Edhellond, TA 934
"I still think you were somewhat harsh."
"Don't argue with me! The boy needs to learn, and the sooner he is taught about responsibility, the better. He is old enough now and should be more of a help to you. And what does he do? Play in the water all day or sit with his nose buried in books."
"His teachers say he is quite bright; he knows nearly all his Tengwar, while others his age--"
"Others his age have already been taught the rudiments of shipbuilding while he has yet to learn how to sand a plank. It is high time he started earning his keep -- to repay us for our kindness in taking him in, if nothing else."
"He will, just give it some time..."
"He has had plenty! I will not suffer a parasite to live in my house. If he expects to eat my bread he will have to work."
Melpomaen nestled closer to the wall in the corner of the dark hallway, knees drawn up to his chest. His skinny arms hugged his twenty-year old frame, but did not bring much comfort. There was little warmth to be gained from his own embrace, especially when his empty belly rumbled as it did. His foster-father had lost the argument as usual; Melpomaen would once again go to bed without supper.
Through the narrow crack in the door Melpomaen could see his foster-mother bustling about in the kitchen, clearing bowls and spoons from the table with a loud clatter. Metal pots gleamed in the firelight, the aroma of their contents -- or what was left of them -- twisting Melpomaen's stomach into an envious knot. Swallowing hard, he resolved to sneak into the larder after everyone had gone to sleep.
He had displeased them again, made them angry. This was nothing new, of course, nor was his punishment a novel or inventive one, and so the harsh tone of his foster-mother's voice should really not have upset him the way it did. But it did. "Parasite" -- her words still rang in his ears, reminding him of just how useless he was.
Even his foster-father was beginning to see him in this light. Though he had spoken up in Melpomaen's defence, his usually booming voice had been quiet, his words lukewarm. As soon as the argument was over, the broad-shouldered man had slunk out of the kitchen and gone straight to his workshop without stopping to ruffle Melpomaen's hair like he once would have done. It was this that hurt more than anything. Melpomaen pressed his fists into his eyes to stop the hot tears from falling.
"I will try harder ," he promised himself. "I will work all day in the workshop, I will leave my books be. I won't give anyone cause to tell me I am no good ."
"But you are no good ," a mocking voice in his head reminded him, and Melpomaen hugged himself tighter. It was true. In his foster-father's workshop he was about as useful as a Balrog in an archive full of parchments. He dropped things and broke them, could not wield the saw properly and was not even fit to carry the long wooden planks. They were heavy; he was small for his age and not as strong as the other boys.
"What kind of shipbuilder will I make ?" he despaired, comparing his narrow shoulders unfavourably with the muscular bodies of the Elf men in the settlement. Every passing year seemed to make the differences more apparent, bringing his dubious heritage into sharper focus. It was no longer just his black hair and pale skin that set him apart from the blond Edhellond Elves. As Melpomaen got older it was becoming clear that whatever abilities he had inherited from his unknown parents had ill equipped him for life in a seaside village.
"If only I could do something different ," he thought, remembering with longing the book-filled shelves in the house of one of his tutors. But his foster-father needed help, and Melpomaen was not about to question the path laid out for him by his elders. Who was he, after all? Nothing but a foundling: the only survivor of a travelling party of Elves butchered in an Orc raid. He should be grateful his foster-parents had agreed to take him in lest he starve in the woods. It was not his place to make demands.
Melpomaen sniffled and wiped his nose with the cuff of his sleeve. He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from the seat of his leggings, then moved toward the passage that led to the yard, intent on sneaking out and finding some peace. Stopping by the door to the fire-lit kitchen, he peeked in. And he could not look away.
His little foster-sister sat in a chair in the centre of the room, happily swinging her short legs, which did not yet reach the floor. His foster-mother stood behind her youngest child, brush in hand and an indulgent expression on her face. She was combing the little girl's hair ; carefully stroking the blond strands and running them through her fingers in great, silky handfuls, as if they were a precious treasure. "Pen- neth," she whispered. The child leaned back trustingly into her mother's hands.
