Imladris, TA 1004
The night before midsummer night's eve
Glorfindel turned the corner in the hallway and froze, staring at the creature making its way in his direction. "What in Manwë's name?"
It had the legs of an Elf, to be sure, and certainly arms as well, for Glorfindel could see a pair of hands clutching the burden it carried. Its head, however, was completely obscured by a mountain of papers, stacked so high they cast a looming shadow over the wall. The papers were loose, and the whole heap swayed so precariously that it seemed the pages were destined to be scattered all over the floor before long. Glorfindel could only presume that the being buried underneath all that work was an Elf, and an overburdened one at that. "Who would be toiling so late, and on the evening before the festival no less?" he wondered.
He did not wonder for long. Unable to gauge its path, the creature tripped on an uneven floor tile and crashed to the ground, papers and all. Its startled exclamation was accompanied by the swish of falling pages, which twirled like autumn leaves and settled on the floor. At last, Glorfindel was able to ascertain that the Elf in the middle of the picturesque heap was Melpomaen, although the irate look on the young scribe's face was at odds with his usually good-humoured disposition.
Indeed, the words that next came out of Melpomaen's mouth were better suited to an army barracks than the genteel hallways of the Last Homely House. "To Mordor with this damned inventory! I hope the fires of Mount Doom consume every last bit of this blasted paper, until there is nothing left but ash, and--"
"Melpomaen?"
Melpomaen looked up. "Glorfindel! I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
"Likely the fact that you are trying to do the work of three people, pen-neth. Who assigned this unreasonable task to you, anyway? It wasn't my Erestor, was it?"
"No, I took it on myself." Melpomaen straightened out his robes and began the tedious task of gathering the pages back together. "Everyone else is too preoccupied with tomorrow night's festivities. I am the only one left who does not seem to mind working late."
"Can this not wait?"
"Probably. But the work will still be here a week hence, and I cannot face the prospect of sitting alone in my chambers just now." He efficiently shuffled the pages he had gathered into their original order.
"Of course." Glorfindel knelt down on the floor beside Melpomaen and turned his attention to the disorderly mass of documents. "Let me help."
On closer inspection, the pages were not as white or uniform as they had appeared from a distance. They were, in fact, quite colourful: covered in brilliant red, purple and green illuminations, with delicate golden detailing gracing their edges. The sheet in Glorfindel's hand contained a very realistic representation of a plant, with every stem, leaf and flower clearly labelled.
"Healing plants?" Glorfindel asked.
"Yes, drawings from the medical archives. We are moving them to the main library for the moment." Melpomaen pointed to the pile of papers he had been patiently putting back together. "These, on the other hand, are nature scenes drawn by a handful of Second Age artists. Most were used as sketches for paintings, and are little more than rough outlines of the final work. We keep them for archival purposes." He stilled Glorfindel's hand, which had been reaching out for a sketch. "You must be careful not to get the two mixed up; it would hardly help the healers researching their potions to find a drawing of a waterfall instead."
"Don't worry, I can be meticulous when the need arises," Glorfindel said, trying to ignore the sceptical look on Melpomaen's face. For some moments, he applied himself to his task, carefully sorting the bright plants from the monochromatic sketches. Then a familiar riverside scene caught his eye. "I know this one!" He held the page up for Melpomaen's inspection.
"Yes, the full-scale painting hangs in the dining hall. You probably see it every day. This is an early, rough study for the piece. See how the trees are not shaded in, the perspective is a bit off, and the lines seem hesitant here on the side."
"Oh, I remember it now. But the final work is much more beautiful and impressive. The sketch can hardly compare to the painting's brilliance."
"You're right, of course. Still..." Melpomaen's words trailed off into silence.
"Melpomaen? Is something wrong?"
"I was just thinking." Melpomaen let the pages slip from his hands. They fanned out around his knees like a vibrant bunch of flowers. He looked up at Glorfindel, dark eyes wide and full of a strange kind of understanding. "I've always preferred the sketch to the painting, you know. Flaws and all, I find it somehow truer, more honest. It is imperfect, and yet it is lovely."
"You talk in riddles, my friend. I am not Erestor, who can decipher the meaning behind cleverly coded words."
"I'm sorry." Melpomaen shook his head as if waking from a dream. "I did not mean to confound you, and I would speak plainly if the matter were simple. But I barely know what I am thinking these days, and shaping the words to suit my muddled mind is a difficult task."
"A perilous affliction for an advisor, I'd say."
Though Melpomaen did not go so far as to laugh out loud, he made an amused sound, and smiled. Glorfindel was relieved to see him find some pleasure in the teasing. Such a sober young Elf he had seemed of late: hiding behind his work and yet apparently finding little comfort in it.
"Shall I help you gather these up and carry them to the library, pen-neth?"
