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Secondhand Happiness
by Maggie Honeybite
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Chapter 15

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve

Elrond was no stranger to injuries. As a healer, he had seen many over the ages, most far more serious than the ones he was tending now. Yet he had never learned to easily bear pain suffered by those he loved, and so his hands were especially gentle as they washed and salved the scratches on Melpomaen's face. The bruise on the young Elf's cheek was dark and swollen; Haldir must have had a heavy hand.

Elrond pressed a cool, damp cloth to the purple mark. "The scratches are superficial and should heal quickly, even without care. This poultice is primarily to soothe and prevent infection."

"I know. You yourself taught me herbal lore."

"Yes, I remember."

Melpomaen gave a lopsided smile. "You do?"

"Of course."

How could he forget those early days? They had worked side by side, Melpomaen's eyes shining with curiosity and eagerness. Elrond had never before had such an able student -- or one who was liable to lean over whatever bitter herbal potion they happened to be working on, only to smile mischievously and sweetly kiss his mouth.

He rolled up one of his drooping sleeves, forcing himself to focus. Now was certainly not the time to burden his once-lover with the emotionally tricky matter of a possible reconciliation. Regardless of Celebrían's consent, many lonely months divided Melpomaen and himself, months that would not be bridged easily.

"Can you feel the effects of the calming tea yet?" he asked.

"A troop of Orcs could gallop past me in this very room and I wouldn't even flinch," Melpomaen said.

The bravado was forced: Melpomaen's hands still had a slight tremor -- and probably would for a while, for how was it possible to forget the kind of shock he had suffered? Herbs might cure wounds, compresses alleviate pain, but the hurts inflicted on the soul were far harder to mend.

Elrond moved his fingers from Melpomaen's cheek to his temple, then his hair. It was loose, all elaborate ornaments gone. The festive crimson tunic looked out of place now, like a brilliant robe of state in a cupboard full of plain garments.

"Elrond--"

"Mel, I think--"

They had both spoken at once.

Elrond took in the nervous flush spreading across Melpomaen's cheeks. "What is it?" he asked.

"You first."

"I was just going to suggest you get out of these torn clothes. I can lend you a robe."

The flush deepened. "Thank you. That's very thoughtful."

"Why, what were you going to say?"

Melpomaen paused, as if looking across a precipice and judging whether to jump or take a step back. "Nothing. It can wait."

There was a long, shapeless thing of midnight blue at the back of the wardrobe. Melpomaen had once liked to wear it, more because he found it comforting than because it was in any way stylish or beautiful. Elrond shook the robe out now and put it in Melpomaen's hands.

"I'll... turn around to give you some privacy," he said, conscious of how odd the words sounded.

The line of Melpomaen's mouth wavered for a moment, forming neither smile nor frown. He clutched the dark blue material.

Elrond turned toward the door. He heard the rustling of silk, then the words, "It's all right, you can look."

Melpomaen was sitting on the edge of the bed, the robe's long sleeves covering his hands so that only the fingers peeked out. The sight was so familiar that Elrond found it hard to believe they had not just spent the evening making love. But the outward appearance of things was only that: appearance, not reality. Back then, they would have tumbled on the sheets together, taking pleasure in each other's closeness and laughter. Now propriety separated them like a wall.

Melpomaen cleared his throat. "Much more comfortable."

"Good. Will you let me examine your chest and back?"

"Of course." He freed his arms from the sleeves, gathering the robe modestly around his waist, then turned his face away. Elrond sat down, careful to leave a foot of space between them.

The handful of times Elrond had seen Haldir, the Galadhel had struck him as a powerful and able soldier. He remembered thinking that such strength of body was no doubt put to good use on the field of battle. It had never occurred to him that the very brawn he admired would one day be turned against someone innocent and vulnerable.

There were finger-shaped bruises from Melpomaen's shoulder all the way to his elbow. Elrond touched them lightly. "He didn't hold back, did he? He left marks all the way down your arm."

Melpomaen stiffened, but Elrond did not cease his examination. He probed the skin, peering closely. "There are some on your back as well, as if from impact with a blunt surface. Now I'll just take a look at the other side..."

"Unsightly, isn't it?" Melpomaen's hands crumpled the silk on his knees.

"Unsightly?"

"So much for the pains I took with my hair and clothes. I probably shouldn't have even tried, only I wanted so much to..."

"Mel."

"I wanted so much for you to..."

