Title: Summer Lightning, Chapter 1
Author: Silver, with Celebdil.
Author's email: hrafn@hrafn.co.uk
Rating: This chapter PG13, whole fic NC17
Pairing: Celeborn/Elu Thingol
Disclaimer: The characters and world belong to Tolkien, or possibly to themselves.  
Celeborn made us do it, so please don't sue us!
Summary: On the Long March into the West, Elwë, King of the Teleri, begins to notice 
his young kinsman, Celeborn, with more than affection.  But Gorthaur the torturer is still 
on the prowl.  Can they save their people from Morgoth's minion?  And must it be at the 
price of their love?

************************

Chapter 1

The wind howled, flattening Elu's rain-slicked hair wetly against his neck and shoulders
as he pushed through the tangled undergrowth. Lightning seared the sky. Terrifying in its
intensity, it was yet a pale echo of the terror that pounded in his heart, surged through
his veins.

Calm, he had to be calm. Somewhere in this violent storm lay the one he sought and losing
his head would not avail either of them. Leaning a hand on the rough bark of a tree,
panting slightly - fear shortening his breath in a way that exertion did not - he
stopped.

How had his happened, he wondered, memories overcoming him. It had started so innocently,
in confusion and desire...

*****

The air was warm and hazy, filled with the soporific hum of insects, the stars above like
many coloured flames, hot and bright against the mist-streaked indigo sky .

His people were tired, and the glade they walked through surpassing beautiful, so Elu
called an early halt to the march, decreeing they would make camp here, though it was yet
early, and they might have made many miles more.

There were no objections. Elu watched from the back of his horse as the Elves eagerly
began setting up camp, excited by the brief respite. He smiled; expecting singing tonight
at the campfires, as the Elves rejoiced in the Valar-given summer and the rest, however
brief, from their journeying . His heart clenched a little at the ease with which they
went about the task, the familiarity with which they retrieved essential items from packs
and travois to create temporary camps; he wished with all the longing his heart could
muster for a permanent home for them. They had been travelling so long.

The bright sound of a youth's laughter jerked him from his sadness. The air shimmered
with it, and all nearby raised their heads to see what had amused their young Prince so.
Elu felt himself react to the sound, even while he tried not to turn to where his kinsman
was helping a family raise the shelter under which their children would sleep in case of
a summer storm.

Not that there would be a storm tonight, Elu thought, looking up at a sky filled with the
blazing rivers of Northern Lights, shattering in their purity.

Deliberately, he distracted himself, trying to delay looking in the direction the others
were staring, knowing that the sight would make his heart ache more than all the veils of
light in Arda could ever do. Around him the elves laughed softly at whatever Celeborn was
doing.

Celeborn. Never would he be able to taste that name in his mouth as the sensual caress he
now uttered in his mind. He closed his eyes, an image of the beauty that was the young
Elf coming unbidden to taunt him with innocent allure, heartbreaking temptation. Celeborn
was silver fire, his unconsious appeal edged and dangerous as a blade of obsidian. To
think of him was to be cut.

Elu's horse moved beneath him. Absently, he soothed the animal, fingers stroking the
smooth neck as he wished desperately for another smoothness under his hand. His fingers
tangled in his mount's mane, and it was so coarse compared to the heavy silk of
Celeborn's mithril fall of hair.

Elu recalled how that hair had looked in the midst of a meteor storm. They had been
bathing in a nearby river several nights ago, one of the storms arcing overhead. The
glory of the heavens had been lost on Elu as he watched that hair, shining dark in
shadow, clinging wetly to Celeborn's slender back and shoulders, flaring into radience
with each bright fire-trail across the sky. He had trembled with the need to reach out,
to lift a strand of the liquid silver away from Celeborn's throat where it clung in a
damp curl. He had actually raised a hand, before he realised what he was doing, only to
snatch it back even as the prince had turned to him, half-smiling at something one of the
others had said.

Seeing the tight expression on Elu's face, Celeborn's smile had faded. He had reached out
to lay a slender hand on Elu's bare shoulder, 'My Lord? Are you well?'

Elu had closed his eyes, feeling the warm voice wash over him, chasing the chill of the
water from his body. His entire world had narrowed to the small area of fire where
Celeborn's hand lay innocently on his heavily muscled shoulder. The sound of his
kinsman's voice was a dark heat in his mind, a brush of velvet against his thoughts.

Opening his eyes, he had found himself staring into Celeborn's concerned green gaze. And
for a moment his breath had caught. For a moment, a fleeting space, there had been
something in the younger Elf's expression, something other then mere concern, something
that made Elu's heart pound, instantly heating his blood. The icy water lapping around
their thighs had seemed warm, after, holding its own tantalising caress.

Then Celeborn's lashes had swept down and when they lifted, it was gone, and the clear
gaze held only concern and faint curiosity.

'I am well.' He cleared his throat - his voice had taken on an unwelcome huskiness - 'I
am merely tired. As are we all.'

Looking into Celeborn's eyes he had been relieved when they did not narrow in suspicion
or disbelief. Inwardly, he berated himself for a fool. He must not know. Oh Valar! He is
in my care. My nephew's son, entrusted to me to teach. Not to take advantage. So he
warned himself against his forbidden longing, the hopeless desire he could not prevent.
It was not possible, this attraction he felt for his young kinsman, it was wrong. And, he
told himself resolutely, it would not be.

He had smiled, holding his breath as the younger elf hesitated, about to speak. But then
Celeborn changed his mind, nodded his water darkened head in acceptance of Elu's words.
His fingers had tightened briefly on Elu's shoulder in a gesture of acknowledgement and
farewell before he had moved away. At the innocent caress Elu almost groaned, watching
with a hunger he could barely conceal as Celeborn moved.

Starlight reflected from the water, and flickered in dripping silver over the warm cream
of the young Elf's skin, outlining the elegant curve of his back, playing over the flex
of firm buttocks as he walked away. A quiet sob of sheer desire escaped Elu and he looked
aside, fighting to control the rising heat in his face and his loins. He bit his lip,
hard, tasted blood where his teeth had pierced the skin. He would master this, he must.

A light touch on his knee startled him out of his reverie, and he cursed himself, yet
again. Attempting not to stare at whatever it was Celeborn was doing, he had instead
fallen into lustful memories. Could he not think of other things, even for a moment?

He looked down into the pale blue eyes of one of his warriors, 'Look my Lord!' the Elf
exclaimed, pointing across the glade. Reluctantly Elu followed the gesture and despite
his anguish, he had to stifle a surge of spontaneous laughter at what he saw.

Lit by the green and gold light of the Aurora, Celeborn lay on his back in the leaves
which covered the clearing. He was barely visible under several children who had ambushed
him, felling their young Lord and climbing on top of him, imprisoning him beneath their
small bodies. They were squealing with delight as Celeborn growled in mock anger, picked
them up and dangled them in the air. They tried to subdue him, shaking with giggles as
they sat on his arms and legs, yelling in triumph.

All around, Elves had stopped to watch the game, and their mirth was a balm to Elu's
heart. His guilt eased a little. They had journeyed long, into a strange future, with no
surety but his word that Aman would be worth the labour. Many of them followed him not
for the promise of distant Valinor, but simply for his own sake, because they trusted
him, loved him. Sometimes it was hard to see them work and strive thus for him and not
feel overwhelmingly responsible.

Gratitude towards Celeborn for this moment of lightness mingled with the painful desire
the memory had engendered and Elu let out his breath on a slow, controlled sigh, even as
he smiled in amusement at the sight. The boy was so alive, so unburdened by the cares of
age or status. Irresponsible; full of joy.

Suddenly Celeborn ceased his growling, went limp. In instinctive concern Elu started to
dismount, fear snaking through him, and he was not the only one. Around him, several of
the others moved forward. The children stopped squealing and peered down into the face of
their victim, eyes wide with concern. Then all their fears were allayed and the children
shrieked in delight as their victim snapped opened his ryes and grabbed them, surging
from the ground and swinging them round, throwing them up and catching them in arms made
powerful by hours at practice with axe and bow.

Elu laughed along with the others, ignoring the painful tightening of his body as
Celeborn's warm laugh, a deeper counterpoint to the shrieks of the children, washed over
his body in warm waves of sound.

The younger Elf looked up, and, seeing him watching along with the others, carefully
righted the helplessly giggling girl he was holding by one ankle, setting her on her
feet. With a gentle push he sent her back to her mother, who reached out to her child,
her eyes holding the Prince's with approval.

He too they loved well, Elu thought, as Celeborn bowed to the Elf woman with elegance and
charm made all the more appealing for his lack of awareness of it. Happily married and
devoted to her mate, the Elf woman still blushed a little despite herself under the warm
green gaze. And why should she not, when this youngest scion of Elu's house was so
very... He bit the thought off, furious at himself.

Then Celeborn turned that look on him, laughter like a fountain in the depths of his
eyes, lips parted on a careless grin. Elu forced himself to lift a hand in
acknowledgement, knowing they were in full view of many of his people, while his heart
and body reeled in response.

Picking his way carefully through Elves who were now returning to the business of setting
up camp, Celeborn walked towards him. Elu waited and watched him come closer, stopping
occasionally to talk with a family, to exchange words with a warrior, to absently ruffle
the hair of a child who clung to his leg as he talked easily with her parents.