"Yes, thank you. The load will be much lighter when carried by two." Melpomaen reached for the pile of papers on the ground before him, then stopped mid-motion. He looked at Glorfindel, his face again filled with that strange half-awareness. He held his hand out for the riverside sketch. "May I?"
"Of course."
He took the page from Glorfindel's hand, and stared at it, unblinking. "I do like it," he said. "Though some may call me foolish for not choosing more suitable works as the objects of my admiration. Still, what does it matter what others say? This one speaks to my heart."
"Melpomaen?" Glorfindel regarded the younger Elf with curiosity, aware that the subject of their conversation had transcended the sketch Melpomaen carefully held between his fingers.
"Sorry. Speaking in riddles again." Melpomaen gave a calm smile, his agitation gone. "Glorfindel?"
"Hm?"
"I would have a favour to ask of you tomorrow, before the festivities begin. There is something I mean to do, and I will need your assistance."
The following night
"The crimson and gold tunic," Glorfindel decreed, appraising Melpomaen. "Yes, definitely the crimson. Don't you find, Erestor?"
"I much prefer it to the green," Erestor agreed. "The crimson is dark enough to be understated, and yet nicely complements your complexion. And the gold accents set off the ribbons in your hair."
Melpomaen turned around once more, studying his reflection in the large mirror. He had to admit that Glorfindel had proven more than capable of the task he had undertaken. When Melpomaen had asked the older, and decidedly more experienced, Elf to help him look appealing for midsummer night's eve, he had not expected such astounding results. Surely the radiant creature in the looking glass couldn't be him? Where were the modest advisor's robes? Where was the severe hairstyle?
"You look beautiful, pen-neth," Glorfindel said. "You will have many eyes on you tonight, not least those of the person whose attention you seek."
"Do you think so?"
"He would have to be blind not to notice your charms. You are sure to make an impression."
"Good." Melpomaen looked himself over in the mirror once more. "And you're certain that these garments aren't too... tight?" he asked, feeling timid about the way the dark leggings hugged his thighs and accentuated the curve of his behind.
"Can you breathe?"
"Yes."
"Can you move?"
"Well, yes, but--"
"Then they're perfect." Glorfindel smiled. "You are not going to a state reception tonight, after all; there is no need for you to look authoritative. As it is, you look positively sinful. I might be tempted to try for you myself if I weren't certain Erestor would flay me if I ever did."
"Rake." Erestor suppressed a smile. "What makes you so confident that Melpomaen would welcome your advances? His tastes run more to the dignified and serious, not to philanderers like you. Not every Elf you gift with your attention will readily fall into your arms, you know."
"You did."
"Ha! I think 'readily' would hardly be the appropriate word."
Glorfindel quieted for an instant, his smile giving way to a more serious expression. For a few heartbeats, the depth of his feelings for Erestor was plainly visible on his face. Melpomaen looked away, so private did the moment seem.
By the time he looked back, Glorfindel was grinning again. "True. You certainly made me work to gain your trust." He moved across the room toward Erestor and embraced him. "Yet I am rewarded for my pains a hundredfold every time you look at me."
"Glorfindel... " Erestor lowered his eyes to the ground. "That's enough. Melpomaen did not come here for a demonstration."
"It's all right!" Melpomaen lifted both hands in a placating gesture. "I do not mind. Tonight is a celebration of love, after all. Besides, I had better take my leave; you two need time to get ready, too, and I can see that the bonfires are already being lit in the clearing. Thank you for everything." He moved toward the door.
"Wait just a moment!" Glorfindel intercepted him and steered him back toward the mirror. "We aren't finished yet."
Strong hands pushed down on Melpomaen's shoulders. Compliant, he sat down on the chair in front of the looking glass, and gazed ahead. Behind him he could see Glorfindel moving about, reaching over for a small glass jar Erestor was handing to him.
"I like what Erestor has done with your hair, Melpomaen. The braids hold it back from your face and show off your ears to good advantage. I wonder, did anyone ever tell you that your ears are exceptionally well formed? Elrond must have noticed, he has a keen eye for beauty."
Melpomaen caught Glorfindel's suggestive look in the mirror, and saw his own face redden. He could well understand Erestor's reluctance to show affection in public. Truly, some things belonged behind closed doors.
"Never mind," Glorfindel grinned again. "The look on your face tells me everything I might want to know." He gathered Melpomaen's hair in one hand and set the jar on the nearby table.
Melpomaen looked into the mirror with interest. "What are you doing?"
"Simply making the most of one of your assets. It's a little trick I learned long ago, and one that has served me well in matters of seduction. Now, I am about to do something that may feel a little too... intimate for comfort, but don't be alarmed. My intentions are pure, and this will be over in but a moment."
"What do you mean?" Melpomaen barely had time to speak before he felt Glorfindel's fingers deliberately stroke the sensitive point of his ear. He gasped and instinctively pulled away, feeling his body tighten at the erotic caress.