Envy flooded Melpomaen's entire being. No one had ever combed his hair that way or looked at him with such affection; no one had called him "pen- neth." Truly, no one took any notice of him beyond ensuring that he was fed, clothed and working. He had never dwelled on it before, but now the realization came like a hammer blow between the eyes: no one loved him. If he were to go away tomorrow, they would look on his leaving with relief; they would have one less mouth to feed.
Blinded by his tears, Melpomaen ran out of the house, needing to feel the sea breeze on his face. Night had already fallen, and so his mad dash toward the river went unobserved. When he reached the familiar banks, he stopped and sank to his knees, relieved to be alone at last.
He dug his hands into the cold sand, feeling the tiny grains grind against his fingernails, and raised his face up to the sky. "Elbereth," he whispered, his voice a desperate prayer. "Fairest Lady, please let someone love me. I don't want to feel so alone." The river flowed by slowly, indifferent to the troubles of the boy crying on its banks. No one was there to hold Melpomaen or comfort him. It was the wind that dried his tears.
Imladris, TA 1004
Melpomaen surfaced from his troubled sleep like a swimmer coming up for air, throat constricted and stomach full of dread. He sat up quickly and tried to calm his breathing, right hand instinctively reaching out for someone who was not there. Encountering nothing but cold, empty sheets, his fingers tightened into a ball and withdrew. He cursed himself for being a fool; it had been many weeks since he had last shared his bed with Elrond, and yet his body refused to forget.
His mind knew better, however. When the cobwebs of sleep inevitably fell away, the grim certainty that things had changed was there, immovable like a rock. Once awake, it was impossible to go on pretending that things were all right. And now it seemed that even his dreams were not safe. How could Lórien be so cruel? Melpomaen shuddered at the painful memory he had just revisited. Though many years had passed since that unloved child had wept on the banks of the Morthond, the thought of it still had the power to make Melpomaen feel as cold and lonely as he had felt that night.
Unwilling to stay in his bed a moment longer, Melpomaen lowered his bare feet to the floor. Quickly he pulled on the previous evening's discarded robe and ran a hand through his sleep-matted hair. Without even bothering to find a pair of shoes, he slipped into the corridor and made his hurried way to the library. His own chamber felt much too constricting for these mid-night vigils; the archives at least had books and scrolls, and those promised forgetfulness of a sort.
As expected, the library was deserted. When Melpomaen stepped through the heavy double doors he found himself alone, surrounded by nothing but paper-filled quiet. If not for the very real hiss of his candlewick, he might have thought he had slipped back into a dream.
He set his candle down and moved in the direction of the far wall, toward the high shelf housing part of the extensive history of the Second Age. But before he had made his way across the tiled library floor, his eyes were drawn to a large volume propped open on a lectern in the corner. He moved closer and saw that the book was actually a work in progress, the fine calligraphy filling only three-quarters of the page.
"This is Elrond's work ," he thought, his fingertips hovering above the elegant script, careful not to smudge. "And how fine do the letters look on the paper, how skilled the hand that wielded the quill..." He could almost see his lover's long, slim fingers holding the writing instrument with their habitual grace. Elrond's face would be the picture of concentration, dark hair tucked behind an ear so as not to hamper his work...
With a strangled sob, Melpomaen gripped the book's bindings and kissed the edge of the page. He could still sense the presence of the master scribe who had stood here and penned these lines. How he longed to touch those beloved fingers, trail kisses along Elrond's hands, his wrists, and higher, up to his lovely mouth... Elbereth, how long it had been since he had held that body in his arms, felt that warm voice rumbling in his ear...
"Melpomaen!"
Melpomaen whirled around and nearly fell over at the sound of his name being called from the library entrance. But he had dared to hope in vain; the voice was only Glorfindel's.
"Do you make it a habit of frequenting the library in the middle of the night and kissing poor, unsuspecting books?"