As he listened to the words of a husband and wife who had stilled him a moment to air
some small complaint, a young Elf-woman ran up to him, her hands full of summer blooms.
Laughing ,she tucked one into his silver hair, standing on tip toes and placing an
exuberant kiss on his cheek. Celeborn turned, startled, as the couple smirked. Then he
grinned and picked the young woman up in his arms, whirling her round, both of them
laughing from the sheer delight of the day. Her hair fell around his face and Elu felt
his fingers tighten on the reins as Celeborn returned her kiss with interest.

It did not mean anything, Elu thought, it was simply an expression of the sudden
lightness which had gripped all the company. Around the pair, folk wore expressions of
amused indulgence. It meant nothing, Elu told himself again, disconcerted at the surge of
ugly jealousy which rose unbidden in him, jealousy he had no right to feel.

Celeborn set the maiden on her feet and she twirled away from him. Playfully, he reached
out to her. She spun round, filled his hands with the blooms she held. He lifted them to
his face, breathing in their scent and then held them to his heart in a pretend gesture
of undying love. Elu heard the light shimmer of her amusement as with a final smile, she
danced away, and Celeborn once more resumed his path to Elu.

Moments later, he stood at Elu's knee, laughter still lurking in the depths of his holly
green gaze. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He buried his face in the flowers
again and then reached up to secure the bloom more firmly behind his ear.

'Suilad, my Lord!' he grinned up at Elu, unrepentant, 'It would seem your decision to
halt early this day has brought on high spirits!'

And, despite everything, Elu could not help but respond to the happiness lighting
Celeborn's heartbreakingly beautiful face. 'Aye, so it would seem,' he said, and smiled
back.

Notes: This is set during the March into the West, when the Eldar answered the summons of
the Valar to go to Valinor. So far the only elves who have ever gone to Valinor are Elu,
Finwe and Ingwe. There is no sun or moon. The elves are in their Stone Age in terms of
technology. And the Teleri (Elu's people) have not yet even come into Beleriand. All of
that stuff is still a long time in the future. 




Chapter 2

At the rich depth of Elu Thingol's voice Celeborn caught his breath, struggling to subdue
the shiver of excitement that chased down his spine. Feeling himself flush, he buried his
face in the blooms he held, looked away at the busy scene of activity which now filled
the glade.

Why must he always be so... so confused whenever Elu was near, so unbearably aware of
Elu's power, the heat of his body, its strength, its fierce vitality? Sometimes he could
hardly draw breath, thinking of the King. They were of a height, but Elu was bigger built
than Celeborn, his heavy sleekness of muscle pantherlike. Graceful, dangerous,
overwhelming.

Celeborn's gaze rested on the camp, but his mind returned to the river a seven-night ago.
Deep in conversation with several of the younger Elven warriors, he had felt a faint
brush of fingertips across his skin, turned, and found Thingol. But it could not have
been his touch - the king stood in rigid silence, jaw clenched tightly, his hands held in
fists at his sides.

Steel was the colour of Elu's hair, sword-bright in the silver caress of starlight. His
skin gleamed with the lustre of Aman. Seeing it, Celeborn had not been able to help
himself. Hoping the gesture would be taken as one of innocent concern, he gave in to the
ever-present urge, and touched the warm strength of Elu's shoulder. It was a mistake.
Immediately, a jolt had shot through his body. Heat flooded him, and panic with it. Thank
Ulmo the water was deep! The smile he had carefully kept on his face faltered and he
tried to keep the longing out of his voice as he said softly, 'My Lord? Are you well?'
Such an innocent question, when need was sweeping through him like a forest fire.

Elu closed his eyes. The others had moved away and Celeborn was grateful that for a
moment he could give in to the heat; let his fledgeling desire show on his face. His gaze
ran hungrily over the king's strong features. Innocent he might be, but he knew enough to
understand what it was he wanted, whose large, strong hands he wished to have running
over him like water, like silk, eliciting groan after groan of passionate need.

Elu opened his eyes and Celeborn quickly schooled his expression into one of mild
concern, but for a heart stopping moment he thought had had been discovered, as something
flickered in Elu's expression. He had turned his face aside, terrified that he had
betrayed himself, that Elu would walk away from him in disdain; send him back to his
father, dismissed and shamed. But the king did not shrug off his hand, and when he looked
back, he was relieved by Elu's reassurance that all was well.

Celeborn knew he must let go. Now! With a reluctance as sharp as a stone knife he let his
hand slide from Elu's shoulder, nodding carefully in acknowledgement of the older elf's
words. But to his dismay, as his fingers slid down Elu's skin, they had seemed to tighten
of their own volition, squeezing the velvet muscle in an unintended caress.

Sweet fire erupted through Celeborn's body as his fingers gave into their desire to knead
the yielding warmth and he fought to make himself let go, his mind frantic, He must not
know, he must not guess. Iluvatar help me, I cannot let him find out. I cannot take the
risk of being parted from him; of disgusting him.

Swiftly, Celeborn had turned his back to Elu, lest his body decide the matter for him. He
had walked away, told himself to be more careful, but in the weeks that followed he had
relived the moment many times, torn between frustration and fear.

Now, as the bustle of the camp surrounded him, as the flowers wilted in his hands, he
looked up into the storm grey of his king's eyes and felt his mouth go dry, felt that
excitement curl once more through his belly like drifting smoke, warming, insidious.

Then Elu smiled. It was almost reluctant, no more than a slight lift of a corner of the
sensual mouth, but the power of it slammed into Celeborn like a hammer blow, making it
difficult to breathe. In the depths of the King's eyes was a longing he could not
conceal, a fierce hunger. But it seemed Elu was not aware of it, was not aware that he
was looking at Celeborn with undisguised need, the pain it caused him evident in the
rigid line of his jaw.

Celeborn started and his eyes widened. Elu was looking at him, only at him. His heart
began a slow heavy thud against his ribs, a beat heavy with unspoken emotion, with silk-
edged desire.

Then it was gone. Cut off so suddenly, Celeborn almost staggered from its loss. For a
moment, he stood stunned, reeling with the realisation, his skin prickling as though Elu
had touched him with more than just his gaze. He was unaware the King watched him,
wondering at his inattention, not understanding his own naked want had been the cause.

The moment stretched into uncomfortable silence. Elu's horse, picking up the emotion
singing between them, stamped a hoof. That shook Celeborn from his shocked reverie and he
looked up, hoping that his heart was not in his eyes. Elated by the powerful beauty that
was Elu Thingol, he smiled suddenly and reached up to tuck one of the flowers into the
King's polished steel hair.

'There, my Lord!' he laughed, his voice less steady than normal, 'Now you are ready for
the festivities!'

Elu frowned, not missing the slight catch in the warmth of that bright tone. He tried to
catch Celeborn's eye, but was distracted by the feel of slender, strong fingers on the
tip of his ear. He could not prevent the tiny shudder which ran through him at the
unconscious caress, just as Celeborn in his turn could not prevent the momentary
lingering of his fingers.

But then it was gone and Celeborn was stepping back, a light flush on his high
cheekbones, his breathing slightly ragged. Elu's heart leapt. Could it be.?

Urgently, he leaned forward, about to speak, but at that moment two young women ran
lightly up to their Prince and took his hands, pulling him with them toward where a
hunting party was gathering. With the part of his mind not clouded by a drifting haze of
desire Elu watched as the prince allowed himself to be led away. Was it reluctance that
slowed his steps? Briefly, Elu hoped so, but the single slight smile Celeborn sent back
to him was unreadable.

Suppressing the urge to snarl in frustration, Elu gathered his mount under him with a
touch of his heels. Better he engage himself elsewhere, he thought, before his mind lost
itself completely in imaginings of that smile under his mouth, its amusement turning to
wanton pleasure beneath his plundering kiss, its generous curve opening on a gasp of
agonised delight.

***

Celeborn found he could attend to nothing. Around him, in the gentle starlight, young
elves of both sexes laughed and talked in soft voices. Every so often one would sing, the
joyful sound falling dull on his ears.

For in his veins another song danced. It brushed over his skin in soft whispers of heat
and cold, making him shiver. It fogged his mind, and he could remember only the look in
Elu's eyes - a look which had stopped Celeborn's breath, made his heart lose its steady
rhythm, only to pick it up a moment later at double the pace. Could it be.?

He shook his head, angry with his folly. He had sent the hunters out without him, knowing
he was too distracted to be safe, but it seemed he could not even keep his mind on the
simple task of hulling strawberries. The Elf-maid with whom he shared this task had
fallen silent, and he wondered what she had asked, what answer she expected. He had not
been listening.

Her face was quiet, her slender body outlined by the starlight like a statue of ice. When
finally his gaze rested on her she sighed, leaned to place her hand on his arm. 'It is
hard, is it not,' she murmured, 'When that which we most desire seems unreachable?'

Alarm mixed with a little guilt came over him. 'Do not fear,' she said softly, seeing it,
'None have noted it save myself. My insight is ever true when it comes to love - though
in all other matters lacking. And did I betray or reveal your secret doubtless even that
small talent would leave me. I will say nothing.'

Celeborn looked at the serene, delicate face before him. She knew - and did not condemn.
Grateful beyond knowing that she simply understood, he relaxed, and for a moment they sat
silently. The tension which sang unceasingly through his body lessened a little in the
peace.

But with her next words, it returned in greater measure than before. For with a smile,
the woman gathered the forgotten berries from his hands and brushed a kiss against his
cheek. Her breath stirred the hair at his temple as she whispered, 'You are not alone, my
Prince. In his eyes is the same longing. I have seen it.' She drew back and her smile was
slow, 'Truly. And where is the harm?' Looking up, to the softly glimmering sky, her smile
grew mischievous, 'It is such a beautiful time, is it not? Why not go to him? Go to him
and be glad. For the love of the body is a beauty the heavens cannot match, and with one
such as he, even the stars would be as a distant memory to his light.'