"Sorry about that, pen-neth. I know it feels a bit odd, coming from me. But we're almost done. I just need to do the other ear."
Melpomaen was better prepared for the touch of Glorfindel's fingers the second time around, and paid more attention to the reason for his friend's bizarre actions. It seemed that some sort of shiny powder was being applied to his ear points.
Glorfindel hastened to explain. "It is nothing but a mixture of ground pearls and fragrant oil -- precious and quite expensive, and therefore not in wide use. When applied directly to the skin, it gives it a shimmering effect." He paused. "It also gives those who gaze upon you ideas as to what they might want to do to those beautiful ears of yours."
Melpomaen had never before dwelled on the depth of Glorfindel's knowledge in these matters. Evidently it was quite extensive. The thought flustered him so much that he rose and turned to leave.
"Melpomaen." Glorfindel stepped in between him and the door, and put a hand on his elbow. The look on his face was sincere. "There is one thing I want to say before you go. All these preparations – the clothes, the scented oils -- they are nice, and Erestor and I are glad to help. But they are not necessary, pen-neth, you should know that. You do not need these ruses to impress him. He loves you already. Very much."
Glorfindel squeezed his elbow. Across the room, Melpomaen could see Erestor silently nodding in agreement. Despite everything that had gone so wrong over the past few months, Melpomaen felt fortunate. He stepped closer and kissed Glorfindel's cheek. "Thank you," he said.
The door opened and Melpomaen stepped into the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to smile at the occupants of the room. Celebrían quickly retreated into the shadows. It would not do to be seen skulking about the Last Homely House, watching her husband's lover. She had no idea what she would say should he notice her, for how could she possibly give reasons for actions she could not even explain to herself?
Humming quietly, Melpomaen began the long walk toward the main staircase. Celebrían followed at a distance, taking every opportunity to hide behind thick stone pillars.
He looked well tonight, she had to admit. It was evident he had taken special care with his appearance, abandoning his modest advisor's robes in favour of garments bolder in cut and richer in colour. They suited him, though a certain residual awkwardness in his movements betrayed the fact that he was not accustomed to clothing quite so revealing.
Celebrían watched as Melpomaen's hands travelled to the hem of his tunic and pulled, trying to cover what he thought too exposed. She smiled. For all his seductive airs, he was just an innocent: a youth gripped by the kind of fierce love that is usually the sole prerogative of the young, and willing to do almost anything to hold on to what was dear to him.
The curved staircase was just ahead, and when Melpomaen reached it Celebrían halted. She would go no further. Her pursuit was pointless, really, for what could she hope to accomplish by merely observing? Sudden epiphanies were unlikely; she was old enough to know that this dilemma would not be solved by a flash of insight. And yet something inexplicable had compelled her to shadow his footsteps -- something about the way the ribbons twisted in his hair, and the way he looked: eager, nervous, and so much in love it nearly hurt to watch.
Melpomaen had nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when one of his ribbons came loose, fluttering to the ground in a golden serpentine. He stopped and bent down to retrieve the satiny strip of cloth. From her spot on the top landing, Celebrían watched as he walked toward one of the large stained glass windows and, using the reflective surface as a mirror, began to plait the thin golden band into his hair. Arms raised, his hands worked deftly, gold flashing amid black, his head tilted to the left.
Memories are strange, unpredictable things. Once their immediacy has faded with the years, they remain muted: mere echoes of the vibrant events they represent -- the way parchments stored on archive shelves tell vivid tales of events long past, but only to those who will listen. And yet all it takes is a few words, a certain scent or a brief image, and their power grows and swells, crashing against the well-ordered present like a powerful wave. And it is as if no time has passed at all.
So it was now. Celebrían stared at Melpomaen, and yet it was not him she saw, but a young Elf-woman: the ribbons in her plaits not gold, but blue; the hair not black, but the colour of honey; the eyes not dark, but a dappled green, like patches of forest reflected in still water. What she had long thought a dried-out bouquet suddenly exploded in a dazzling array of scent and colour, as memories held at bay for years flooded her senses.
Dol Amroth TA 95
"Let me help you. You'll only tangle it further." Celebrían threads her fingers through the honey-coloured mane, shakes out stray grains of sand, and begins to weave in the blue ribbon. The hair feels heavy in her palm, and warm as a stone that has sat all day in the sun.
Her lover leans back into her hands, and tilts her head. The veil of honey falls to the side, revealing a neck as slim and graceful as a young pine. Celebrían would gladly kiss her way down that neck, across the curve of the narrow, strong shoulders, and over the sharp collarbones, but the sun is already setting over the water, and she cannot linger. She concentrates, efficiently braiding. Before long, waves of honey fall down her lover's back in regular plaits, blue ribbon securely fastened.
Celebrían's beloved turns and smiles. "Can you not stay?" she asks.