Melpomaen found that, just now, he had little patience for being mocked. He glared at Glorfindel, nearly bristling with annoyance. "I was only--"
"Don't get angry, pen- neth -- I know how difficult things have been for you lately. I know you cannot rest. It is nothing to be ashamed of, you know; half of Imladris seems to be suffering from the same malaise. I thought I might find Erestor here, as a matter of fact. But, as it seems I have found you instead, maybe you wouldn't object to a bit of advice from a well-meaning friend, who--"
"I do not need advice."
"Indeed." Glorfindel raised a sceptical eyebrow and walked closer. "What are you reading?"
"It is... nothing, just an unfinished copy of a historical account."
" Which you have found to be of such great interest that you shower it with kisses. Let me see that." He reached out his hand and lifted a page to get a closer look. "Elrond's writing. Oh, pen- neth..."
Melpomaen flinched at the sound of sympathy in Glorfindel's voice and hugged his ribcage tightly, just as he had done when he was a boy.
Glorfindel moved a step closer and picked up the book. "I wonder what he has been copying in here, hour after hour. He need not do the work himself with so many skilled scribes in his employ." Looking down at the page, he read, "But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song."
Glorfindel fell silent. Melpomaen could not see the expression on his friend's face, for he had shut his eyes when Glorfindel began reading, but he heard a muted thud as the book was placed back on its wooden lectern and sensed the air shift as a warm body moved closer to his own. Moments later he felt himself enveloped in a pair of powerful arms and rocked gently as a soft voice whispered in his ear.
"Oh, Mel."
"He is unhappy."
" As are you."
"I..." The words stuck in Melpomaen's throat. "I do not know how much more of this I can stand, Glorfindel. I feel as though I am coming apart... I would do right by him; I would leave if it would make things easier, and yet I cannot bring myself to do it."
Glorfindel's arms tightened around Melpomaen for a moment, then released their hold. The older Elf looked at Melpomaen's face, and smiled reassuringly.
"And still you say you do not need my counsel."
Melpomaen shrugged and looked down at his bare feet. "Maybe I do," he said. "Though I know not what you could say that would make things easier."
"Easier?" For a moment, Glorfindel looked as if his thoughts were far away. "No, it is not in my power to do that. But I can make things clearer. I can give you the unadorned truth -- I am known for that." He wiped Melpomaen's cheeks with the back of his knuckles. "What say you?"
Melpomaen felt a certain weight lift from his chest at the prospect of discussing his troubles with a friend, even if no solution to his heartache could be found. A lump formed in his throat -- part sorrow, part gratitude -- and he nodded.
"Very well."
The flames in the fireplace were low, flickering rather than burning, slowly turning the glowing embers to ashes. The large kitchen was mostly in shadow, and Melpomaen was glad of this, for he did not think he could lay his heart bare in the glaring light of day.
Glorfindel was apparently taking his self-imposed role of confidant very seriously, for he fussed over Melpomaen like a concerned healer over his patient. In his zeal, he had even prepared a sickeningly sweet hot potion, which Melpomaen now sipped from a steaming cup while trying not to scald his tongue. The taste of it was rather revolting, for Glorfindel's culinary skills were obviously far inferior to his battle prowess, but Melpomaen felt much cheered by such evidence that someone cared for him, and drank the beverage without protest.
"Pen- neth..." Glorfindel began, then stopped, and looked at Melpomaen closely. "Perhaps I should cease calling you that; you hardly seem the same young Elf who began work here a few years ago. Much has happened since then. You are certainly no child."
"It's all right, really. I do not mind."
Glorfindel smiled. "I will not insult your intelligence by explaining matters which are already quite plain and on which you no doubt have thought a great deal. I will simply state what I believe needs to be done."
Melpomaen nodded.
"You need to make a choice, and a difficult one," Glorfindel said. "No one can help you, for the decision is yours alone. You need to decide what you want."
" But I already know--"
"No, pen- neth. You know what is in your heart, and you know that you are hurting. What you need to do now is open your eyes and make a rational choice, like an advisor in Elrond's council, dispassionately weighing both sides of the matter. And then live with the consequences."