"It's all right." Elrond squeezed Melpomaen's hands. The calming tea had obviously not been sufficiently potent; the young Elf's voice was shaking.

"...to see me, and..."

"Hush now. Hush." Elrond smoothed back Melpomaen's hair. "You know I saw you. You looked so beautiful I could hardly take my eyes off you."

"I did?"

"Oh, yes."

They sat quietly for a few moments, side by side. Gradually, Melpomaen's breathing slowed and grew steady.

"Elrond," Melpomaen said at last. "You know I would never presume to challenge Celebrían's place. And you think that I suffer from the enforced restraint. But, you see -- I am not unhappy in the shadows. I never was fond of the public eye."

Had it come to this? Elrond had once seen an exchange between a captain of Men and one of his subordinates: a soldier far from young. The soldier had clasped his wrinkled hands together, voice hoarse with effort as he explained that he did not mind being given an inferior steed, that he could still ride and fight. The dignity in that plea was so precarious that Elrond had felt shamed merely bearing witness. And now Mel...

"Do not say such things."

"Why not?" Melpomaen's face shone with the quiet, steady certainty that usually ensured his words were heeded by advisors much more senior in both years and experience. "You aren't keeping me from better things: I do not crave them. Naturally, I would not go against Celebrían's express wishes, but should she ever--"

"She..." Elrond hesitated, but only for a second. "She plans to leave in a week."

"Oh." Melpomaen's hands stopped in mid-gesture. He lowered them to his lap and smoothed the robe over his thighs. "And she told you she did not wish for you to dally with me."

"Quite the contrary! She was uncommonly understanding."

"You... do not want me then?" Melpomaen's face fell.

Of all reactions, this was certainly not the one Elrond had expected. He fumbled for the right words, coming up with none. "Whatever on Arda makes you think that?"

"Well... We have just spent the past half-hour in your chambers. Alone. With you tending to the injuries on my body. We haven't touched in what might as well be millennia, you know I am wearing nothing under this robe, and yet you haven't as much as..."

"You've had a trying night."

"A trying night? I've slept in an empty bed for months, longed for you every minute -- and you say I've had a trying *night*?" Melpomaen narrowed his eyes. "It's the bruises, isn't it?"

"No! Valar, no. You look good enough to..."

"To what?" The corners of Melpomaen's mouth were lifting in a way that heralded familiar and long-missed delights.

Elrond searched his mind for scraps of lore or poetry; after such a long time apart, the words of sensual invitation he spoke to his lover should be profound or at least lyrical. He had many volumes of sonnets in his library; surely a line or two would come to him soon.

"Your eyes are as bright as... Your hair is lovelier than..."

Melpomaen let the robe fall to the floor. His hand crept up Elrond's thigh.

"Oh, Fires of Mordor!" Inadequate, uncouth, the words came tumbling out almost of their own accord. "Mel, I want you..."

Melpomaen's eyes shone. His face, lit up with happiness, was more beautiful than ever. "I see the history books were right," he said. "Your eloquence is legendary."


Outside the peaceful walls of the Last Homely House, two heavily laden horses made their way down the road to the Ford of Bruinen. Their riders, cloaked despite the mild weather, spoke little, as if unwilling to call attention to themselves. They looked at each other even less, their behaviour strangely at odds with the merry mood of the midsummer night celebrations.

When the trees' cover grew denser, one of them turned to his companion at last. Pitching his voice low, he said, "We should ride faster. I'm keen to leave this place behind."

"Don't be a fool, Caegaran," the other replied. "The horses have a long way to go, and we shouldn't tire them needlessly. We're outlaws now, remember? We count on these beasts for a great deal."

"Well, I'd rather count on them than on you." Caegaran spit over his horse's left flank. "And weren't you the one who said we should refrain from calling each other by name? Hm, Haldir?"

"Bastard."

"Imbecile. Failed seducer of knock-kneed underage scribes. Inbred mortal with the breath of an Orc."

Haldir snorted. "Well, you'd better get used to my company; we're about to see a lot of each other."

"I curse the day I was born."

"Oh, good. We're in agreement then."

They rode on for some time in near-silence, the clack of the horses' hooves the only sound disturbing the night. Just before the road veered right, Haldir turned to Caegaran once more, his mouth twisting in a sneer.

"What are you looking at? Missing home already?"

