Lindefal awoke in the pre-dawn hour with a start. One of his familiar dreams where he was wandering lost in a wood had haunted his thoughts and disturbed his rest. He moved his arm from the awkward position it was lying in and rolled to his side. From the far edge of the large square bed he blearily looked across the sleeping figures near him and out into the dimly lit room. The flickering light of the dying fire cast dancing shadows and lights in the room. He thought he remembered where everyone had landed late last night, but he was not certain now, many tankards of foamy ale last night muddled his thoughts this morning.
He saw still damp cloaks thrown here and there across a chair or railing, and muddy boots lined up by the fire. He was reminded of the early days at Rivendell as the Great House rose on its stone foundations, and the residents sought shelter where and with whom they could in the half finished rooms. Strange bedfellows were welcomed then for warmth and safety in the uncertain days early in the settlement's founding. Times were much different today when the luxuries of the world could be found in the many rooms and along the corridors of Rivendell. He chanced a look around the room in the dancing firelight.
Legolas's fair hair spread over his shoulders as he slept leaning on crossed arms at the small desk near the fire. Tankards and plates of cheese and bread surrounded him on the wooden desktop. Findalor slept sprawled in a large cushioned chair by the balcony, stocking feet stretched out before him. A glance at the foot of the bed revealed Erestor lying wrapped in a delicately woven blanket with his richly embroidered velvet robe thrown across his legs. He had at least shed his embroidered shoes, and his colorful leggings showed beneath the twisted robes. His chest rose and fell in deep sleep, his satiny dark hair lay in soft swirls across his shoulders. Lindefal could not help but wonder at its tidy nature when compared to Elrond's midnight strands. His long and tangled hair curled and wreathed across the snowy linens.
Dark strands of his hair covered his face as he turned in his sleep. Elrond had collapsed in bed also partially clothed; however his leggings, still damp from the rain, lay hooked on the carved post of he bed. His loose tunic lay unlaced and dragged open, baring a broad shoulder, and the puckered scar from an attack centuries ago was visible in the dim light of the flickering fireplace. He moved and gently embraced the sleeping figure beside him, and his long fingers lay curled in thick auburn hair. Delicate scars still laced those fingers, scars from centuries ago, souvenirs of the aftermath of the great battle with Sauron and the legions of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. Many of the trials of his long life were written across his body in fading scars, in a lingering sadness resident in his eyes, and in his wisdom earned from centuries of interaction with all the races of Middle Earth.
Elrond absently moved his hand along the sleek ribs and long flanks in a drowsy and comfortable manner. Lindefal did not quite remember when these other sleepers he saw had joined them in the night. Closing his eyes he tried to make the room stop spinning, he buried his head in the layers of soft pillows bunched under his neck. He wondered again why Elrond's pillows were the best in the whole settlement. He thought he had graced enough beds here and there to compare pillows effectively. The fabric was likely no softer than others, yet it seemed so; the embroidery no more delicate than other fine needlework in the settlement, but the patterns intertwined and mesmerized his bleary eyes. The scent was light and fresh, yet others also perfumed their linens. He decided it must be their location that made them so wonderful. He breathed in the scents of fresh air, mossy greens and something faint that tugged at his memory.
He tried to think back to last night, with not much luck. He then tried to remember the day's schedule. After all he was the secretary to the Master of the Great House, the Aide of the Master's Chambers, the Assistant Librarian, and who knows what else, and if anyone should know what was going on today it should be him. He vaguely remembered that besides a houseful of guests there were no scheduled meetings or tours or lessons to be taught, or any of the many other tasks he coordinated. The scholars knew the way to the library below, the traders had finished trading and the guests could entertain themselves in the daylight-it seemed to have finally stopped raining. Erestor and Findalor certainly seemed to think the world would go on without them this morning.
Lindefal ran a careful tongue over his lips and tasted the sweet and distinctive flavor of that cream Galenbrethil had made up for Elrond...something exotic and rare from his days at the Court of Gil-Galad...now what was it called again...he could not think clearly this morning. This was the vague scent that he remembered. He slowly raised a finger and touched his lips; the subtle fragrance was on his fingertips as well. Did he remember seeing the violet pot of mystical cream on the delicately carved table by the bed last night?
He opened one eye for a peek, and yes, it sat there innocently. The beautiful glaze of the pot was both a coded disguise and a hint of the pleasures contained in the delicate cream held within. The elements of the cream interacted with cells, blood, and psyche, enhancing the senses of both the toucher and the touched, and it reactivated with friction and moisture. The interaction of the cream with Elven auras was particularly unique and enjoyable, vague yet desirable, and never forgotten. None could describe the sensation, the scent or the feel, but the name was always greeted by a smile from those who knew its properties. If he could just remember what that name was...
Looking down the bed at Erestor's robe he seemed to remember the touch of the velvet with its many tiny buttons in excruciating pleasure as it dragged across his flesh slowly and softly. The rich color seemed to remain in his mind when little else did. He shifted again, a bit stiff and sore, annoyed he did not remember how he got that way. He thought he remembered a kiss here, a bite there, was that Elrond or Erestor there above him, behind him? What had Findalor said? He could not remember. With Galenbrethil away with students gathering medicinal plants, Findalor had rejoined his friends and had enjoyed their company nights and days lately.
Judging from the state of the sheets, blankets and sleepers, they must have had a good time. He wrinkled his fastidious nose in disgust of the morning after mess, and wondered when he might be able to actually rise from the bed and bathe. Of course the linens would have to be changed and laundered... his mind drifted away from tasks and back into a dreamy state.
He frowned and wondered when the others in the bed had joined them. He looked deep into large brown eyes nearby. A long furry black and white tail thumped a greeting on the sheets, and the intelligent and patient eyes looked back at him, hoping for a treat. The tawny hunting dog stretched out alongside to Elrond awoke at this action, and turning its long head, it watched through slanted eyes from the warm and soft place, unwilling to move. Elrond's hand moved slowly down the dogs' long side in another caress of the soft coat, followed by a pat and scratch of the ears. Both were content to lie there and laze in the soft bedding. The black and white hunting dog lay its long and delicate head down and watched patiently. Even the hard working hunting dogs were pampered and welcomed in the open chambers of Rivendell. Their loyalty was fiercer and more undying due to these deep bonds of affection between Elves and dogs.
Unable to remember any pressing business before midday, unable to stir himself at this early hour, unable to get a rise up at the idea of dogs in the bed, and surrounded by the gently breathing sleepers, he thought of other nights spent together with these friends. Time spent in other soft beds, or in bitter cold on rocky grounds, perched in trees, or seated around campfires. He thought of deliciously cool evenings dancing by the river on the lawns below and of nightmarish long evenings reconnoitering the barren plains of Dagorlad.
Another little lick of the lips brought a smile to his face, and he closed his eyes, smoothed the pillows beneath his head and shifted to fit the pile of pillows just so. He drifted away into the misty dream world of Elven existence. Life would be there waiting when they finally rose to meet it.
End
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