Melpomaen put down his cup and placed both his palms down on the table to steady himself. Although he knew Glorfindel usually avoided subtlety, the older Elf's candid approach still made him feel as if he were riding an out-of-control horse through the woods, branches whipping past him at high speeds.
Glorfindel continued. "Your lover is married. That will never change. His marriage is not a happy one, and that is not likely to change either."
"How can you be sure?"
Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words, then replied, "I have been a witness to their union long enough to judge that to be true."
"Oh." Melpomaen was dizzy. He felt pain in his fingers, and realized that his nails were digging into the wooden surface of the table.
Undeterred, Glorfindel continued. "If you wish to be able to love openly, to bind yourself to another in the eyes of the Valar, then you should leave him now. For -- know this -- if you choose to love him, you will forever have to stay in the shadows." Leaning closer, he added, "He would not hold it against you, you know. He cares too much for your happiness, and has had to make a number of impossible choices in his life, too."
"But I cannot leave him!" Melpomaen heard his voice shake, then crack, and clenched his teeth in an attempt to hold back tears. "Is it so wrong for me to want him all for myself?"
Glorfindel comfortingly draped an arm around Melpomaen's shoulder. "Not wrong, no. Just impossible."
For a long time, they were quiet. Glorfindel kept his arm in place, and Melpomaen found its solid presence around his back soothing beyond measure. He leaned against the older Elf, appreciating the solace offered by such a touch. It seemed like an eternity since he had been held this way. After the years he had spent in close proximity with Elrond, being wholly deprived of physical contact had proven a shock; he found he missed his lover's reassuring embraces even more than the sensual nature of their bond.
Glorfindel did not seem to mind Melpomaen's need to be consoled with nearness. Melpomaen closed his eyes and felt his heartbeat slow as his thoughts hung suspended somewhere between one painful decision and another. It did not take a lot of effort to summon up the image of Elrond's face -- so beautiful, so beloved, and... not his. Suddenly the impossibility of the choice he had to make seemed overwhelming.
"What should I do?" he whispered.
Glorfindel's voice was kind, but firm. "It isn't a question of what you *should* do, pen- neth. It's a question of what you can live with."
Notes:
Elves reach their majority at the age of 50. At 20, Melpomaen is the equivalent of a human 7- or 8-year-old.
Pen- neth - young one
Lórien is the Vala of dreams.
Extra points for those who can identify the Silmarillion quote read by Glorfindel (and kissed by Mel) in this chapter. ;)
Imladris, TA 1004
The stack of official letters was getting progressively higher, in proportion to the burgeoning cramp in Erestor's hand. A messenger would leave early in the morning, and the state missives would slowly make their way to Thranduil's kingdom. It would be a number of weeks before Imladris received a response to its correspondence, and it was
far from certain that the answers sent by the Woodland king would be those Elrond and his advisors hoped for, but that was out of Erestor's hands for the moment. No doubt his diplomatic skills would eventually be called for, but they were not needed yet.
Sighing, he flexed his fingers and closed his eyes, allowing himself the luxury of thinking about what the evening would bring. Glorfindel would come and find him in the library; they would have a light evening meal in the privacy of Erestor's chambers and retire to bed early. Whether or not they made love mattered little, as long as Erestor could lay his head on Glorfindel's shoulder and feel safe. He tried not to think about the somewhat pitiful fact that he – a seasoned politician and negotiator -- now craved nothing more than the forgetfulness of a familiar embrace.
Footsteps rang out on the stone tiles behind him, heavy and self-assured, and Erestor smiled. He turned to greet his lover – and froze. For it was not Glorfindel who stood leaning against the doorway, casually running a hand through his golden hair: it was Gildor. Gildor, who smiled as if he knew every last one of Erestor's thoughts and owned them, even after all this time. Gildor, who looked as if he were coming to claim what was rightfully his.