She scrambled to her feet and departed, leaving Celeborn empty handed, but with a heart
full of gratitude and new purpose. But how to achieve that purpose? Needing to think, he
rose, turned on his heel and melted into the shadows of perpetual twilight beneath the
trees.

***

Elu sat by the fire, a slight smile on his lips as he watched his people rejoice. He had
resolved to push aside all thoughts of his longing and simply enjoy the rare happiness of
his folk. He laughed at their high spirits, grinning at the mirth which echoed through
the large clearing. He joined in the songs, delighting in the chance to raise his voice
in praise of life.

Yet despite his resolve, he had left the bloom in his hair, and his gaze strayed
frequently to the tree line, unconsciously seeking one whose absence he could not quite
ignore.

It was during one of these stolen glances, that the call went up; Elu did not hear it at
first. He turned, surprised, as he realised that one of his warriors was standing before
him, smirking. A long, beautifully crafted knife with a curving blade of near translucent
stone was balanced across his palms.

'Come, my lord,' he said in a voice which carried throughout the clearing, 'You have not
participated in our revelry this night. Dance now. Dance for us, your grateful people, so
that we may witness your grace.'

Elu stared up at the warrior, at the roguish glint in the elf's eyes. Despite the look of
mischief, the compliment had been genuinely meant, and was in fact little more than the
truth. None of the Elves, all infinitely graceful, had quite the beauty of movement, the
strength of limb, the perfection of form of their Lord. None, save one, Elu thought
privately.

He had no choice but to accept the cheerful dare. Never had Elu given his people reason
to doubt his willingness to join their celebrations. He would not disappoint them now.

Standing, he took the blade, weighed it in his hands. He looked out at the gathered
Elves, and the smile which came to his lips was spontaneous, pushing aside for a moment
his guilt and frustration.

'Ah,' he said "But who will dance it with me? This is a thing for two, is it not? Two
warriors of skill and note. Who will match his strength to mine this night? You,
Mirennin?'

The warrior backed away, raising his hands and laughing, 'Not I, my Lord. The bruises
still fade from our last practice!'

The light, joyous laughter of all assembled mingled with the drifting smoke from the fire
as Elu turned, grinning now, 'Then who?' he demanded, 'Surely there is one here who would
care to match me?'

'I will match you.'

And all Elu's enjoyment fled as he fought to control his body's reaction to the silken
caress of that voice, warm even through the edge of challenge it now held. Looking up,
Elu saw a white and silver figure step from the trees.

Celeborn

The sheer beauty of the youth made more than one of the gathered Elves, male and female,
gasp in appreciation. Celeborn walked slowly, with easy grace and the confidence of one
born to lead. His gaze never left Elu's face. A warrior born, he seemed, bearing his own
blade in strong, sure fingers.

He wore a white tunic of a suede so soft it had the texture and weight of velvet. It
clung to the lithe outline of chest and hip in silent testament to the elegance of the
body beneath. His long legs were encased in close-fitting white leather. In his face was
all the fairness of his people; young, fiercely brave, filled with hope. His skin glowed
cream and gold, the constantly moving firelight touching the clean lines of his
cheekbone, brow, strong, stubborn chin.

And over all fell the waterfall of his hair, shimmering silver down his back as a
challenge to the very stars. Indeed, they seemed caught in its length. Here and there
amid the nimbus of gleaming mithril he had plaited small beads of crystal, carved like
leaves - tiny and exquisite. They sparked with soft, cold fire as he moved. Like many of
his people he had braided a feather onto one lock of hair - symbol of flight and freedom.
Now it stirred, dove-grey and strokable, just grazing his jaw line as he breathed.

He was utterly beautiful, beautiful enough to make even Eru Iluvatar weep at the
perfection of his form; the epitome of that which The One had intended the Elves to be.

And Elu wanted him.

Wanted him so much it made his head spin, his body ache. Pain shot through his jaw as he
clenched his teeth hard on the moan of sheer lust which rose in his throat. Heat suffused
him so that he could not think past the waves of need which crashed over him.

And suddenly he was angry. This creature, this stunning creation of breath and light and
slender muscled power was out of his reach, was as far from him as the perpetual stars
under which they dwelt. Not his rank, nor his wisdom, not even his own beauty could grant
him the one thing he desired most, the only thing he wanted for himself.

Fury tore through Elu, a focus for the overwhelming emotion, and he directed it at the
youth standing before him now, watching him with what Elu realised was an anger to match
his. Elu did not stop to consider Celeborn's grievance, did not wonder what pulled the
slender shoulders into a taut line beneath the white tunic. All he felt was his
despiration to purge this aching need which haunted his dreams and plagued his waking.

Through the roaring in his ears, he heard the softly repeated words, 'I will match you.'

Challenge. 




Chapter 3

Every eye in the assembled company was fixed on the two of them, wondering at their
sudden animosity. Elu could feel it. The discomfort, the concern. It had always reassured
the Teleri that their ruling house was so united in these uncertain times, that Elu had
so strong a bond with his brothers and Elmo's children; with Celeborn, their prince.

But the antagonism arcing between them now was palpable. The air pulsed with the threat
of battle.

Standing aside, Celeborn allowed Elu to move first into the centre of the clearing. It
was a courtesy due and expected from his rank to the king’s. But the ironic tilt of his
head was not lost on Elu. It only fuelled his sudden, white-hot rage.

Fury sparked along his nerves, so that almost he began to wonder at his own sanity,
because still Celeborn’s beauty staggered him - drew, tempted, taunted him. He shook
himself mentally, bringing the long knife to guard position, saluting his partner. My
opponent.

The first ripple of notes fell like water on his skin.

***

Wandering alone through the sighing trees, dim in shadow, Celeborn had passed from
elation to a mirroring anger. It was not so easy as his berry-picking partner had seemed
to imply. 'Go to him', she had said, as if he could simply act on impulse, walk up to Elu
and fit himself into the other’s arms, pull him close, lose his senses in the heavy fall
of the King’s hair... But he could not.

Elu's love he had owned from birth - he had grown up in its strength. For he was the
grandson of Elu's brother, and the bonds of kindred were strong in his family. There, in
what should have been happiness, lay the trouble. What would his father, and his
grandfather think, what would they feel, if he did this? Betrayed, certainly. Perhaps
even outraged. In a private family such dissention could be tolerated. But in the family
of the King? No. He had a duty to his people not to do this, not to fracture the unity of
their lords, simply because he thirsted for the love of Elu’s strongly muscled body,
yearned for the touch of that uncompromising mouth, so often curved in a smile…

Deep in the forest, joy had soured in Celeborn’s heart. Why could he not just be any elf,
free to love and live as did all those in this company? Or why did he have to develop
this irrational and impossible attraction? And why could he not make it stop?

Enough. It was enough. He stood, lifted his head and set his shoulders. He had dwelt on
this long enough. So he could not have what he wanted. Life would go on. Now he needed to
change and attend the festivities; he did not want to give Thingol any reason to wonder
at his absence, whatever one fleeting expression may or may not have held.

And if he took particular care over his appearance in his preparations, he put it down to
the fact that, as prince, he had a duty to present as pleasing an image as possible. As
he combed and braided his mithril hair, winding the delicately carven beads, like tiny
stars, and a soft, silver feather into its length, he did not allow himself to think he
did this for Elu.

When Celeborn arrived at the clearing, the King’s challenge had been the spark to the
tinder of his own fury. Elu did not know what he was playing with. He thought himself
inassailable, did he? Well Celeborn had practiced this dance alone for hours at a time in
the forest. He would not be so simply beaten as Elu might think. He was not a child any
more.

No, Celeborn thought, he was no child, for if he had been he would not still feel this
painful impulse to reach out as Elu passed, to graze the powerful shoulders with his
fingers, to close his eyes and feel the heat of Elu's spirit caress his skin like
questing hands.

Drawing a breath, he tightened his grip on the long knife and followed his idol, his
enemy, into the centre of the clearing.

Even in the days of the Firstborn's youth, this dance was old - a fusion of hunting and
combat and beauty, wrought into a display of skill and grace, a test of body and will.
That it was dangerous, potentially deadly, only added to its allure - to the glory of a
warrior who could perform it well.

A slip at the wrong moment - timidity or aggression making a block too weak or a blow too
hard - and serious injury would result. Minor injury was expected. Rare were those able
to tread the complex measures so well they emerged unscathed. For this dance was also a
test of mental strength, of control, an exercise in not allowing the ego to rule the mind
and heart; the coolness needed not to press an advantage, not to get carried away.

Indeed, this dance was so perilous, such a risk to both participants, that only the
weapons teacher of a young Elf was allowed to teach it to the pupil, only the one who had
spent most time nurturing and tutoring the youngster was permitted to instruct their
pupil in this ultimate expression of Elvish grace and lethal elegance.

Many years ago, Elu had taught it to Celeborn.

Celeborn had learnt well.

For several tense moments, they faced each other across the clearing, breath held against
the notes which would herald the beginning of this dangerous measure. Celeborn held his
gaze level on Elu’s, not giving any ground under his king’s blazing stare.