"I am expected back home."
Celebrían does not elaborate. They have been over this too many times to count; she does not need to explain that her parents disapprove of this liaison and wish for her to end it. Her lover already knows.
"Can you not disobey them this once?" The question brims with impatience. "The night will be lovely; the sea is calm. I would watch the stars with you."
"I cannot," Celebrían answers, wishing that she could. She does not take easily to having her freedom curtailed -- she is strong-willed enough not to bend under her mother's influence -- but her parents' disapproval seems to have grown more serious in recent months, and she senses that openly going against their will would do more ill than good.
"Have they said something else to you?"
"Nothing new."
"Nothing?"
"Just that they want me to marry."
She feels a twinge of guilt, for she has not been entirely forthright. While it is true that her parents have been trying to persuade her to wed for some time, it is also true that their arguments have recently changed. They no longer speak of her happiness and security, but talk rather of her duty to her people and the need for the line of noble houses to continue. Celebrían has seen too many of her people die and watched too many white ships sail West from Dol Amroth's harbour not to feel a sense of responsibility to Middle-earth and the Elves left behind. Though she is loath to admit it, her defences against the claim of such obligations are beginning to crumble.
"And have they found you a suitable mate yet?" The sarcastic tone masks an undercurrent of pain.
"They talk of Elrond Half-elven."
For a while, the only sound that can be heard is the rushing of waves against the sand. Finally, the question falls, quietly: "What is he like?"
"Fair, wise and kind."
"As fair and noble as our people say?"
"Yes."
All this is true, of course; Elrond is all these things and more. And yet, although he is beautiful, his hair is not the colour of honey and his eyes are not the green of sun-dappled leaves. Celebrían hugs her knees to her chest, her sense of loss already acute, though the thing she fears losing has not yet been taken away.
Suddenly there is a hand on her shoulder and warm breath against her ear. "He may be all those things, but he will never feel about you the way I do. He will never need you as badly, or love you as sweetly. You know that." Insistent hands push her back against the ground, a warm mouth seeking her own. She feels her knees nudged apart as her body is pressed into the still-warm sand.
"You'll wreck your ribbons again," she breathes in between kisses, but does not protest as her lover's fingers travel to the front of her dress and begin to tug at the laces.
For some instants, the world narrows to honey-coloured hair and flushed skin. Then Celebrían's lover stills for a moment, and asks: "What right do they have to take this away from us?" Her voice is angry, but not defiant, as if she knows this to be a fight than cannot be won.
Some questions have no answers, and so Celebrían says nothing. Instead, she holds her lover close, offering reassurance and oblivion, at least for a little while. The rhythmic whisper of the waves is comforting; if she tries really hard, she can almost imagine that all is well. Dusk slowly falls over the beach. Soon she can see nothing but stars.
Notes:
The Erogenous Elven Ear™ is, of course, a fanon invention -- but one of which I wholly approve. ;)
The gold ribbons Melpomaen wears in his hair indicate that he is not looking for a casual fling at the midsummer night's eve festivities. For more info about this custom (invented entirely by yours truly), see "Sweetness and Gall."
Pen-neth – young one
Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve
"Have you tried the wine, my Lord? The vintage is excellent."
"I haven't yet, no--" A goblet full of dark liquid was pressed into Elrond's hand. He sipped. The flavour was earthy, with a hint of sweet, ripe plums; it tasted of sun filled vineyards, and was indeed delicious.
"In truth, I believe suffering the presence of the Greenwood guests is worth it for this pleasure alone," the wine bearer declared with a grin, swaying slightly.
Elrond almost reached out a hand to steady him, but held back. The librarian was proud, and liked to think he could handle himself in any situation. That, coupled with his aggravating habit of peppering his sentences with the phrase "in truth," made his company trying at times. Especially when he had overindulged in potent beverages – as he had tonight.
Sighing, Elrond manoeuvred himself to the librarian's side. Judging by the speed with which the Elf's cup was emptying, his balance would soon become seriously impaired and, while the moss-covered ground in the clearing was soft to sit on, it would do little to break the fall of a full-grown Elven male. Elrond freed his fingers from the wide sleeves of his robe, just in case catching his companion became necessary.
"It may be a good idea to keep those sentiments to yourself, my friend, especially out here. Our Greenwood guests may not appreciate hearing them -- and may decide to be less generous with their gifts in future years." Elrond kept his voice low, in the hopes the librarian would do likewise. His hopes were in vain.
"Your words are wise, my Lord. As always, in truth. But I like to speak my mind!" The nasal voice boomed among the trees. "One so seldom gets a chance to speak in the archives." The tone turned sad. "It is so quiet there. No one listens."
Elrond made a conscious effort not to pull away from the alcohol-infused breath. The evening was quickly spiralling downhill; now his companion was not only drunk and loud, but also maudlin. It was time to steer the conversation onto other, more pleasant, paths.
