rose in Glorfindel.

Elladan stroked him firmly. Three, four, five strokes and then Glorfindel could take it no more. He walked up to them and, surely, was not in control of himself any longer, for he slid a hand under Elrohir's dark head to help support him, and then he kissed him. It was silky warm; Elrohir tasted of the rain.

"Yes…" Elladan's murmur was one of satisfaction. It spurred Glorfindel on and he teased Elrohir's lips to part and his own head swam as he was kissed in turn. Elrohir's tongue, curious and sweet, explored him, transformed him, until he was sure he could never wish for anything else.

Then, all of a sudden, the kiss was disrupted as Elrohir jerked and his laughter was a surprise against Glorfindel's tingling lips.

"I have not forgotten about you, my love," he smiled.

Elladan made a sound, sharp enough for Glorfindel to look into his face, and then he swallowed hard. He had never seen Elladan like this before: his pale skin was flushed and his grey eyes had darkened to liken the thundering skies. There was a nigh-blinding light in them as he beheld Glorfindel.

They were captain and soldiers no longer. No longer friends only. Glorfindel knew it, then: even if he wanted it, neither of them could go back now. For the line had been crossed. The twins had let, or led, most probably, him onto a path that only ran in one direction. And as if he could read Glorfindel's mind as well, Elladan nodded over his brother's shoulder.

"Yes?" he asked, and he who was but a handful hundred years old should not be so confident before he who was once the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, but he was so, nonetheless.

Glorfindel inclined his head in reply, his throat tight around his breath. "But your father will have my head," he warned, and his voice was strange.

Elrohir smiled. His cheeks were rosy, too. His lips reddened. "You mistake our mother for our father."

Glorfindel had the shame, at least, to swallow. Celebrían, of course, would curse him for this.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, as if that might shift matters in his favour – as if he did not already know.

And, aye, he knew, but still he was not ready to actually hear it, it turned out. For when Elladan's shining eyes locked with his own, he lost a breath. The son of Elrond looked at him long.

"Everything," he said at last, just as Elrohir took his hand.

His hand. Elrohir guided him close. He placed Glorfindel's hand there, on his length that had softened somewhat but was still warm. It was a touch that could send Glorfindel into madness, he thought.

"Everything," Elrohir confirmed. "But first this." He smiled again, shifted his stance. Pushed his hips forward a fraction. "I have wanted this all day."

A heat slithered down Glorfindel's spine. He looked down. Down, down, down, until he saw Elrohir's length in his own hand, and the nest of coal-black hair at the base. It was forever since he had done something like this. Indeed, had he ever?

Memory was vague. He remembered, and yet not. He'd had lovers – maybe. Though his heart – this he knew – had remained curiously closed. He tried to think back but Gondolin, her glory and her secrets, were dust.

"What do you like?" he asked, and if his voice had gone tight again it was no wonder.

Elrohir's liquid laughter shattered the tension. He lifted his own hand to cradle the back of his brother's head. "Everything," he grinned, before he brought Elladan in for a kiss.

He could hear the wind sweeping around the corners of the armoury as he stroked Elrohir. Pearly wetness came to cover his palm and ease the friction. Elrohir bucked against him, breath quicker again now, and Glorfindel was utterly mesmerised. In the hazy depths of memory he found the old techniques, and he made Elrohir shiver. The twins kissed again, over and over, and Elladan was moving as well, circling his hips into his brother. Glorfindel's hand was burning. He palmed the sac underneath Elrohir's length, teased the slit at the tip and experimentally squeezed the head. Elrohir's cry made him smile, dizzily.

"More." It was Elladan, his voice roughened now. He tilted his brother's head back to better be able to look into his face. "Do you want more, my love?"

Elrohir's only response was a jerky nod. His eyes were half-closed. But he fumbled for Glorfindel now and he gave a little moan. His risen flesh was twitching in Glorfindel's hand as the latter stepped up even closer. And then they were kissing. Glorfindel melted into that kiss; and he stroked, and kissed, and stroked, until Elrohir was keening. His release, white and hot, came to cover all of his hand and Glorfindel milked him until the very end.

"Come…" Elladan gave his brother no respite. Elrohir, on unsteady legs, was guided to a workbench at the back of the armoury.

Glorfindel followed as best he could, not sure how his feet remained under his control. So focused on Elrohir had he been that he had not spared his own need any heed, but now Elladan was making his twin lean in over the bench and then he was pushing Elrohir's breeches down his legs; and Glorfindel hardened.

Elladan covered his brother, left kisses in his midnight hair. His hips moved in circular motions against Elrohir's naked backside. Glorfindel – the storm was in his head now – grasped his own arousal and tugged.