The first sweet notes of the harp fell like soft rain into the clearing, mingling with
the starlight and the red-gold fire, transforming the very air into rippling layers of
sound and colour. Despite his anger Celeborn smiled. The music rang in his soul in the
same way that being among trees did, calling him out of himself, to exult.

He turned in a fluid movement to his left, bringing the knife up and round, as Elu
mirrored him to the right, doing the same. Blade crossed over his chest, he paused a
beat, before sweeping it out and taking the gliding step, led by the music, which took
him closer to Elu. Another turn, a lithe leap. He flicked the blade up and caught it in
the opposite hand, and they were closer still. The music increased in pace.

Feet light, following the intricate steps, he took a tight, timed spin and turned,
bringing his blade out, not needing to look, knowing that Elu’s knife would be there to
meet his, directly in the centre of the clearing.

The blades touched edge to edge, combining with the music, making a note which cut to the
heart, sharp and pure. The gathered Elves sighed in acknowledgement of the dancers’
skill. It was the best of omens, if that note sounded out in correct time.

Now the music hushed, holding its breath, as the knife edges held steady in a kiss of
cold, sharp stone; then slowly, the pressure never changing, each blade slid slowly down
the length of the other. The dancer’s locked gazes, fury arcing between them.

The song exploded into the night. They spun apart, faced opposite ends of the clearing.
Each flicked his knife up, up into the air, to be deftly caught by the other in a
spinning leap. When the blades again came together in a blindingly fast series of thrusts
and parries, counterpoint to the fast beat of the music, each now held his opponent's
blade. The onlookers hardly dared gasp, else the dancers be distracted and one or the
other seriously hurt.

Gathering himself for the leap which would take him over Elu’s low slicing knife,
Celeborn felt exhileration take him, felt it begin to sing through him until he almost
laughed aloud. He let the music intoxicate him, possess him, dictating his movements,
filling him with power.

Thrust forward, arm almost straight but not locked, counter, a light touch, point to
point and then out, away. Blades rolled around the wrist, worked up the arm in a careful
meld of balance and speed, spinning and glittering in the firelight, while feet picked
out a constant rhythm of steps, circling and dancing, close and away.

The tempo built, and Celeborn felt his stomach tighten in anticipation. Here he would
have to touch Elu and yet remain focussed. He dared not hold his breath in anticipation,
for even such a slight change in the pattern of breathing would upset his timing and he
would lose, the dance faltering, failing.

A light shimmer of high notes sounded and Celeborn turned. His shoulders met Elu’s, back
to back as their blades danced and shone above their heads. Fire raced down Celeborn’s
spine at the touch of Elu’s body; he could feel the movement of Elu’s muscles beneath his
tunic and his mind filled with the thought of those muscles moving under his fingers,
naked against his skin.

Elu’s shoulders flexed, just in time, warning him. Celeborn again flicked his wrist,
turned so that he and Elu were a finger’s width apart and caught Elu’s blade above his
head as they exchanged weapons again.

They stepped around each other, each turn and glide in perfect time with the racing
music. Coming close they spun their blades in and out, over and under each other’s
wrists, until it was impossible to tell who had hold of which time at any given moment,
and sometimes, it was neither of them, the slender knives seeming to hang in mid air
before being caught by a deft hand.

At times, they were forced to look at each other and Celeborn saw, beneath the still
seething anger, a joy in Elu’s eyes to match his own. This dance was a celebration of
exhilerating prowess. Its execution was... Was the most powerful aphrodisiac Celeborn
could imagine. Even through the total concentration the dance required, he could feel the
tension between the two of them. Despirate, powerful need mingled with anger and delight.

The song shifted rythmn. Obedient to its lead, Celeborn circled out in a series of spins
and leaps to the edge of the crowd. He flicked out a hand and was given a length of grey
silk. Tossing his blade high, he had secured the blindfold over his eyes by the time it
fell to his waiting hand.

Darkness descended on him, and the music speeded, deleriously swift.

*****

Surprised by bliss, Elu revelled in this almost combat. It took his breath away, it felt
so perfect.

When they stood back to back and exchanged blades, Elu nearly drowned in the press of
Celeborn’s body. He could feel the youth's controlled tension, and for a moment he could
have sworn Celeborn felt the same shiver of desire down his spine, but no, it could not
be.

He moved, fighting to hold to his concentration. The next few patterns were purely
reflex, so that his securing the blindfold over his own eyes came as something a shock.

Now the music was a sweetly soaring thing. Stilling, becoming almost motionless, he bared
his wrist and held it out, palm up, knife held out wide, an offering to Celeborn’s cut. A
mome
not leave even a mark. He let out a breath and turned, bringing his knife up and across,
feeling the warmth of Celeborn’s breath on the back of his hand as his blade traced the
length of the younger elf’s vulnerable throat. He dared not even shiver… and it was sweet
torture

Again, this time reversed, and as Elu felt Celeborn’s blade at his throat he held his
breath, but the knife did not falter, tracing lightly the vein in Elu’s neck and up under
his chin, then he was away, tearing the blindfold from his eyes, laughing with joy.

The end approached. Suddenly, unexpectedly, with the most difficult part over, fury
returned. He greeted it with disbelief, stunned that it had not yet been purged. But that
was it, perhaps - now the difficulty was eased he had time to look at Celeborn; to see
the sheen of sweat that covered the prince’s skin, how his hair, as he moved, floated
around him, catching the firelight and throwing it back in a shining wave. His smile, his
new serenity - sunk in the sensuous danger of the dance...

Desire overcame Elu's will. How dare Celeborn look so unconcerned, so innocent,
so…untouchable.

They came together for the last time. At the light touch of Celeborn’s wrist and
shoulder, Elu flinched, knew Celeborn had felt it; the prince’s eyes flickered, and
somehow, they were balanced again. Elu’s emotions surged. Fury, chagrin, need and
frustration clouded his vision.

Mind in turmoil, Elu chose the more complex of the two options for the conclusion of the
dance. It was a mistake, his concentration was utterly gone - his anger drove him to
strike fast, hard, out of tempo, and without knowing how it happened, his blade sank deep
into Celeborn’s shoulder.

The onlookers’ gasp of appreciation turned to shock as the prince spun away and ended,
arm across his chest, knife held flat against the length of his arm, blood spreading
rapidly across his shoulder, soaking his tunic.

There was utter silence in the clearing. Who would concede the match? Accept blame for
the injury, acknowledge that they were not quite perfect. Who had won?

Celeborn smiled, coldly, ‘My congratulations, my king,’ he said quietly, ‘The dance is
yours.’ He held Elu’s eyes for a moment longer in the silence, before a storm of noise
broke out across the clearing. The crowd, recovering from its awe, surged forward. Elven
voices were raised in delighted appreciation and praise for the two warriors.

Celeborn had lost, but he had acquitted himself well, and he would only become more
skilled over time. As it was, he outmatched all but the one who stood across from him,
gaze locked with his, both of them oblivious to the noise and movement around them.
Together in a world made only of the two of them.

Then someone touched Celeborn’s shoulder, slender fingers gently exploring the wound
through the ruin of the white tunic. Sudden agony made him wince. Dizziness overtook him,
tearing him away from Elu’s compelling gaze. A healer was speaking urgently to him. He
nodded, trying to follow the words, aware of Elu’s eyes still on him. The healer pulled
him away and he went reluctantly. But he did not look back.

Elu stood immobile, waves of guilt breaking over him. What had he done? How could he have
allowed his anger to affect him so? How could he have forfieted even his honour in this
damnable obsession of his?

For he knew what none but Celeborn knew. It was not the boy who had lost, but Elu. In
that last move, when they touched, and he flinched he had thrown both of them off
balance. Celeborn had moved, infinitesimally, so that not even the sharp Elven eyes of
those who watched could have caught his compensation, and they had steadied. But the end
was clear, the king, with that slip, had forfeited the fight, had conceded the dance.

Noticing the failure, Celeborn had smiled wryly, moved back, transferring his weight
ready to bring the dance to its conclusion. But Elu, driven by emotion, had stepped into
the movement too soon, brought his knife up too soon, Celeborn's surprised attempt at a
block only deflecting the blow, not stopping it, as it sliced through the fine suppleness
of the white tunic and deep into Celeborn’s right shoulder.

A slight gasp of pain and Celeborn’s eyes darkened as he spun away to finish. His poise
making him seem only grazed, barely harmed.

Because of my failure, thought Elu, hating himself. He accepted the congratulations of
those around him with loathing, knowing he did not deserve them, and felt again what none
of them knew; how deep the wound truly was. All of his pent up longing had driven the
point home until it struck against bone.

What generosity of spirit, what love must lie behind Celeborn's gesture, conceding the
match to a man he had trusted, even after that trust was betrayed. Handing Elu the glory,
even though his role modle, his teacher, had so badly hurt and misused him.

For as long as he could, Elu stood it, smiling, accepting the light touches of those near
him, wishing only to go to Celeborn. He had never been more thankful than when the music
began again and the crowd drew off to dance. Unobtrusively as possible, he left the
clearing, intending to find the young prince, telling himself he wished only to
apologise, to try make amends for the failure of his own integrity.

He did not dwell on the image which clamoured in his mind, of stripping back the bloodied
white tunic to reveal the warm cream of the skin beneath, of setting his lips to the
wound to try to absorb the pain he had inflicted into himself, to feel the beat of
Celeborn’s heart as he cradled the injured young Elf to him.

I will make amends, he told himself firmly, That is all.