"I see you've braided silver ribbons into your hair," he said. "Maybe one of our guests will catch your eye? They not only have fine taste in wine but are quite comely as well. Don't you find?"
The ruse was evidently successful, for the librarian's face brightened instantly and his eyes began to roam over the Elves gathered in the clearing. "Oh, yes, they are indeed. Such lovely, fair hair, in truth. Such willowy grace." His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a growl. "And I'm willing to wager that some of them have never known the skilled touch of an Imladris scholar. Innocent flowers, just waiting to be plucked..." He swayed again.
Alarmed, Elrond steadied him. Valar, the new course their discussion had taken was hardly better! "I would advise you to proceed slowly," he said. "You do not want to frighten them away, after all. Seduce them gradually, show them your subtle skill, impress with your sophistication--"
"Subtle. Yes." The librarian's brow wrinkled in thought. "Sophistication. Of course. That's just what I was going to do, in truth."
"Good." Elrond smiled. "Now, why don't we go and sit under the big oak over there? That way you can observe our Greenwood guests at leisure, and plan your approach."
" Very well." The librarian turned in the direction of the oak, casting one more glance at the Elves gathered around the bonfires. Suddenly he started, eyes widening in disbelief. "It cannot be!"
"What?"
"That! Why that's... But he looks so... I have never seen him so... Elbereth, but that really is him!"
" Who?"
" Melpomaen!"
At the sound of his beloved's name, Elrond felt heat suffuse his body as if he had gotten too close to the bonfires. He followed the librarian's gaze, and nearly dropped his wine. For the figure in the clearing did not resemble the prim, bookish scribe most residents of the Last Homely House were accustomed to seeing. The Melpomaen slowly winding his way through the crowd was an erotic vision.
The deep red of his tunic cast a warm glow over his face, the gold detailing on the sleeves and hem sparkling in the light of the flames. His dark leggings clung to his calves and thighs, emphasizing every curve, every shift of muscle. He walked slowly, with a slight sway to his hips, as if challenging those around him to look. His hair was pulled back from his face in an unfamiliar style, making his cheekbones look sharper, his eyes darker, and his ear-points... Elrond suddenly had the urge to curl his tongue around those delicate points. Melpomaen's shapely ears looked like they had been painted with the moon's own silvery rays, and glimmered in the dim light of the clearing.
It took a few moments for Elrond to realize he was openly staring. He would have felt ashamed had he not seen that half the Elves around him were doing likewise. As Melpomaen walked, the crowd parted before him and admiring eyes followed his every step.
"Why, that young rascal!" the librarian continued. "I never knew he hid such a fine physique under those loose robes of his. Tell me," he added, his voice gaining a sense of urgency, "I cannot see from here, but... what colour are the ribbons in his hair?"
Elrond felt a brief moment of panic at the thought that Melpomaen had finally gotten tired of the uncertainty of their relationship and was taking advantage of the festivities to gain some much needed relief. But then his eyes caught a golden gleam twisting among Melpomaen's braids.
"Gold." He exhaled.
"He would not dress this way if he did not have pleasure in mind for the night," the librarian said. "He must have a serious lover then. I did not know he was spoken for." He turned to Elrond, the drunken haze in his eyes fighting for dominance with logical thought. "You wouldn't know who holds that young beauty's heart, my Lord, would you?"
Elrond's heart was pounding. The sight of Melpomaen so arrayed – and the thought that the young Elf had put on such a display for his benefit alone -- made him feel as if he were split into strange, disjointed duality: his body feverish with the need to caress and his heart chilled at the thought that he could offer so little, and Melpomaen deserved so much.
With difficulty, he averted his eyes from the tempting vision in the clearing. "Yes, I do know. And I think the young one merits someone a great deal better." He pressed his still-full wine goblet into the librarian's hand and turned toward the forest at his back.
"My Lord?"
Elrond heard the surprise in his companion's voice, but kept on walking, needing to feel the trees' protective darkness around him. The oaks' tangled branches beckoned him nearer, promising solitude. He hastened his step.
He was nearly there when the touch of a cool hand on his shoulder halted his escape. He turned, only half surprised to see his wife's blue eyes gazing into his own.
"Taking a stroll?" Celebrían's face was unreadable.
"Yes."
Elrond saw her glance back toward the bonfires, eyes lingering on Melpomaen for a second too long. Then she turned to him. "Walk with me," she said, and took his hand. He had little choice; he followed. The silent shadow of the forest closed around them.
Making his way through the clearing, Melpomaen felt more exposed than he had in his entire life. Not even when lying naked beside Elrond had he felt so unnervingly on display. His clothes clung to him with an uncomfortably sensual insistence, and dozens of eyes followed his every move. Normally he would have turned and fled long ago, but too much was at stake.
"Hello, beautiful!" a voice called to him.