Caegaran was indeed looking over his shoulder, into the distance where the far-off lights of the Last Homely House could still be seen. His eyes were focused on one particular window, which stood out from its darkened neighbours because of a row of candles flickering on its sill. The effect was like that of a lighthouse spreading hope and the promise of welcome across the hostile waves of the sea.

"What, is Lord Elrond waving a handkerchief in farewell?" Haldir asked.

Caegaran glanced at him, teeth clenched. "Say something like that again and I'll cut your throat in your sleep."

"Provided I don't get to you first." Haldir urged his horse to go faster.

Caegaran bristled, but followed.


The candles in the window flickered. Elrond felt a cool breeze on his skin, and would have wondered whether a storm was coming -- if rational thought had not been the farthest thing from his mind.

Melpomaen moved on top of him, pressing him into the bed. Elrond held him close -- remembering the feel of him, learning it all over again. To think that he had gone all these months without this young heart beating next to his own, without this voice whispering his name... How had he managed? How had he not railed to the heavens at his loss?

The muscles in Melpomaen's back flexed and shifted under Elrond's hands. His robe lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and his body -- naked, impossibly beautiful -- was at once so familiar and such a revelation that Elrond felt his throat constrict with love. "Oh, Mel." He crushed their mouths together in a kiss. Rolling them over, he settled in between Melpomaen's spread thighs.

Melpomaen slid a leg around Elrond's waist, locking their hips together. Then he gripped Elrond's neck and pulled him down. "You may think me shameless," he said, "but I want no sweet words or soft touches tonight."

"No?"

"No. All I want is you in me. Taking me hard and fast, and--"

"Elbereth, yes!"

Melpomaen laid his head back on the bed, eyes wide, breath coming fast. He spread his legs further. "Hurry."

Though long unused, the necessary implements were easily enough found, and soon Elrond was warming a flask of fragrant oil in his palm as he lifted Melpomaen's knees and stroked his thighs. Then the young Elf closed his eyes and held his breath, arched his back and...

"Ah!" Melpomaen gasped. His hands found Elrond's buttocks and squeezed. It took all of Elrond's self-control not to howl in bliss.

The rhythm they found was slow only at first; in no time at all it grew forceful, almost desperate. Though Elrond had touched Melpomaen's bruised shoulder cautiously not long before, now he grasped his flesh with little regard for care, wanting only to touch and feel as much as possible. Melpomaen, too, seemed utterly unconcerned about his injuries. His heels dug into the small of Elrond's back and his hands clutched Elrond's shoulders. His ragged sighs urged them both on.

With the force of their passion being such, Elrond would not have stopped if the ceiling had fallen down upon them. But when Melpomaen's sharp moans suddenly grew silent, he opened his eyes, alarmed.

Melpomaen's body was taut, eyes closed, muscles strung tight to the brink of endurance. Some of the shimmering powder on his ears was streaked across his face, and a strand of Elrond's hair had fallen across his mouth. He looked so intense, so completely focused on the pleasure of his body, that Elrond nearly stilled in awe -- though his hips kept pumping at a steady pace.

"Mel," he whispered, and Melpomaen opened his eyes. His lips were trembling. His fingers dug into Elrond's shoulders.

"Oh, Mel." Elrond buried his face in the crook of Melpomaen's neck. He felt his own body tense and begin the inevitable climb toward rapture, every muscle shivering in joy, at one with the gladness in his heart. "Thank the Valar you're mine..."

One more thrust, and Melpomaen cried out in a strangled whimper. His knees tightened around Elrond's sides as his body contracted in a spasm, and in an instant Elrond was with him, and they were clinging together and riding the crest of a wave that soared and soared and never seemed to stop.

When Elrond opened his eyes again he was lying with his head on Melpomaen's shoulder and a leg thrown possessively over the young Elf's thighs. The air in the room seemed colder; two of the candles on the window ledge had blown out.

"At last." Melpomaen's eyes were bright with mirth. "I was beginning to worry I'd incapacitated you for good."

"No need to fret. I may be old, but I'm far from fragile."

Elrond buried his face in Melpomaen's neck once more, sighing with satisfaction. He felt like a man who has for long months endured the uncomfortable and hostile surroundings of a strange land, and now miraculously finds himself in his own house, his own bed -- every stitch of his clothing and every well-worn chair reassuringly familiar, and beautiful in its comfort. His hands caressed Melpomaen's slim waist, moved up to cup the edges of his rib cage.

"You've grown thinner," he said.

"Thinner and bruised. Don't forget scratched. In short, much the worse for wear."