**************** 




Chapter 4

Elu strode to the healer's pavilion, his step tense, his fists clenched on self-loathing.
He had to know that Celeborn had not taken serious hurt. Had to apologize. He yearned for
the young man's forgiveness so badly he trembled with it. Had he lost all his kinsman's
respect, all his... love, in one thoughtless moment?

The healer met Elu at the door of his tent, with an expression of faint reproach. The
wound told its own story of the ferocity with which it had been dealt. It could not be
hidden from one whose path was to mend, and not to strike. Though he was the King, Elu
felt himself shamed in the eyes of this peaceful elf. He flushed slightly and looked
about himself.

Celeborn was not there.

In no mood for conversation, Elu merely lifted a brow. Expressionless, the healer looked
away at the trees, indicating the direction the injured young elf had taken.

Elu looked out at the trackless forest, torn, ‘Is he well?’ he grated out finally.

‘The wound is deep, my Lord. But with time and rest it will heal. I have dressed it and
given him a draught for the pain. He wished to be alone for a time."

His voice trailed off and his eyes strayed to a pile of bloodied cloths almost hidden
beside him. Elu followed his gaze and he inhaled sharply at the gore saturating them. The
wound was far more serious than even he had realized. How much it had bled!

"I told him it was not wise to wander injured in the forest on his own. But…’

‘Why did you not stop him?!’ Elu's voice was stingingly abrupt and dangerous, fuelled by
his own guilt. He tried to check himself, - what after all could the healer have done,
more than give advice? It was not his place to manhandle a prince of Elwe's house. Taking
a deep breath, he forced himself to be calmer, his tight-clenched fingers aching.
'Forgive me. I am concerned for him. Did he say whence he went?’

‘No, my Lord, he would not tell me. And when I pressed the point he was wroth.’
Hesitating, the healer raised a face of confused concern to Elu's irritated stare. 'I
would not intrude, my Lord, but I would help, if it were within my power. Is aught amiss?
Lord Celeborn seemed greatly upset. On edge. He is not the most even tempered of youths,
I vow, but I have rarely seen him so ablaze.'

As Elu’s formidable gaze fixed on him, he swallowed nervously, but pressed on, trusting
in the king's wisdom and restraint in a way which made Elu feel both inadequate and
honoured. "You are loved by your people, Lord, both of you. Yet in recent days a fey mood
has come upon you, and it is keenly felt throughout the host. If there is aught that can
be done to ease this quarrel, I pledge my aid to do it."

Anguish blossomed anew in Elu's chest, but he had no intention of discussing this
particular problem, let alone seeking healing here. ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘There is
naught amiss. A misunderstanding only, which I will presently address when I can speak to
him. Return to the festivities. I will find the prince and bring him back.’

Bowing beneath the canvas of the door, the healer hesitated once more, framed in an arch
of stars, his gentle face thoughtful, uncertain. "Fury burned in his eyes while I dressed
the wound. He has lost much blood, and taken strong medicine for the pain, and in such a
state, my king, it may make matters worse if you pursue him now. Would it not be better
to send Lord Nowë or young Amdir? One of his friends?"

It was meant kindly, Elu knew. It was not meant to say 'You are no longer his friend',
but that was how he felt it. Like a slap. "I will go," he said, stubbornly. "It was I who
injured him, I who will make amends. Any other course would be cowardice."

If the healer was still of a mind to argue, one look at his king’s face kept him silent.
Doubtless, whatever it was that was amiss between these two powerful personalities, he
did not wish to become the object of the wrath of either one of them. Silently he nodded,
and with a respectful bow, left his lord and king standing alone in the camp.

After he had left, Elu stood wondering where Celeborn would have gone. A little earlier
in the day, they had passed through a small glade filled with the heady scent of tiny,
bell-like, silver flowers. The trees had been heavy with life, wreathed in blossom. And
Celeborn, having a great love for trees - as many of the Elves had done - had exclaimed
with joy at the sight. Surely he would be there?

With a determined stride, Elu hurried in that direction. He could not shake from his mind
the thought of the healer's cloths, sodden with blood, or the concern in the healer's
eyes he would not allow himself to speak. If Celeborn had fallen, reopened the wound, now
lay bleeding… Fear clutched at Elu’s chest as he forced himself to breathe normally, to
watch out, alert for danger.

Despite his terror, it did not take him long to find his kinsman. At the foot of one of
the tall trees which edged the very glade Elu had thought of, Celeborn sat with his head
bowed. He seemed not to hear the king's light step, to be unaware of Elu’s approach,
caught unguarded - too weak, or too absorbed in anger - to give thought to his own
defence.

Alarm flared in Elu. He was not... Unable to finish the thought, he quickened his pace,
strode to Celeborn's side and stood, looking down at the youth's huddled form. No, he was
not dead. He breathed, but still he did not move - his knees drawn up to his chest, his
head resting on them, his hands lying sprawled, empty among the long grass and white
wood-anenomes.

Carefully, Elu hunkered down in front of the still form, reached out a gentle hand to
touch the silver hair which spilled, unbound, over Celeborn’s legs, trailed like a
starlit pool over the ground.

At Elu’s hesitant touch, Celeborn flinched, pulling his head away, recoiling violently
against the trunk of the tree. His hand went for the weapon he did not carry even as his
back made contact with the smooth bark. His face, wan in the starlight, paled further as
the impact went through his shoulder. He blanched with pain, his strangled gasp loud in
the silent forest.

Wide, drugged and dark with confusion, his green eyes seemed almost black in the shadows
of the trees. The healer had not lied, Elu thought, in claiming his medicine was strong.
Fury, perhaps, had carried Celeborn here, but when it ebbed - as it must, in such a place
of beauty - it had left him dizzy, disorientated, unable to do more than slump down where
he now sat. Elu shuddered to think how vulnerable he had been, alone and injured,
weakened, distressed. Sheer terror clawed its way up Elu’s throat at the thought of what
could have happened, even this close to camp. Others had been caught before, and the
wails had gone up as their absence and their fate had been discovered.

Melkor's binding had lessened the abductions, but they had not ceased - elves yet
disappeared, taken to some terror from which death itself would be a mercy. Even with the
oft-presence of Oromë, still it happened. Elu’s soul shrank from the idea of it ever
happening to Celeborn.

He waited, his hand resting lightly on Celeborn’s arm until a measure of sense had
returned to the green eyes. In silence, they stared at each other, barely breathing, so
much unsaid between them, so much longed for, so much forbidden.

Then Celeborn’s brows pinched and he said in a voice roughened by pain, ‘Why did you
follow me? You would not have come by choice. Did they send you?’

In the blast of his fear, Elu’s anger had lifted like a mist, fled with no trace. ‘It was
my will to come,’ he said quietly, gaze still holding Celeborn’s, ‘I feared for you. Now,
let me bring you home.’

But Celeborn would not be appeased. He scowled, his words a little slurred. ‘I do not
want you here, as you can see. I am perfectly well, my king. Please, allow me a little
privacy. Let me be!’

My king. Such a bitter slant to those words! And…. something else. This seemed a deeper
anger, a more banked fire than a single mistake - however grievous - would justify. Not
the flare he would expect at injustice, but a deep, slow burning resentment. Why? Elu
thought. Why should he be thus angry at me? He does not face the torment I face -
wishing, wanting so badly, knowing he may not have, driven half mad with frustration and
desire...

His breath caught. Could it...? No, it could not be. Surely this anger could not stem
from the same choking root as his own? Celeborn was too young to be thus driven. Yet he
had fought with such fury - in every place the match for Elu’s. Could it be the cause was
also a match for Elu’s own? Merely the thought had his body hardening instantly. He
swallowed, licked lips gone suddenly dry, and forced himself to be still and think. Even
if the boy wanted him - and surely he did not - still he should be protected from Elu's
devouring passion. He was too inexperienced, too naïve to withstand such an onslaught.
Elu had a responsibility, and this was not it.

Celeborn was still staring at him. Elu allowed his hand to slide from the youth's forearm
to his uninjured shoulder, felt the muscles tense and jump under his large hand. He took
a great gulp of breath, passing it off as a sigh, ‘I will not leave you. You are hurt. I
cannot abandon you here for some hunting bear, or worse, to find. Come back with me now.’

‘No.’ The single word was spoken with such finality. Reluctantly Elu lifted his hand from
the slender shoulder. At once it felt cold, empty, unfulfilled. He had to tuck it in his
sleeve, or he would have reached out again.

‘Why were you angry?' he said, 'Oh, I can understand why you are angry now! I came partly
to offer my apology. It was unforgivable to allow you to cover my slip and then accept
the victory as though it were mine. I did not intend that to happen, I...'

Elu’s voice trailed off. His gaze was full of regret, with such wells of sorrow and half-
leashed danger. So close, he was! Celeborn could feel the warmth of his body - a muted
promise at this distance - sense the vibrant strength of him. Clenching his hands against
the impulse to grasp the front of the king’s tunic and pull him closer, Celeborn looked
away, biting his lip.

As he moved, the prince's hair slid over his shoulder and the elegant length of his neck
was exposed - a swan-like sweep of muscle, skin the colour of cream, edible as cream,
begging to be tasted, asking to be bitten, bruised ... Taken off guard, transfixed by a
sudden wave of desire so strong it made him reel, Elu could not take his eyes from the
pulse that beat erratically in the younger elf’s neck. His heart thundered in his ears.
Mind racing frantically, he dug his nails into his palms, knowing he should move - stand
up, get away before…

He looked up and saw Celeborn watching him. Swiftly, he lunged to his feet, spun away,
breath faltering in his throat. No! I will not! he thought desperately. That is not
desire I can see in his eyes, he is angry with me and rightly so. In agony, Elu ground
his teeth together. Pain lanced through his skull, but still he was achingly aware that
Celeborn had risen, unsteadily, and had taken a step toward him.