"Are those gold ribbons for me?" someone else said, this time from the opposite direction, and Melpomaen came perilously close to abandoning the entire scheme. Then he glimpsed Elrond's figure among the crowd, and kept on walking.
Elrond was looking Melpomaen's way. There was a cup of wine in his hand, but he wasn't drinking it. Rather, he held it as if he had forgotten it was there. Suddenly the Elves around Melpomaen no longer mattered; he had an audience of one. He slowed his walk and exaggerated the sway of his hips.
Even from far away Melpomaen could see that Elrond's eyes – those beloved grey eyes -- were riveted to him, watching his progress through the crowd. With that gaze holding him like a tender embrace, he no longer felt timid or ashamed. It was just the two of them now, and so he moved teasingly, every tilt of the head an invitation, every step a silent declaration of love.
But then Elrond turned away. In a moment, Celebrían was beside him, and the two were disappearing into the surrounding woods, heads inclined in private conversation. Melpomaen felt his foot catch on something, and nearly went tumbling to the ground.
"Careful, meldir, you don't want to get those clothes dirty. They look far too good to be stained with grass." Haldir had appeared out of nowhere and steadied Melpomaen by the elbow. "Unless, of course, the staining is done in pleasant company, in some private, out-of-the-way glade."
"Oh, it's you, Haldir." Melpomaen stepped out of Haldir's reach, once again painfully conscious of his appearance. "No, I think I'd rather keep my garments clean."
" A shame, that. Your Lord and his wife seem to have the right idea. Or didn't you see them slip away into the forest like a couple of newlyweds?"
"I saw." Melpomaen thought grief might choke him, so violently did it seize him by the throat. To think that Elrond and Celebrían were actually going to... He felt a churning in the pit of his stomach, and was almost glad when Haldir's strong hand grasped his elbow once more.
"Whatever is the matter? Those gold ribbons look at odds with the lovelorn look on your face. Is the evening not going as planned? Do not tell me all that finery you are wearing is to go to waste."
Melpomaen did not trust himself to speak. He merely looked at Haldir and tried to compose his face into an expression that would give less away. The guardian's hand slid up his arm.
"Come, my friend, you look badly in need of a drink. Luckily I know just where to get the best vintage," Haldir was saying. He steered Melpomaen toward the edge of the clearing, close to the large barrels of wine.
"I'm not certain I want to--"
"Oh, yes, you do. Nothing like a glass or two to take the sting out of love's little disappointments. Though I must say that whoever spurned you tonight is an utter fool."
The bonfires were as bright as they had been some minutes ago, and the guests laughed as loudly and sang with just as much merriment as when Elrond had stood with glass in hand and loved Melpomaen with his eyes. But all the gaiety in the air now seemed hollow, the night's enchantment gone.
Melpomaen sat down on a bench beside Haldir and took the glass that was handed to him. The wine was sweet and strong; it made his head spin and numbed his body with a pleasant indifference. He drank. When offered more, he did not refuse.
Elrond and Celebrían walked hand in hand, strangely united, their footfalls cushioned by the forest floor. The wood, absorbed in its whispers, pay them no heed and let them pass unseen. They had come far, the laughter of revellers and the sighs of lovers now only distant echoes among the trees. They would not be disturbed here and could talk freely. And yet neither one had spoken a word.
Celebrían's hand felt cool in Elrond's palm: foreign yet familiar, at once a comfort and a threat. Wife, friend, enemy -- she was all that, and powerful in her many holds on him. Though often gentle, she could be uncompromising in her honesty. What would her judgment be now? Elrond longed to speak and break the silence between them, and yet dared not begin. The quiet night stretched around him like a void, heralding pain.
"It is beautiful here. I had almost forgotten." Celebrían's fingers reached out to touch a leafy branch. "I shall miss these woods when I am gone, though the ones in Lórien are certainly as fair."
Elrond's heart stopped. Or maybe it was just his feet. "You're leaving?"
"Yes, in a few days. After the festivities have come to a close and all my Galadhrim have recovered, that is. I'd like to make the journey before the nights turn colder." She smiled and, quirking an eyebrow, added, "Do not tell me my absence will be lamented."
Though said in jest, her words held enough barbs to wound, all the more so because they were true. Elrond felt a tug of regret for all the things that lay broken between them. " Celebrían," he said. "You know I am sorry. I never meant--"
"I know," she said quietly, fingers tracing the gold band he still wore. "You did your best. You always do." She squeezed his hand and then let go. "Anyway, it no longer matters. My party will be gone within a week, and I with it. If you have letters you wish to write, I will gladly deliver them. I am certain many would be glad of news from you."
"I will write tomorrow, and give orders to have your company equipped with ample provisions for the journey. Would you like an escort to accompany you at least part of the way? Many of my guards would welcome the distraction from the monotony of patrol."