"Nonsense. You're more beautiful than ever, and a thousand times more tempting. But..." Elrond traced the edge of Melpomaen's jaw, kissed his bruised cheek. "Tell me, have you not been eating?"

Melpomaen shrugged dismissively.

"You ought to take better care of yourself," Elrond said.

"I haven't had much of an appetite."

"Because of me."

Melpomaen looked away, winding the edge of the sheet around one of his fingers. He was silent for a few moments and, when he did speak, his voice was quiet and deliberately controlled. "This hasn't been easy for me, you know."

"I know. I never for a moment imagined it was. I don't think I shall ever forgive myself--"

Melpomaen placed a hand across Elrond's mouth. His face wore an expression Elrond had not seen before -- a cross between weariness, indulgence and acceptance. "Of course you'll forgive yourself; I've already forgiven you. If I hadn't, I might have agreed to an offer from the libraries in Lothlórien. As you can see, I'm still here."

Dread tightened its knot in Elrond's chest. "I might have lost you," he said.

"You haven't."

"But I might have. What's more, I would have deserved it."

Melpomaen looked at him fondly. "You are more just and honourable than anyone I know, and yet you fault yourself for not being just or honourable enough. Why would I blame you for trying to do right by the mother of your children, for refusing to lie and deceive?"

"Because I hurt you."

Silently, Melpomaen hid his face in Elrond's hair. After a little while, he said, "That cannot be helped sometimes. It's just the way things are -- you know that."

The room had grown cold by this time, so they retrieved Elrond's crumpled robe from the foot of the bed and draped it over them, spooning together for warmth. Though it made a good makeshift blanket, the chill was descending surprisingly fast; the next gust of wind blew out the last of the candles and set Melpomaen to shivering.

"The bonfires down in the clearing are blazing hot." Elrond drew him closer. "If circumstances were different, we could go down and warm ourselves there. If only it weren't so public..." He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead between Melpomaen's shoulder blades. "It's a lot to give up, choosing me," he whispered.

"Now, listen." Melpomaen's voice was solemn, though not sad. He half-turned, trying to see Elrond's face. "I can no more let you go than purge all the blood from my body."

"Well, you know that can be arranged. I am a healer after all... Ah!"

Melpomaen had elbowed him in the ribs. They struggled briefly, then lay back down, laughing. In the silence that fell they heard the first hesitant raindrops of the coming storm.

"You see?" Melpomaen said. "This is far more pleasant. We will not get rain-soaked in this bed." He smiled. His head lay on the pillow, tangled hair fanning out around him. His slim frame made him look young and the bruises further emphasized the impression of vulnerability -- and yet his eyes, gazing steadily into Elrond's own, held a strength that was impossible to deny. Not ostentatious force, such as warriors might try to convey through the impressiveness of their arms, but rather a quiet firmness: a bright-burning spirit that seemed to say, 'Give me your burden, I am strong enough for two.'

Humbled, Elrond could only speak the words that lay heavily on his heart. "I'm sorry I cannot offer you more, Mel."

He felt fingers in his hair, caressing, bringing comfort. He heard his name being whispered, then the quiet answer: "Don't dwell on all that. Be happy with what we can give each other. I am."


Chapter 16

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve

The weather changed quickly. The first gusts of cold wind tangled Glorfindel's hair even before he had left the protective cover of the trees, and by the time he had made his way up the steps to the Last Homely House rain had begun to fall. He wiped his damp face with the back of a hand. Nothing would distract him from his task.

Gildor had climbed the staircase and turned left, following Erestor and the drunken librarian down one of the long hallways. He seemed so sure of the outcome of his pursuit that he did not bother concealing his presence overmuch; though he walked quietly, he did not hide in the shadows. Tense with outrage, Glorfindel prayed to every Vala he could think of for a pretext to make his anger known.

The Valar must have had sympathetic ears. He did not wait long.

Having apparently reached the right room, Erestor guided the librarian inside, ensuring that the unsteady Elf did not trip on the threshold or hit his head on the doorframe. Out in the hallway, Gildor reached down and unfastened his leather belt, then wound it around his hand. The lecherous expression on his face left little doubt that his purpose was twofold: to lose no time in inflicting pain and to ease access to his own breeches.

The thought that in Gildor's view the two were inextricably linked pushed Glorfindel over the edge. He stepped out from behind a stone pillar and approached.