Seething with desire, Elu grated out, ‘Why will you not speak? Tell me what I have done
that makes you keep such silence!’

A ghost of a smile tugged at Celeborn’s lips. In the sliding shadows of silver night it
was hard to see his changing expressions; frustrated honesty, mere confusion, or drugged
recklessness. ‘Do you not know, Elu? All my life I have watched you, I have learnt from
you. Why will you not teach me this last thing? Do you not see me here? Do you not care
for me….’ the musical voice dropped to a murmur, softened with what seemed contempt, ‘Or
perhaps you have not the courage to acknowledge your own desires, my king.’

My king. At those words - sarcastic, taunting - Elu tensed. A savage wave of anger and
lethal desire rocked him, tearing at his restraint, his very sanity. He tried to hold on.
The second challenge his young kinsman had issued that night rang in his ears like
mocking laughter. My king! Oh! Oh, Valar he would not take this! He could not! Pushed
beyond endurance, aching with overwhelming, demanding need, at last his body overruled
him, shoved aside with ruthless ease the final scruples of his mind.

Reacting from pure, primal instinct, Elu snarled. He reached the place where Celeborn
stood in two swift strides. Grabbing the younger elf roughly by the shoulders, he heard,
distantly, Celeborn’s gasp of pain as he bore him stumbling backwards, slammed him into
the unyielding trunk of the tree, forcing the breath out of his lungs. He heeded no cries
of agony - they did not matter, nothing mattered now but the need to kiss, to possess, to
feel that firm mouth beneath his, to absorb the warmth of breath and body into his own.

Elu’s mouth came down ruthlessly on Celeborn’s, smothering the prince’s outcry beneath a
bruising kiss. He crowded the youth back against the tree, growling in his throat at the
longed for feel of the lithe, warm muscled body beneath his heavier one. Gripping
Celeborn’s shoulders hard, he felt wet warmth seep beneath his left hand. Celeborn
moaned, but whether it was in agony or desire or both, Elu could not tell; he could
distinguish nothing but the glory of the young body pressed tight against his, the lips,
hot and sweet and, he realized with shock, as demanding as his own.

Celeborn was kissing him back with a hunger to match Elu’s own. At that realization, the
Elven king’s passion spiralled out of control. He thrust ungentle hands into the youth's
mithril hair, held him still, so that he could plunder more fully the drugging warmth of
his mouth. It was pure, sweet ecstasy, like nothing Elu had ever known. Searing heat and
cold shot through his body, intoxicating, overpowering. Without thought, he moved still
closer, until his hips came into contact with Celeborn’s. Need shocked through him at the
touch. 'Ah!' he cried out, as the warm heaviness of his desire came into tight contact
with Celeborn’s own rigid hardness. Oh Valar! He wants me!

Not stopping to think, beyond fighting the waves of passion engulfing his body, Elu
thrust forward, needing more, needing… He pushed Celeborn harder back against the tree.
Liquid welled over his hand, flowed over Celeborn's shoulder and then his own, melding
them together. Its heat spread between them, as delicious as Celeborn's strength, pushing
back against his, sensuous as the abandoned passion with which the younger elf reacted to
Elu’s onslaught, as though he would rather touch than breathe.

Celeborn’s hands were tangled in Elu’s hair, pulling him closer. His hips thrust hard
against his king’s. His legs went weak with wanting; his head light with the need
clouding it. If there was a dizziness apart from the mind-numbing gratification, a
weakness which did not stem from the intoxicating pleasure Elu’s mouth and body was
giving him, then he ignored it. Waves of heat made his head spin. Tiny bursts of light
exploded behind his eyes. Elu moved, and fire raced over his skin as the king’s head
lowered and he began to kiss Celeborn’s neck, sucking hard, sliding with warm moistness
up to the corner of his jaw, impatiently nuzzling aside soft silver hair to find the
sensitive pulse point, tasting and laving the warm skin with his tongue.

Celeborn’s legs buckled and he would have fallen had not Elu’s big body pinned him
against the tree. He whimpered with the force of the sensations crashing through him,
which only intensified as Elu swept his hands down his body and pulled his hips still
closer, gasping into Celeborn’s ear. To see Elu so out of control, so needy, so desperate
- it drove Celeborn out of his mind with wanting. The growing agony of his shoulder was
an irrelevance. Ignoring it, he bucked under Elu's weight, trying to push his hands
between their bodies, searching, seeking. He found Elu’s hard length and closed slender
fingers around his king’s desire. Elu convulsed beneath his touch, thrusting forward
hard, an agonized cry of pleasure bursting from his throat against the smoothness of
Celeborn’s skin. Celeborn answered the involuntary cry with a moan of his own, the grind
of Elu’s hips sending waves of ecstasy coursing through him, increasing the dizziness
into a seething maelstrom of want and need and pain….

Pain. He registered the sensation for a brief moment of blinding agony, and then the
world went dark, dragging him down to a place where desire mingled with waves of searing
cold…

When Celeborn went limp beneath him, Elu’s first reaction was surprise. The lithe form
thrust tight to his relaxed so suddenly that he staggered, caught off balance. He raised
his head, shook it. Instinctively, his hands reached to catch the sagging body as he
struggled to focus, to clear the haze of passion from his eyes.

"No! Oh no!" Glory turned to horror suddenly and completely, when he saw what had
happened.

Blood covered Celeborn’s chest, glistening dark in the starlight. So much blood! Elu too
was covered in it - hand and sleeve and tunic. He had slammed the youth back against the
tree, brutally, with all his strength, reopening the bone-deep wound. It was bad - far,
far worse than he had ever thought. Bad enough to be deadly, and he, in his selfishness,
had neither noticed nor cared. There was so much blood! So much!

Gathering the unconscious form to him, Elu laid trembling fingers to the younger elf’s
throat. A weak pulse faltered there. Swiftly, resisting the urge to scream in denial and
panic, he lifted the boy, so that the liquid silver of Celeborn’s hair fell in shimmering
waves over his arm, grated out a plea to whatever Valar might be listening, and began to
run back to camp. 




Chapter 5

Celeborn woke slowly to deep, blessed darkness. As his mind surfaced from the blank
depths of unconsciousness, he became aware he was in a tent, its sides moving with a soft
sound in the wind. He lay on a thickly padded pallet, covered with soft furs. And he
hurt, Valar he hurt! His shoulder was aflame, and sickening shocks of pain sliced through
his chest. Instinctively he held himself still against it, trying to breathe slowly.

As awareness returned, he opened his eyes carefully, seeking a distraction from the
agony. No lamp burned, and he was alone.

No, he corrected himself, not alone. There was someone standing in tree-shadow, just
outside the door, faintly touched by an unearthly, beautiful light. Frowning, Celeborn
squinted against a sudden pounding in his head. His vision blurred as he tried to lever
himself up to one elbow. With a slight intake of breath, an impression of movement, - a
shifting and melding of the shadows - the figure was gone, slipping away with barely a
whisper of sound.

Painfully, around the dryness of his throat, Celeborn murmured ‘Elu?’ He knew no other
who carried radiance with him, as though he were a fallen star. But there was no answer.
If the figure in the shadows had been Elu Thingol, he had not heard Celeborn’s quiet
plea. Or he had ignored it.

Defeated, Celeborn lay back. Perhaps it had not after all been his Lord. Why would it
have been? Memory flooded him at the thought, sweeping away all in its path. His heart
lurched as he recalled, in precious, vivid detail, the encounter in the forest. Oh, he
closed his eyes,this will be hard to explain to my father. But the misgiving could not
quench his smile. Absently, he raised a hand to his lips, traced the firm outline of a
mouth his king had decisively claimed as his own. Beyond doubt, beyond anything he had
dreamed.

Tiny shivers chased themselves down his spine as he relived every nuance of that kiss,
every touch, every gasp, every hard caress of hands and lips. Never had he been so
overwhelmed! If Elu had asked for all Ennor, had it been in his power, Celeborn would
have given it gladly. As it was, for those precious few moments, Elu’s entire world had
been Celeborn, of that the young elf was sure.

He remembered the almost frightening desire in Elu’s eyes, the uncompromising intent. How
he had welcomed it. He needed it as much as he needed air. As much as Elu had needed him.

'Mmn...' he murmured, recalling the feel of Elu’s hands tangled in his hair, holding his
head still so that he could kiss Celeborn with desperate savagery. From no one else would
he have accepted such aggression, such dominance. And, his smile turned feral with
anticipation, it would be interesting to see how Elu reacted to receiving the same
treatment in return. There was no place for power and precedence between lovers. Young he
might be, and lesser, still Celeborn had a will to match his kinsman’s and they both knew
it. Lovers, he repeated, hearing his thought, and marvelling. He is my lover,. The very
word was a thrill of joy.

But then...then why had Elu left so abruptly, fled from discovery like a thief? Why did
he not answer my call? Why is he not beside me? A frisson of doubt snaked down Celeborn’s
spine, a flash of anxiety he could not explain. The king surely did not regret their
encounter…did he?