"There is no need. My Galadhrim are numerous and more than competent, and might even take offence at being offered assistance." She smiled at him, as if sharing a private joke, then gently touched his shoulder. "In a few days, I shall be on my own again. As will you."
Elrond fell quiet. Indeed, in a few days things would go back to their natural course. The emotional distance between them would once again find its outward expression in physical separation. It was what he had wished for, practically since her arrival. And yet some part of him now felt inexplicably sad.
"Thank you for celebrating midsummer with us," he said. "The people are always glad to see you. Truly, you were the heart of the festivities this year, as in the past."
"You give me too much credit. You have carried out your duties with grace and dedication for centuries now, and your people love you for it. One small appearance by your wife could not have made that much of a difference."
"Still, it is always better not to toil alone."
Elrond had wanted the words to sound neutral, but the alienation he had felt over the past months could not help but colour their meaning. He sensed something in the quality of the night's silence change then, as if a deeper stillness had bound him and Celebrían closer together.
"That is true," she said. "But you have friends here who care for you far too much to let you toil in loneliness and sorrow." She held his eyes for an instant, then looked away, gazing over the tops of the trees. There was a moment of silence. Then: "The young advisor, Melpomaen. He is a great help to you, is he not?"
Elrond's heart lurched. "Yes."
Celebrían's words were measured and careful, as if she had thought them over many times in her mind and wanted to ensure their accuracy. "Then I am glad. I have spoken to him only briefly, but I can see that he is bright and kind." Slowly, she turned around and looked into Elrond's face, her expression solemn, almost shy. "It gives me comfort to know that you are in good company -- if you and I can never be more than friends."
Elrond, whose speeches usually flowed with the ease of mountain streams and with just as much beauty, for once found himself utterly at a loss for words.
Celebrían squeezed his hand. "May your life be a happy one, husband. May the Valar guide and keep you, and may the light of a hundred thousand stars shine upon you." She kissed him softly, and finished in a whisper, "Upon you both."
Melpomaen's cheeks had more colour than usual and his eyes were brighter, but he still wasn't smiling, or talking much, for that matter. Indeed, his lips, set in a horizontal line, were clamped as stubbornly together as reluctant virgins' knees. Haldir poured another cup of wine and renewed his efforts.
"You know, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of your company for such a long stretch of time. You always seem to hurry past me in those flowing robes of yours. Flowing, *ample* robes of yours." He took a sip of wine, conscious of the alluring red tinge it gave to his lips. "I must admit that I always wished I might see more of you, so to speak. And it seems my wish has been granted." Smiling suggestively, he ran his eyes along Melpomaen's tightly clad form. "Oh, I do love it when reality far surpasses the reaches of imagination."
Melpomaen's expression did not change. Haldir shifted closer on the bench; he would rouse the quiet scribe's interest if it took all night and an entire barrel of wine. "Clever as you are, I bet you know exactly where every book is stored without having to consult those tedious indexes. Will you not gratify a poor Galadhel's thirst for knowledge by taking him on a tour of the archives tonight? You know..." He slid his leg flush with Melpomaen's thigh. Even through the fabric, the skin felt hot and yielding. "I have it on good authority that the libraries here have an extensive collection of books of a... sensual nature. Some with illustrations."
Melpomaen's eyes flitted up briefly. His cheeks had turned a darker shade of pink, which only accentuated the silver gleam on the points of his ears. Haldir felt his lust rise and swell until he could barely sit still. The young one had better start responding to his advances soon; he could not wait much longer.
"You might be interested to hear," he continued, handing another cup of wine in Melpomaen's direction, "that the artist who illuminated one of those erotic volumes did so while in the Golden Wood." He dropped his voice and leaned closer. "I was one of his models. He said that my form was impressive and my ability to pose for extended periods...enviable. If you like, we might find the book together, and I could show you--"
"That won't be necessary, Haldir." Melpomaen shifted a full foot away on the bench. "I have seen the books you speak of, and am familiar with their contents."
"Oh?" This certainly was an interesting development. Haldir closed the gap between them once more, this time lifting a hand to play with the hem of Melpomaen's tunic. "Which pictures did you enjoy the most? And did they inspire you to--"
"Haldir, really, I do not see why my reading habits should suddenly interest you so much."
If Melpomaen slid away any farther down the bench, he would soon wind up on the ground. As tempting a visual as that presented, Haldir forced himself to stay still and try a different approach. "It is only because I am concerned about your well-being."
" My well-being?" Melpomaen looked thrown off balance.
"Yes. For one so young and tantalizingly beautiful -- don't disagree with me here; you are a charming creature," he added in response to a sceptical glance from Melpomaen. "For one so obviously at the height of his sensual powers, you seem to be leading an exceedingly lonely existence. It cannot but do you harm."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Haldir--"
"No, really! You work with healers, so you are no doubt aware that the body's needs must be fulfilled regularly, and the consequences of suppressing such natural impulses for an extended period are dire." He leaned in closer. "You should do something to remedy that, my friend. And what better night to give the body what it wants than tonight, hm?"