"Lost your way? The suite of rooms assigned to you is not only in another wing, but on another floor."

Gildor did not start. He merely looked up, and said, "Glorfindel. I believe that, as a guest, I have the right to walk down any corridor I please. Or has this courtesy been denied me?"

"Not every guest deserves courtesy."

"Ah, yes. I see now why Elrond never sends you on diplomatic assignments."

"I am a warrior, not a politician."

"And apparently the years spent making war have blunted your ability to reason, for anyone with a modicum of common sense would quickly have divined my purpose." Gildor smirked. "I'm here for something I want. Which used to be mine, and shall be again."

Glorfindel's fingers curled into fists. "He is not a 'thing'."

"Isn't he?" Gildor tugged on the belt wrapped around his hand. "You obviously haven't seen him with me. Such obedience, such a keen desire to please--"

The thread of Glorfindel's patience snapped. He swung his fist, aiming for Gildor's face -- but hit only the air. Gildor ducked and dodged the blow, then hit back with his belt-wrapped hand, grazing the side of Glorfindel's jaw.

Furious, Glorfindel threw punch after punch, but Gildor evaded each one and responded with jabs of his own, his contemptuous expression never wavering. Perceiving that his chance lay with strength rather than technique, Glorfindel ducked under Gildor's blows to grapple.

They struggled face to face, muscles tensing, tendons straining, until a stagger sent them into a door opposite the librarian's room. The impact forced the door open, and they stumbled into the empty chamber, then continued through a stone archway. Glorfindel felt rain drench his face, and realized they had come out onto a balcony.

Gildor came at him savagely then, pinning him against the wall and punching him in the groin. Glorfindel doubled over, gasping. The ground swayed beneath him, vertigo making the balcony railings seem uncomfortably close. He struggled upright and lashed out blindly, aiming for Gildor's face once more.

His aim had been true. Red stained Gildor's blue-and-gold tunic and he grunted in pain. He stepped back, his lips parted in a grimace, blood and rain dripping from his chin.

"You'll yield to me yet," he said. "Just like your precious Erestor."

Glorfindel's answer was to throw another punch.

Gildor stumbled backwards against the railing, momentum impelling him over the edge. He screamed, fighting to keep his balance. Then he fell.

Glorfindel ran forward and looked down. Gildor was clutching at the stone, knuckles white with the effort. His feet hung free, and the leather belt he had been holding lay on the steps below, twisted like a discarded snakeskin. "Please..." His eyes latched onto Glorfindel's. "Help me!"

A man without honour might have walked away, but Glorfindel gripped Gildor's forearms and hauled his heavy bulk over the railing. Gildor slumped, chest heaving with every gulp of air.

"Take a few minutes to catch your breath," Glorfindel said. "Then we'll find a less tricky spot to conduct our business. Fists and swords I don't mind, but this isn't my idea of a fair fight."

"Quite right." Gildor stepped back, his breathing still laboured. Tendrils of rain-drenched hair clung to his cheeks; he brushed them back from his wet face. "Not fair at all. Then again..."

He crouched and sprang, throwing all his weight against Glorfindel's middle and pushing him over the edge of the railing.

The world tumbled, weightlessly turned on its head. Glorfindel was falling, desperate to grasp onto anything -- aware of naught but the steps below. His hand brushed against a rough surface and he scrabbled for purchase, managing to seize the base of a narrow stone rail. Pain shot through his arms as the momentum of his fall was abruptly arrested, but he hung on.

Above him, Gildor laughed. "Who said all fights had to be fair?"

Glorfindel didn't reply; all his concentration was focused on not letting go. One of his hands was sliding, ever slowly, the coarse stone scraping against the skin. Whenever he glanced up, he could see Gildor's shape blurred by the rain.

Gildor said, "Our positions seem to be reversed, and I must confess that I like this far, far better. Only..." The sole of his boot came to rest on Glorfindel's knuckles. "I cannot promise to be as noble --or, shall we say, foolish -- as you." The boot pressed down in a slow, grinding motion.

Glorfindel choked back a whimper. His hand was on fire. He forced himself not to relax his grip, but Gildor's foot kept pressing harder. His fingers were losing all feeling, save agony; he would not be able to hold on much longer. Already he could feel himself slipping...

And then -- the terrible pressure stopped. Glorfindel heaved himself up to get a better grasp, and, through the stone rails, saw a flash of dark green fabric.

A familiar voice, strange in its tone of righteous anger, was saying, "Leave him be and face me, you coward!"