No, Celeborn told himself, firmly, he could not. He had no reason. Oh, true, Celeborn’s
father would be furious if he knew. What a storm that would be! He could picture it - Elu
and Galadhon, both as silver as lightning, as loud as tempest - hurling words like
thunderbolts. 'Seducer! Libertine! How could you use your position and influence to
corrupt my innocent son?'

Celeborn almost snorted, held back from it only because it would hurt too much. Elu
hardly seduced me, he thought. I taunted him into it. Admittedly, some of the courage
which had enabled him to do so came from the draught the healer had persuaded him to
drink and the fact that he was light-headed with blood loss and dizziness. And he had not
expected his words to have such an, ah…effect. The memory made him lick his bruised lips
and shiver with delight.

He savoured it for a moment before returning to the troubling thought of his father. Did
it matter? Galadhon was not here. He rode with his wife's family, among Lenw's folk. And
he did not need to know. We will be discreet and secret. If no one finds out, how is he
to hear of it? Certainly not from me.

Hot and sweet, Celeborn’s body reminded him of the reason for this line of thinking,
overrode the image of Galadhon with demanding ease. His skin tingled with the feel of
Elu’s hands, against his back, his hips, pulling him closer - and oh! there had been too
many clothes. Next time there would be flesh, skin, muscle to muscle, warm and hard. His
fingers flexed, recalling Elu’s shout of astonished bliss as he had closed his hand
around the king's desire. His mouth had gone dry again. He flicked his tongue across his
lips and tried not to moan as the memory made him hard; achingly, uncomfortably hard.
Pushing away the impulse to waste this desire on lonely fantasy, he decided to play out
the dream for real, to find Elu and seek relief for them both in the ecstatic fire of
each other’s touch.

Slowly and carefully, mindful of the agony of his shoulder, temporarily forgotten in the
rush of sensation, Celeborn sat up. And that was what caused the problem the last time,
he thought with a rueful smile as he threw the covers of his bed aside. Next time, will I
remind my Lord to be a little more careful in his desire, lest I lose my life to this
passion! Softly, he laughed in anticipation, waiting for the slight dizziness which came
with rising to pass. He would find Elu - and now that their mutual desire had been most
definitely confirmed - they could fulfil it together.

He smiled, and then - as smiling was insufficient to express his happiness - he sang to
himself under his breath, adjusted the sling which held his arm immobile, and walked out
into the starlight.

All was quiet. He halted, listening, intending to go to the king’s tent. But it came to
him, in a sudden knowing, that Elu was not there. Celeborn looked at the forest, at the
shadows of the tree line. Instinct drove him. He stepped toward it.

***

There had been no happy awakening for Elu. He had run into camp, shouting for the healers
loud enough to frighten the birds from the trees, and for hours afterwards he had hovered
while they had tended the younger elf. The only thing which kept him from weeping in
guilt was the desperation to know that his own selfish, mindless passion had not caused
Celeborn’s death.

As he paced outside the tent, agony had possessed him. Oh, he had condemned his own
actions before - a careless slip of the knife. But now! He had compounded that
unforgivable act by giving in to his forbidden desire. Now he truly hated himself.

There was no justification, no escape from what had happened, and still, still, his vivid
imaginings would not cease. Even as he paced, he could feel Celeborn’s lithe young body,
trapped between his bigger frame and the tree, could hear the younger elf’s panting
breaths, his gasps of pleasure at the feel of Elu’s mouth and touch. No!Elu’s hands went
to his head as if he could grasp the offending visions and pull them out. What had he
been thinking? Painful laughter escaped him. He had not been thinking; he had allowed
himself to do the one thing he had sworn not to do, may the Valar help him.

It did not occur to Elu to include Celeborn in his condemnation. The boy was newly
awakened to the spring of his youth, full of life, drunk on the excitement of the dance
and drugged near senseless. If he had responded eagerly, it was because he was not in his
right mind. How could he have resisted his King? Or the light of Aman, burning in Elu's
eyes - a light which every good heart should desire?

He could not. And all his apparent desire was nothing more than delirium - a sickness of
which his teacher, his guardian had shamefully taken advantage. It would not happen
again. I will send him away, Elu thought, his chest aching at the thought. For his own
protection, from me. He must return to his family, where he will be safe.

He was certainly not safe with his Lord. It tore gaping wounds in Elu's heart to think
it, but what if Celeborn woke forgetting his pleasure, remembering only an assault. That
was what it had been, after all. Would Elu have stopped, even if Celeborn had tried to
push him away? He did not know. Sick with remorse and loathing he prayed Let me not have
injured him more than the physical. Let me not have scarred his soul...

But still he could not force the memory away. Detestable though it was, he had no wish to
do so. Never had he known such driven need. It had swept away his conscience until it was
no more than a whispering, unheard, unheeded in a scalding cauldron of flame and silk and
sensation. Though he condemned himself utterly for his actions, he would hold the memory
in his heart as a treasure to be guarded, dragon-like, for eternity. It should not have
happened. It would never happen again. But the lingering joy of it would never leave him;
remaining a bittersweet memory, to be avoided where possible, and where not, to be taken
out and examined like a precious jewel, pure and unsullied.

For there had been a purity to their passion, despite its wrongness. When he had felt
Celeborn’s response to his kiss, it seemed the world tilted on its axis. All questions of
right or wrong dissolved in a sideways shift which left only a feeling of completion, of
a happiness which felt entirely in keeping with the flow of the universe. Elu would never
accept that they had a right to their secret encounter, but he had the unwilling feeling
that somehow, Ilúvatar himself did not condemn it. The thought held no comfort.

‘My lord?’

Elu opened his eyes to find the same healer he had spoke to earlier at his side. The
elf’s gaze was on Elu’s tunic and Elu looked down at himself. He was covered in
Celeborn’s blood. He suppressed the shudder and looked up at the healer.

‘My Lord, have you taken hurt? Are you injured also?’

Amazed by the fact that his voice was as steady as ever, he shook his head, ‘I am
uninjured. This blood is the Lord Celeborn’s from where I..carried him back.’

Elu berated himself for that slight hesitation, but the healer appeared not to notice,
nodding in evident relief. ‘The prince will be well, my lord. I cannot imagine how he re-
opened the wound - he must have fallen. And hard - for it to bleed so freely.’ The healer
frowned to himself for a moment, wondering, and Elu was silent, despising himself more.

‘He will be unconscious for some time yet, the blood loss was severe. But he will recover
swiftly enough if he does not tax it. Will you not come in and reassure yourself?’

He yearned to do so - to duck under the tent flap to see for himself that his actions had
not caused irrevocable hurt to one he loved beyond the love of kin. But he knew he could
not now allow himself the luxury of being anywhere near Celeborn. When Celeborn awoke he
would come to the inevitable conclusion, that his king, his beloved and trusted idol had
taken advantage of him, tried to force him. Celeborn would hate him, must hate him, for
what he had done. It was unbearable, but no more than he deserved. A sudden urge to weep
roughened Elu’s voice as he said, ‘I will come later, perhaps. For now I must return to
my duties. We will remain here for a few days while he recovers. If he wakes and asks for
me, I will be in my tent.’

***

In the depths of the night, Elu moved restlessly on his pallet, unable to rest. He stared
at the roof of his tent, begging his mind to let him sleep, to stop flooding him with
images of Celeborn crying out with pleasure, eager, seeking, drowning in kisses. Elu’s
hands bunched in the furs of his bed, his jaw clenched as he recalled the taste of
Celeborn’s skin, the salt of desire in his mouth as his lips had slid up the young
throat. His body kindled at the memories, hot and tense. Shoving furs aside, he felt the
coolness of the night air across his thighs, whispering over his hard flesh. He turned
his head, breathing slowly, willing himself to think of anything but this, anything!

Please!… But no matter how Elu begged his own mind to release him, there was no escape.
His breathing quickened with lust, became ragged, uneven. Do not, he warned himself, Do
not compound the unforgivable by taking pleasure from it now. No! You will not!

Struggling to his knees, he knew he had to get out, away, it did not matter where. Unseen
dangers lurked in the forest, but far worse seemed to him the monsters of his mind. He
had to find some solace from this agony of guilt and desire before it drove him mad.

Retrieving his weapons, bow and stone knives, he pushed aside the tent flap and checked
the camp. All was peaceful. The guards patrolled the limits of the camp, silent grey
ghosts in the starlight, ever vigilant against the dark things which came suddenly out of
the shadows. Melkor's creatures, doing his bidding still, though their vile master was in
chains.

Recklessly, Elu ignored the warning that nudged the edges of his mind. He would take his
chances. And none had been taken for long months now, perhaps evil had withdrawn into
whatever dark fastness it still inhabited. While his heart and mind were in agony, and
his body on fire, he cared little. Nothing, not even Melkor's greatest servant - the Maia
known as Gorthaur the Cruel - could cause him more pain than he caused himself.

But first, drawn as a moth to the flame which seared it, and despite his earlier resolve,
Elu needed to see Celeborn. The younger elf would be unconscious for many hours. Not yet
ready to wake and condemn him. He could at least look, before he walked away.

As he made his way through the camp, a sudden breeze lifted his steel-silver hair. The
sky had darkened, clouds obscuring the glittering fire of the stars. He frowned. So,
today's hazy warmth would end in storm and savagery. It seemed appropriate.

The prince's tent was dark, but the door was laced open so that healers could check on
his sleep without coming within. There, just outside the entry, Elu balked, unable to go
further.