"Show me," he heard himself whisper.

Elladan's eyes on his face were silver fire. He fished out a small pot from his pocket and wordlessly handed it to Glorfindel.

It took him a heartbeat to understand but then he abandoned his own length and, with breath coming raw and scorching, he popped open the lid and scooped up some salve. His own hand was trembling as he coated Elladan's fingers. The salve melted against their warm skin and soon, in the shifting half-light, Elladan's hand was glistening. Then his fingers were dancing at the shadowy cleft and with a groan, he sank a first finger into his twin. Elrohir moaned, and his head fell forwards, his hair coming to obscure his beautiful face.

"Aye…" It could have been any one of them.

Glorfindel stroked himself, feeling heat rise from the soles of his feet and flood his calves. Elladan was working his fingers into Elrohir, leaning into him, whispering into his ear. And Elrohir was shaking. He lowered himself onto his elbows and spread his legs. Elladan pushed apart his buttocks. Glorfindel's vision surely darkened for a moment. Then Elladan took himself in hand and Glorfindel could see him now: arousal identical to his brother's. He was swollen and glistening there also; and in a fluid motion, he positioned the head of his length at Elrohir's dusky opening and slid inside. It made the entire world explode, to be sure.

Had he known what this would do to him, perhaps Glorfindel would have made a greater effort to distance himself from the twins. Maybe it was that if he had known how a need so great would claim him when he finally saw it, he would have steeled himself and hardened his heart against the long, searching looks that the brethren of Imladris had begun sliding his way many years ago. For he could not turn aside now. He would go to Elrond, he would plead on his knees at Celebrían's feet, for he could never let them go.

And they had barely touched him.

Elladan was moving into his brother, eyes closed now and lips parted. Elrohir was trembling, grasping for purchase. They were somehow one and the same, yet so different. It was strange how their joining looked to be their very first – fuelled by desperation almost – yet Glorfindel knew that it could not be so; it was no secret that they were lovers.

"Rohir, nín…" Elladan's voice had transformed: it had cracked and softened. He was holding his brother now, so very close. He had buried his face in his long dark hair and his thrusts were slower, deeper. "Please, my love."

And Glorfindel stirred. He came to stand behind Elladan and cautiously wrapped his arms around them, as best he could reach. At his touch, he could feel a tension in Elladan melt away and he found himself smiling. Pressing close, he held them – his face in silky hair now – and he swayed with them, into rain and thunder and beyond.

Elladan's release was his own, but he scarcely felt it. No, but he felt a shift in his soul instead, as if this was never about pleasure only.

Of course it was not, but the two were intertwined.

He would have liked to sink to the floor, but they remained standing. Shivering, sharing shaky laughs. He was kissed and it did not matter by whom. Skilled hands found his softening length and tucked it away in his breeches – but not before he could enjoy a couple of playful, light strokes. He laughed again, and he was kissed – again.

When he finally opened his eyes, Elrohir was leaning against his brother, and there was a light in his eyes. Elladan had his arm around him and he was toying with a strand of his brother's hair. It was Elladan's hand that was on Glorfindel's hip.

"Now you have seen," he said, quietly.

"I have," said Glorfindel. He felt both light and heavy, tired and exhilarated. The truth spilled from him unhindered: "Long have I loved you."

"And now?" asked Elladan, his arm suddenly looking protective around Elrohir.

Glorfindel met his gaze. It was a wonder how calm he felt. "Now I love you even more."

o.O.o

He struggles to sit. He should not, but he does. And Elrohir should not help him, but he does so nonetheless. Perhaps he is keen to see that Glorfindel is not defeated, somehow.

Elrohir scoots to sit behind him, to support him. Glorfindel's hair is dirty and tangled but it does not seem to matter to Elrohir. He lifts aside the golden tresses and places a kiss on Glorfindel's neck, but his confidence is wavering. Glorfindel leans forwards. He wants them both for it is always so.

"Elladan," he tries once again, reaching for him despite the briefly blinding stabs of pain that make him choke on his breath. Perhaps it is this, more than his plea, which makes Elladan turn back to face him.

His expression is hard to read. He, too, has tied his hair back and he also is in leather and wool. It is good for riding but too much for this bedchamber and the summer sunlight flooding it. In here, they shed their layers.

And so Glorfindel yields. He looks up at his other lover and he holds out his hand. "Please, my love. Forgive me."

His heart beats once, twice, thrice, before Elladan's shoulders drop and he comes to join them. He should not, but he allows himself to sink into Glorfindel's embrace and that surely stresses the bandages. But pain is no longer and Glorfindel holds him secure. When he is sure Elladan will not flee, he urges them to lie down with him.