Glorfindel exhaled with relief. Erestor had come.

Gildor turned to face his new opponent. "Ill humour does not become you," he said evenly. "Calm yourself. I merely seek to teach your friend a lesson: that you are mine, and mine alone."

Gildor's voice was cold and sharp as a newly forged dagger. Glorfindel held his breath. Not so long ago, Gildor's mere glance would have been enough to undo Erestor, reduce him to self-doubt and fear.

There was a silence, and then...

Erestor said, "I belong to me. Whatever love I have is mine to give -- and no one's to take without my consent. You hurt me once, but you shall not do so again, for I will not allow it." He stepped forward, the green robes swinging around his feet. "And now you will fight me and either die under my hand or leave and never come back."

Gildor laughed. "A valiant effort, but a misguided one. You and I both know that--"

There was a sound of a fist striking flesh. Gildor cried out and stumbled.

"Why you..." Gildor spat on the ground; gone was the cool distance he had maintained throughout his struggle with Glorfindel. "After a beating, are you? You whoring piece of filth..."

Erestor said nothing, but Glorfindel could see his feet adopt a fighting stance. The two pairs of boots circled each other for some moments with steady, symmetrical steps, before abandoning their measured rhythm in favour of sudden lunges and feints. Puddles splashed in time to grunts and the sound of blows from above.

Glorfindel lifted himself as much as he was able, muscles trembling from the effort. He would be damned if he missed the sight of Erestor finally facing the source of his fears. He swung his legs sideways, hooked his foot around the base of a railing, then carefully pulled himself up and climbed over the balustrade.

At last he could see.

And what a sight it was. Gildor was a strong adversary, and yet it was Erestor who had the upper hand. Each of his movements was precise, almost effortless -- as if it were not his hands that dealt the blows, but his will; not his feet that moved him surely over the rain-splattered stone, but his spirit. Spurred on by memories of the hurts he had suffered at Gildor's hands, Erestor was bound to carry the day. It was inevitable.

Or so Glorfindel thought. For just as Gildor seemed to be failing, just as he tripped and faltered -- his hand slipped into his boot and retrieved a dagger.

He lunged at Erestor with a yell. Erestor, his reflexes quick, dropped to a squat and threw himself at Gildor's knees. Knocked off balance, Gildor tumbled to the ground -- and in a moment Erestor was on him, and in another few seconds he had pried the dagger out of Gildor's hand and placed it at his throat.

The stillness of their bodies -- so strange after the struggle -- was eerily sudden, as if some magic had frozen them mid-motion. They lay unmoving but not at rest, muscles coiled with the potential for violence.

Erestor moved first. He straightened up slowly and flicked the dagger in an upward motion, indicating for Gildor to rise. "On your knees," he said.

Eyes on the point of the knife, Gildor knelt awkwardly.

Erestor traced the hollow of Gildor's throat with the tip of the blade. "I could kill you now," he said. "I could make you beg for mercy or kind treatment, the way you used to make me beg, once. Would you like that?"

Gildor swallowed, his Adam's apple touching the metal. Rain was falling on his face, his sodden hair. Frightened, with his tunic smeared with blood, he looked pathetic and small.

Erestor drew the knife in a straight line up Gildor's cheek, perversely caressing, yet careful not to draw blood. "I could do things to you for my own amusement, relishing your humiliation. Or take what I know of you -- the private, intimate things -- and mock them."

He moved the tip of the dagger to Gildor's ear and slashed off a lock of hair. The golden strands fell to the ground, muddied in the dirt at Erestor's feet.

Gildor's chest heaved in a suppressed sob. His jaw was clenched. Rain was running down his cheeks, masking any tears he might have been shedding.

"I could look into your eyes and tell you that you are witless, weak, and unlovely. That your body is ill-favoured, that no one could desire you. That I do you a kindness by letting you kiss my feet." Erestor placed the knife under Gildor's chin and forced him to look up. "You did it to me, once. Don't you think you deserve the same?"

Gildor shut his eyes.

"Look at me!" Erestor grabbed a handful of the golden hair and yanked Gildor's head back, exposing his face to the full force of the rain. He weighed his words for a moment, then asked quietly, "Do you know I loved you once?"

Gildor blinked, but did not answer. Erestor smiled wistfully and added, "Such poor judgment I had."