'No' -- it was such a simple word, and usually so easy for Erestor to utter. 'No, Glorfindel, I cannot go riding today; I have too many matters that require my attention.' 'No, Elrond, I do not think this course of action is advisable; it is too rash, and the matter requires further study.' Erestor had had much practice saying 'no' -- but not to Gildor. And even now, when his body longed to run, he could not make the word pass his lips. His throat only tightened and his tongue turned to wood, and he felt as if he were a young Elf again, on his knees before Gildor and saying all manner of things that were asked of him, but never 'no.'
"At last, a chance for us to be alone."
Gildor's tone was deliberate and slow, as if he knew that his presence alone was enough to paralyse Erestor. Playfully he pushed himself away from the doorframe and walked closer, his mouth twisted into a smile with which Erestor was all too familiar -- not an expression of goodwill but a thinly veiled threat.
Erestor felt dizzy and cold. His hands shook, and he quickly put down his quill lest he stain the letter paper with inkblots. "Get up and walk away; just get up and walk away!" he thought frantically, but could not get his feet to move. Gildor was close now, near enough to touch.
"I've much desired to speak with you since my arrival, Erestor." Gildor's voice was low, but penetrating, and Erestor felt it resonate through him. Every syllable was like a violation.
"I've... had pressing business to attend to."
"Come now, Erestor, you don't actually expect me to believe that, do you? It is an untruth. And there should be no falsehoods told between friends. Friends like us." He leaned over Erestor's shoulder, stroking his braids, and breathed into his ear. "Good friends."
Erestor turned his head away, and suddenly felt it snap back into place, his hair pulled with a brutal yank.
"Don't turn away from me when I'm speaking to you. You used to be better behaved in my presence. Have you forgotten the meaning of the word discipline? Mayhap I should remind you?"
"Please... I..."
"You once liked my discipline, Erestor. You yielded to me so beautifully." Gildor tugged at Erestor's hair again, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. He caressed the expanse of neck with a single finger. "Wouldn't you like to do so again?"
Erestor wanted to scream. He twisted under Gildor's oppressive touch, but his former lover's grip was strong.
"The blond warrior who guards you so closely and watches your every move... He may look like me -- similar hair, similar build – but does he give you what you need, Erestor?" Gildor tipped Erestor's head back further, looking into his eyes. "Does he give you what you crave? If he doesn't, you know that I could."
Gildor's hold on Erestor's hair was painfully tight; Erestor's eyes began to water. He tried to blink back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, but the humiliation he felt only made them overflow. Everything about Gildor -- his voice, his scent, his touch – was evoking memories Erestor had striven to bury for ever. He had spent centuries trying to forget, and here was Gildor, throwing the past in his face, forcing him to relive it. Erestor closed his eyes, fervently wishing to be somewhere else.
Suddenly Gildor let go of Erestor's hair and stepped away. "I won't take up more of your valuable time, counsellor." Erestor's title on Gildor's tongue sounded more like an insult than an honorific. "If you want me, you know where to find me. And if you don't find me soon, I'll seek you out myself, lover. I promise you that." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I am not finished with you yet."
Erestor heard Gildor's footsteps recede past the library entrance and into the hallway beyond. He was alone again, and yet he felt anything but safe. Not when his fears seemed to lurk everywhere: in the corridors of the Last Homely House, in the library he had once believed to be his sanctuary, in the long-ignored corners of his mind.
His scalp ached from the pull of Gildor's hands on his hair, and freshly awakened memories threatened to overwhelm him in their intensity. He got up quickly and hurried to his chambers, desperate to break free of the unwelcome images and emotions but, even as his feet hastened down the corridor, he knew it was no use. For it is impossible to outrun the past.
Ost-in-Edhil, SA 1078
Erestor is sitting on a narrow bed covered with a heavy brocade, his eyes fixed on the wooden door and his ears listening for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He is waiting for his lover, who is late.