"Forgive me," he says again, when they have found their positions and are close. "I love you."

Equal

The King sought him out near the fireplace. The hall was spacious and yet largely unfurnished for it was only of late that it had come to serve differently; peace came with greater demands for song, it proved. But it served well enough this night when Gil-galad's company and his royal guard needed to be entertained.

Through the windows, the first shimmer of starlight fell into the trickling streams and the breeze which had stirred the budding leaves and greening grass during the day had died away.

They came to stand side by side, surveying the great hall.

"When I travel back to Lindon, I intend to leave Glorfindel with you," said Gil-galad. "If you think you could make use of him."

"I imagine I could," said Elrond, hoping he adequately hid his surprise. Even so, he glanced at Gil-galad. "You have no need of him?"

"Oh, to be sure, I do," the High King smiled. "But I think he is more needed in Imladris." He paused for only a moment. "Truthfully, it would ease my heart to know that he was with you. To know that you are well-protected."

Of the High King's heart they had never spoken, but, of course, he would have one. Elrond knew not the slightest of what dwelt there.

"You are thoughtful," he said, perhaps slightly hesitantly. For Glorfindel was a being so powerful that the fire of his spirit was in his eyes, and Elrond was not yet comfortable with commanding him.

To that, Gil-galad did not reply. It seemed, then, that the High King was of a mind to bestow upon him not only one gift, but two. Two challenges. And Elrond again fingered Vilya where it encircled his finger, concealed from view, but present in his mind like an unquenchable flame.

They stood in silence for a while longer until Gil-galad stirred, as if waking from reverie.

"Tell me, Elrond," he said, "of your love for Galadriel's daughter."

Startled, he failed to form words.

"It is in your eyes," said Gil-galad. There was an uncharacteristic gentleness about him.

Elrond swallowed. "It has not been my intention to..." He shook his head. For some time now he had loved her from afar, not knowing how to go about it, or even if he at all ought to. "I had hoped... Well, that it did not show."

Gil-galad was still watching him. "Love can be ignored... or denied," he said finally. "Though it greatly wearies the heart."

"Maybe someday..." Elrond said vaguely.

"You would wish for it?" asked the High King, and into his voice had crept a peculiar note. A hint of urgency, perhaps, or a faint hardness.

Elrond bent his head. "I would, Your Grace. Very much so. Though I cannot say how she sees me. Her eyes betray nothing." He looked up again with a wan smile.

Gil-galad nodded slowly. He did not smile, but looked thoughtful, rather.

"I shall tell you something," he said, at long last, "and then we shall never speak of it again."

Elrond looked at him curiously, at his proud profile against the fire. It was a moment ere Gil-galad spoke again but when he did so his voice had softened again:

"The Peredhil wield a curious form of magic, it turns out. Remember, I knew your brother, and he was a valiant man. Fierce and true of heart, he was. As you yourself are, Elrond."

Now Gil-galad turned to face him fully. A light had come into his eyes and it was part joy and part immense sorrow. And then his gaze dropped, nay, tumbled, perhaps, to Elrond's mouth. Surely unintentionally. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and sighed, ever so lightly. When his eyes met Elrond's again, the sorrow in them had deepened.

"And you... are enchanting," said the High King quietly.

Silence followed.

Finally, he gave another nod of his dark head, and then he walked alone from the Hall of Fire.

Protector

They observe from a distance. She takes his arm.

"We decided wisely," she says at last, making him raise an eyebrow.

"Have you now come to that conclusion?"

He mouth curves in a reluctant smile. She is the light of the heavens, come to earth at his side. "Well… You were right."

Over by the fire, Elrohir has curled up in Glorfindel's arms, seemingly asleep, while Elladan sits beside them, lost in his book but with one hand on his brother's thigh. Glorfindel, gaze distant, lies facing the flames. His hand is in Elladan's hair, idly playing with it. It is intimate, but on the right side of respectful, and Glorfindel looks as though he is healing.

Elrond will allow himself this. He smiles at her. "I was." Before she makes any other remark he speaks again:

"For a love denied is a tear upon the heart, and I will not see them thus wounded."

A love rejected.

As they watch, Elrohir stirs and stretches in Glorfindel's embrace and the Captain leans in over him. Tips their son's head back carefully and covers his mouth with his. Elladan lays aside his book. And the Lord and Lady of Imladris do best to leave them to it. Really, the twins and Glorfindel should seek their bedchamber, but Elrond will not deny them this, and nor now will Celebrían, though she was filled with doubt not so long ago.

Ahead of them, as they make their way towards their own chambers, lie velvet shadows of night. From behind – suddenly – clear and joyful like spring water: laughter.

End