Melpomaen's face had flushed a bit more, but he did not move away -- something Haldir took as an encouraging sign. Maybe it was time to steer the conversation onto a more direct course. The night, after all, was not infinite.
"Look around you, meldir," he said. "Look at all the couples embracing, claiming kisses, slipping away into the woods. Should we not take their example?"
As if to illustrate his point, Glorfindel and Erestor walked by just at that moment, mere yards away from the bench on which Haldir and Melpomaen sat. So absorbed were they in each other that they did not notice Melpomaen's eyes following their progress. Hand-in-hand they strode, heading in the direction of the trees.
Haldir allowed himself a small smirk, his thoughts turning to the matter of Lord Glorfindel and all those missing riding crops. Would Melpomaen... But no, the young one would likely not be amenable to *that* sort of play. Although, if he had a bit more wine...
Haldir poured Melpomaen another cup.
"You're wrong, Haldir. That is... you're not entirely right." The look in Melpomaen's eyes was earnest, and, though he had taken the wine cup handed to him, he was not drinking from it. "Carnal pleasures are wonderful and very important, of course, but they should not be shared with just anyone." His mouth trembled. "They are best saved for someone, well... special. Casual acquaintances can do more harm than good."
"Oh, come now." Haldir quickly gauged the feelings apparent on Melpomaen's face and decided to tread carefully. A touchy topic called for expert handling. "You say that because you are young and your experience is limited. I assure you that one-time encounters can be just as, if not more, gratifying than long-term relations. Certainly more exciting." He raised both eyebrows, his look openly suggestive. "And what about those poor souls who, for whatever reason, have been... jilted?"
The stricken expression in Melpomaen's eyes held just the kind of vulnerability Haldir had been hoping for. Gently he placed his hand on the young scribe's knee. "Should those who have been abandoned through no fault of their own remain alone, in their cold beds, with no hope of companionship? Certainly not." His hand squeezed. "It wouldn't be fair. They, too, deserve..." Here he dropped his voice to a husky whisper. "The touch of warm hands and a skilled mouth. The weight of a muscled chest pressing them into the bed sheets. The sweet, incomparable feeling of having another's body enter their own..."
Melpomaen's mouth opened slightly and his hand clenched around his wine glass. Haldir felt joy at such clear evidence of a seduction properly under way. The young one was falling into his trap! Another few minutes, and *he* would be dragging Haldir off into the forest.
"My dear Melpomaen. Acts which are so natural -- and so deliciously pleasurable -- are everyone's Valar-given right. And tonight is the perfect time to take advantage! Why, just think..."
He was going to bring up the fact that chances of finding a pleasure partner were greatly diminished on nights other than midsummer night's eve, and that the year was long and lonely. But, in an instant, Haldir found his time running out. Elrond had re-emerged from the woods -- without Celebrían -- and was looking around, seeking someone: no doubt Melpomaen. Haldir had to act. Now.
Well, desperate times called for desperate measures. He turned to Melpomaen and doubled over, as if in pain. " Oooh," he moaned, gripping the edge of the bench.
"Haldir?"
"I... I don't feel well all of a sudden."
"But you were fine just a moment ago!" Melpomaen had moved closer and placed a comforting hand on Haldir's back.
"My head is spinning, and I feel cold. I think I need to lie down." Haldir straightened up slowly, noting with satisfaction that Melpomaen did not take his hand away. "Will you help me to my room? I fear I might fall."
The bench they sat on was well away from the crowds and close to the path that led back to the Last Homely House. Melpomaen, solicitously helping Haldir stand, did not have cause to turn around and face the bonfires. He did not see Elrond anxiously scanning the clearing; he was far too focused on Haldir's supposed pain.
As they walked toward the path, Haldir leaned heavily on Melpomaen, taking full advantage of their bodies' proximity. He was bent forward, feigning weakness, and it wasn't until they had nearly disappeared into the forest that he looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the clearing. He caught Elrond's eye then. Tightening his hold on Melpomaen's waist, he gave a boastful, leering grin.
Notes: meldir - friend (male)
Again, for the significance of the silver/gold ribbon signaling system (the simplified Imladris version of the handkerchief in back pocket code) see Sweetness and Gall.
The annoying librarian first made his appearance in Chapter Eight of Sweetness and Gall. He was sober then.
The wine drunk in such copious quantities in this chapter is the Dorwinion vintage (the wine they drink in "The Hobbit"). The Greenwood Elves imported it and, for the purposes of this story, brought it with them as a gift to Elrond. If anyone knows of a good red wine that sounds similar in flavour to this one, I'll gladly take recommendations. Mmm , red wine.
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