His hands are in his lap and his hair is pulled back from his face, so tightly that his temples ache. He is clad in a high-necked, dark robe whose cut he does not like. He has, however, been instructed to wear it, and he knows enough by now not to disobey instruction.
He has been motionless for a long time and his limbs are stiff, so he shifts slightly to allow the blood to flow more freely to his feet, and winces in pain. The welts on his back have not had enough time to heal. They would normally be almost gone by now, but Gildor's treatment of him has been growing harsher of late.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of silence, the metal handle turns and the door creaks open. Erestor feels a dizzying combination of exhilaration and dread at the thought that Gildor has come.
"Good, you're here," Gildor says. Despite the fact that it is he who has kept Erestor waiting for the better part of two hours, his tone is not contrite. But Erestor does not expect an apology; if he has learned anything over the past year it has been to curb his expectations.
"Let's get on with it," Gildor says nonchalantly. "I have other matters I must attend to tonight."
Erestor nods, his heart clenching at such obvious signs of his lover's indifference. He gets up from the bed and begins to undress, feeling self-conscious under the critical eye of the other Elf.
'Beautiful' Gildor used to say, and 'sweet one,' but it has been a long time since Erestor has been addressed in such a manner. Those innocent, loving days seem like a foreign country now, or a fanciful tale one tells without really thinking it to be true, so greatly have things changed since their liaison first began. Erestor isn't certain which of his words or deeds made Gildor's affection turn chill, but he holds on to the desperate belief that the damage can still be undone. Even now, as his hands slip the dark robe from his shoulders, he keeps his back straight and his movements restrained, quietly hoping that Gildor will be pleased.
An errant ray of the sun illuminates a strand of Gildor's hair, making it shine like spun gold. Distant memories rise up in Erestor's mind and reverberate like ripples on the water. His breath catches in his throat and, for a moment, he can almost imagine that things are the way they once were. But, of course, they are not.
Gildor appraises Erestor's naked form and takes off his cloak and tunic, leaving his breeches and boots in place. He rests his hands on his hips and smiles.
"Over there, by the window," he says, and Erestor feels a stab of fear. This is the first time Gildor has asked for this; he does not know what to expect. He is not certain if this means that his lover will be more careful or choose to give free rein to his more base tendencies.
Seeing Erestor's hesitation, Gildor takes him by the shoulders and steers him toward the open window. He does not push, but Erestor does not need such blatant coercion; he lets himself be led willingly enough. It takes barely a few steps to cover the distance, and soon they are close enough to feel the cool breeze and yet far enough not to be seen from below.
"Your clamour hurt my ears last time; today I wish to ensure your silence," Gildor says. "Brace your arms on the windowsill and look out so that those passing by may see your face. If you do not wish them to know just what is being done to you, you will have to stay quiet and keep your expression neutral."
He strokes Erestor's face with his hand, and Erestor cannot help but lean into the caress.
"You are quite proficient at concealing your emotions in public; I've seen you in Celeborn and Galadriel's council," Gildor says, a note of approval and admiration slipping into his voice. The touch of his fingers is gentle, not cruel, and Erestor's heart thumps in his chest, for here is Gildor as Erestor once knew him: tender and kind. Joy gripping his throat, Erestor has the conscious thought that he is willing to suffer much for the sake of moments like these –- moments when, in spite of everything, he feels loved.
But the moment does not last. Moving efficiently, Gildor pushes Erestor forward so that his hands grip the wooden window frame. He gets behind Erestor, nudges his legs apart and, freeing his erection from the confines of his breeches, pushes in. Erestor has not been prepared properly, and so it hurts, especially since Gildor does not take his time but forces himself in roughly, with no regard for the body accepting his assault, and sets a rapid pace.
Jostled by the well-built Elf behind him, Erestor struggles to keep his body still and his face free of emotion. There are soldiers in the courtyard below, some of whom are not strangers to him, and he does not want them to witness his humiliation; does not want anyone to know of his shame. His hair comes free of its binding and falls around his face, and his cheeks burn.