Just then, out of the woods below the balcony came a procession of merrymakers, some singing, some shouting -- all deeply in their cups. Undaunted by the rain, they laughed and spun each other around in a drunken dance. One fell and was helped to his feet by his companions amid much teasing.

Glorfindel had nearly forgotten that, out there in the night, other people were still making merry. The sudden interruption felt as if someone had thrown open the heavy blinds in a darkened room, light shocking those within.

Erestor lifted his head and looked around him. Something in the air seemed to have changed: a tension broken, a critical point reached and irrevocably passed. He let the hand holding the knife drop by his side.

"You can get up; I will not harm you," he said to Gildor. "Causing another's misery is no pleasure to me. Leave now, and never come back."

Gildor got to his feet, but did not limp away as Glorfindel had thought he might. He looked dazed and shocked, as if he had lost something he had not thought could escape his grasp and had not realized he would miss when it had gone.

"Erestor," he said. "Wait."

Erestor, who had already taken a few steps toward Glorfindel, stopped and faced Gildor once more. "I asked you to leave me be. Can you not do me that one courtesy?"

"Yes, but... If you only listen, I'll..."

Erestor took a moment to meet Gildor's eyes. Then, pronouncing each word with care, he replied, "I have nothing left to say to you."

And as Gildor stood there, stunned, Erestor helped Glorfindel to his feet and made for the doorway.


There are nights whose drunken fervour leads to rowdy excesses in the bedchamber. Chairs are overturned and glass dishes broken as bodies cling together on tangled sheets or hard floors -- every second sizzling with heat, no moment wasted.

There are nights whose sensual promise incites lovers to such heights of responsiveness that every caress becomes a subtle delight: the touch of lips on lips fulfillment itself, the brush of hair against skin, perfection.

And then there are other nights. Nights which are dark and strange, sheltering emotions too raw to share in daylight.

As Erestor and Glorfindel made their way to Erestor's chambers they spoke little. Quietly they undressed, piled their sodden clothes in a heap beside the door, tended their injuries and climbed under the blankets.

They did not sleep, but neither did they make love. They merely held each other until morning, whispering words meant for an audience of one. What they said is not for us to know.

It wasn't until the next day that their mood turned light, and Glorfindel was at last able to conclude his interrupted midsummer-night seduction. It didn't go exactly as planned, though he had to admit he found it no less fulfilling. As he braced his hands on the edge of the open window -- the early-morning breeze caressing his naked body, Erestor thrusting into him from behind -- he had many reasons to feel grateful. Brimming with joy, he did not muffle his shouts of pleasure then, nor did Erestor.

Fortunately, whatever passers-by happened to witness their excesses proved discreet.

A week later, the two of them again stood at the same window, watching as, below, Gildor's party made its way down the road leading away from the Last Homely House. Erestor, dressed in his sombre robes once more, stood unmoving for as long as Gildor was in sight, his face perfectly composed.

But when the last of the Wandering Company finally disappeared in a cloud of dust Erestor's shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if letting go of a great burden.

"Relieved?" Glorfindel asked.

Erestor thought for a moment. "You know, it is as though I've just conducted an arduous military campaign: I'm far too exhausted to know what I feel."

"But it is over now, and you and I are the victors. Especially you, who fought so impressively."

"That night on the balcony, you mean."

"Well... That isn't all I mean, no." Glorfindel paused, choosing his words. "You know how warriors sometimes speak after they've fought beside each other in battle and survived? About glory, loyalty, honour..."

"Yes. Why?"

Glorfindel's expression turned serious. Respectfully, he crossed his hands over his heart and bowed, as if before a king or great leader. "It has been an honour to see you fight, Erestor; a privilege to share your struggle and triumph," he said.

The sun shining through the open window apparently blinded Erestor just then, for he rubbed his eyes. His ease with words must have left him, too: he said nothing, though his mouth trembled.

Glorfindel smiled. He moved closer to embrace Erestor, and the two Elves stood that way for a long time, in silence. Around them, the pleasant heat of the afternoon gradually turned to the cool of evening.

The End


Notes:

I would like to thank all those who have been following this story from the beginning, and faithfully sending feedback (or just reading and quietly enjoying). I realize that breaks between chapters have sometimes been long, and trying to keep things moving forward while juggling RL has not always been easy for me. But my wonderful readers have kept me and my Elves motivated to try to tell the best story possible. I hope you've enjoyed this writing adventure as much as I have.

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The characters belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No profit is being made by the authors or the archivist and no disrespect is intented.

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