A thought comes to him, unbidden as ever and, as always, he cannot push it away. "It would not be as shameful if I did not enjoy it so," he thinks, and knows this to be true. For even now, through the guilt and the pain, what Erestor feels most keenly is the pleasure. His abused body sings with the pure delight of being treated so roughly, shivering from the primitive thrill of being dominated.
Erestor feels Gildor tense behind him and hears the last grunt accompanying his lover's climax. Gildor squeezes Erestor's buttocks painfully as he pulls out, then leans over to whisper in his ear: "Just what you craved, my lovely, was it not?"
Erestor does not answer. He is shaking.
"You're fortunate I'm willing to give it to you, lover. And fortunate I refrain from making your unnatural preferences known," Gildor adds. He uses a cloth to clean himself, then quickly puts on his clothes. In less than a minute, he is at the door and looking over at Erestor, who is still standing motionless at the window.
"See you again, melethron," Gildor says with a smirk, then he is gone. The door closes behind him and silence once again reigns in the cramped room.
Erestor releases his grip on the window frame and moves to the side, out of the range of vision of those who might be watching from the courtyard below. He rests his naked back against the wall, feeling the discomfort caused by his still-fresh welts rubbing against the cold stone and welcoming it as fitting penance for one so depraved. Reaching down to his groin, he wraps his hand around his neglected erection and strokes quickly, eyes closed, face flushed with shame. When he comes, the spasm of pleasure he feels is both bitter and sweet, and the face that appears before his eyes is Gildor's.
Once his shaking legs are steady again, Erestor straightens up and walks over to the bed to retrieve his clothes. He loathes himself, more so than ever before, but he will make no promises of 'never again.' He has learned by now that such oaths have no authority over him.
Imladris, TA 1004
"Erestor? Come now, what is the matter?" Carefully closing the door behind him, Glorfindel slipped into the room.
Erestor was sitting in the centre of the wide bed, his legs drawn up to his chin and his eyes focused on a point in the distance. Glorfindel could barely make out his face as the room was oppressively dark, but he could tell that his lover was hurting. Erestor usually liked his living space to be bright and airy; that he had drawn the curtains down over the high windows could only mean that his anguish had reached new depths. The heavy velvet drapes hung like a shroud, letting in barely a sliver of light and giving the bedchamber a tomb-like feel.
"Elbereth... What did he do to you?" Glorfindel settled down on the blankets and ventured a tentative embrace, half afraid that Erestor would flinch and pull away.
Erestor tensed for an instant before hesitantly laying his head on Glorfindel's shoulder. "He has not done a thing to me in centuries, as you well know," he answered, his voice strangely hollow.
"And yet it still haunts you."
"Yes. It haunts me still."
It was a simple admission, not an accusation, and Glorfindel could think of nothing to say in reply that he had not said a hundred times before. For a few moments he simply sat there, stroking Erestor's arm and listening to his even breathing. But his nature demanded action, and he was not content to offer comfort in so passive a manner for long.
"I would show him the extent of my wrath, avenge your pain... You need only command it," he said, feeling as if he were pledging an oath.
To his great surprise, the dark eyes that looked up at him, though still shadowed with grief, held a trace of amusement.
"My champion," Erestor said, his lips curling into a half-smile.
Glorfindel fell silent, remembering how reluctant his lover had once been to accept his assistance. Although his natural urge was to do battle against all foes that threatened the one he loved, he knew there were demons that could not be slain by the sword alone and against whose slippery, obscure menace he was utterly powerless.
After a few moments, Erestor spoke again. "Glorfindel?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you, but..."
"But what?"
Erestor's face was serious and calm, if a bit grim, and only the determined line of his mouth told the tale of the internal struggle hehad likely just waged.
"If there is anything to be done, it is I who must do it," he said. "If I do not, I shall never be rid of these ghosts."
"Is there nothing I can do?" Glorfindel asked.
Erestor turned toward him, the proud expression he customarily wore gone, his dark eyes vulnerable.
"Hold me."
Notes: melethron - lover
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