Celeborn lay half on his side, his arm in a sling. Unconsciousness had passed into deep
sleep. He breathed quietly, unburdened by shame or doubt. For a moment Elu envied his
youth and innocence, wishing desperately for that same unsullied joy which lit the young
man from within, enhancing his beauty, transforming him into the embodiment of light and
life. Physical perfection was an Elvish trait. In Celeborn, there was something more;
wisdom and a capacity for love which infused his every word and action. Young he was, but
in future ages he would be counted among the great, Elu could feel it as a certainty.

For now, he slept peacefully and Elu envied him the rest, though he did not begrudge it.
Instead, he yearned to curl his body around Celeborn’s, hold the younger elf gently,
feeling Celeborn’s quiet breaths against him in the silence of the night.

And he wanted to watch him sleep, tracing every line of hair and face and body, knowing
that Elvish recall would never allow the memory of it to fade. As he stood, unable to
withdraw, yet unable to move closer, Elu felt the sharp ache of love and mingled desire
beak over him like a wave. His eyes were drawn as ever to Celeborn’s mithril hair,
spilling over his shoulder, the ends stirring a little in the breeze. It seemed to Elu
that all the light in the tent seemed to coalesce in that bright length. It held a faint,
ethereal glow. His breath caught in his throat, if he could touch that hair, just once…

Celeborn stirred, moving a little. Seeing him wince and grow still, eyes still closed,
Elu froze. Could he make his escape before the boy was fully awake? He had to go, and
now. But still he waited, barely breathing, and at last, Celeborn’s eyes opened.
Disorientated, his gaze ran slowly around the tent, then sharpened. He looked straight at
the king, frowning.

Swiftly, Thingol moved, slipping into shadow, no more than a breath of air as evidence of
his passing. But Celeborn had seen him, and as he moved away, heading with swift strides
for the forest, he heard the soft cry, ‘Elu?’

Tears pricked his eyes. He shook his head, and carried on walking.

Passing into the darkening night like a shadow of steel, Elu walked for a long time,
listening to the sounds of the forest, the rustling of the trees. The wind continued to
rise. Darkness deepened. A smell of rain was in the air and the crackle of energy which
preceded lightning. Fiercely, the rising temper of the weather a match for his turbulent
emotions, he grinned. He and the storm would spend their turmoil together. When it broke
over the forest, elemental in its ferocity, he would observe its violent heart, watch as
wind and rain and lightning raged over the trees. Perhaps in the wildness of the storm,
his own emotions would be eclipsed, absorbed by the power of the night.

Eventually, he halted, leaning back against the trunk of a tall tree, watching as small
animals hurried by, eager to reach nest and burrow before the storm hit. One or two noted
his presence, glancing at him with bright eyes before hurrying on, rustling through
leaves displaced by the high winds.

A stag paced slowly into the small clearing where Elu stood, refusing to be hurried by
the storm. At the height of his power and strength, his delicate head was crowned by a
magnificent rack of antlers. Dark eyes met dark as the two kings appraised each other.
Then it lowered its antlered head in a slight bow. Touched by the regal calm of the
animal he returned the salute. It watched him a moment more, wisdom and intelligence
warming the solemn gaze in a way that reminded Elu forcibly of Celeborn, then it moved
off, serene and proud.

Celeborn. It seemed he could look at nothing without being reminded. But this time, he
did not try to push the emotions away. Instead he offered then up to the sky above him,
turning his face to the night as the first trail of lightning arced across the sky.
Thunder boomed and echoed overhead. Energy sizzled in the air, and Elu tipped his head
back, beginning to smile. Excitement built, deep in his belly, as though the storm
promised release from his torment, matching the emotions which twisted and writhed inside
him, begging to be set free.

Here, he would let them find that freedom..

He pushed himself away from the tree. The first of the raindrops splattered on his neck
as he bent, fingers moving to the lacings of his tunic. He loosened the ties at the neck,
mind filling with the sight of another throat, bared to his touch, tipped back in gasping
pleasure. Elu moaned, low in his throat, no longer fighting to deny the remembered
sensations. He shrugged the tunic off his shoulders, let it fall to the forest floor. His
light shirt flashed white in the next arc of lightning, darkened rapidly as the rain
began to fall harder. As it slipped over his head, Elu felt his hair brush his naked back
and hips. The shirt joined the tunic.

Lightning cracked across the sky, lighting the tress into stark white sentinels.
Torrential rain whipped at him, thunder a match for the pounding of his heart. Closing
his eyes against the blinding downpour, he opened his mouth, caught the sweet tasting
droplets in his mouth, laughed in exultation, lifting his arms to the power of the night
as the storm now unleashed its full ferocity on the forest and the half naked elf below
it.

Behind his closed eyes, above the howling of the storm, Elu heard Celeborn’s soft groan
as their hips pushed together tightly. His answer was lost in thunder. Arms lowered, he
stilled, laughter fading, eyes closed, hair darkened by the pouring rain, feeling the
warmth of firm muscle beneath his body.

Celeborn. Elu’s hands slipped to the waistband of his leggings. It did not matter any
more, not here, not in the power and violence of this storm. Tomorrow there would be time
for the addition of this guilt to the burden he already carried, but for now he gave
himself up to the storm and to pleasure.

Deft fingers loosened the ties which held the soft material of his leggings closed. He
opened the supple leather, slipped his hand inside. His fingers brushed the tip of his
own hardness and he caught his breath, imagining another hand in place of his own.
Lightning blazed, thunder almost immediate as he closed his fingers about himself. In his
mind his arms were tight about the body he held trapped between the tree and himself.
Rain lashed his face as he stroked, hips flexing, seeking the only comfort he could find,
his breathing becoming ragged, hair soaked, water running over his skin. He choked a soft
cry of desolation and pleasure as his fingers moved slowly, surely, over his hard, warm
length, caressing the sensitive tip, sliding to his base, heart picking up the primitive
rhythm of the storm.

Then another hand joined his, a firm body, stripped to the waist like his own, moulded
itself to his back. Warm lips found the side of Elu’s neck.

Celeborn.

It was suddenly no surprise the youth was here, amidst this storm. It did not matter how
he came to be here, with his injury, it did not matter why this was wrong. Elu's dreams
had summoned him, perhaps, his yearning heart. It did not matter. All that counted was
that he was here. Finally, wonderfully, wantonly here.

Gently but firmly, Celeborn removed Elu’s fingers, replacing them with his own without
breaking the smooth rhythm the king had begun. Elu cried out at the touch. His head fell
back, and he met Celeborn's gaze. The boy's smile was sweetly innocent, but the fingers
moving so deftly around and over Elu’s length were anything but.

Elu reached back, fingers winding into the soft hair at Celeborn’s nape, pulling him
close for a kiss. Celeborn moved into his body, his tongue meeting Elu’s with a
forcefulness which surprised the Elven king.

The kiss was a struggle for dominance, a violent bliss which sent Elu’s mind on a
spinning path of ecstasy. Then Celeborn made a frustrated sound against Elu’s mouth and
his fingers slid away momentarily. Elu made a muffled protest at the loss, but a moment
later, he groaned loudly as Celeborn released the final ties of Elu’s leggings so that
the king’s desire was open to the caress of the storm and Celeborn’s surprisingly knowing
fingers.

Rain fell in torrents on heated skin as Elu writhed in Celeborn’s grip, the slide of
Celeborn’s hand, the heat of his mouth, and the light touch of the rain on his body
driving him wild. His hips thrust harder now, into Celeborn’s waiting grasp and he began
to pant, small rhythmic cries escaping him. Lightning flashed and Elu opened his eyes as
Celeborn’s demanding mouth slid from his to move along the line of his shoulder. Hard,
nipping kisses tormented him with pleasure. Rain trickled down Celeborn’s face, ran into
his water-dark hair, flowed over his bared skin. Elu arched his back, pushing even harder
into Celeborn’s hand, mutely begging for him to increase the pace, wild desire
threatening his very sanity. As he bucked helplessly forward and back, his buttocks
thrust repeatedly against Celeborn’s own hardness, and Celeborn made a desperate sound
against the skin of Elu’s shoulder, followed by a gasp of pain as Elu’s increasingly
frenzied movements jostled his shoulder.

Elu tried to stop, horrified, to see how badly he had hurt the other elf, but Celeborn
would not let him, ‘No,’ he growled, ’No Elu, please. Don't stop.’ And his fingers
slipped over the head of Elu’s erection, smoothing, caressing, so that Elu lost all
coherent thought, his hips finding once more the frantic, driving rhythm they had
established. Lightning, more thunder, Elu was panting frantically now, as Celeborn’s hand
slid up and down his length, washed by rain and Elu’s own warm fluid, ‘Aaah, Celeborn,
I…’

Thought slipped away, Elu’s world narrowed to the warmth of the body cradling his, the
feel of deep, demanding kisses, the pleasure in his groin, building as the storm reached
its height. Elu shook from head to foot, his legs buckling, his hips thrusting
frantically, ‘Ah, Celeborn, can’t…please…’ Another flash, thunder directly overhead,
crashing through their bodies, and Elu’s back arched. Straining, yelling in triumph, his
body gave up its silver warmth to Celeborn’s hand, spilling over the younger elf’s
fingers and to the ground beneath, feeding it. The storm shrieked in protest, the
deafening noise a counterpoint to Elu’s shattering cry of completion.

He stilled and then watched, transfixed, as Celeborn brought his hand up slowly, fingers
glistening with the rain and the gift of Elu’s body. For a moment, he held his hand high,
offering the king’s seed to the spirits of the storm. A gift of love and of passion
perhaps, but also something of a boast - a triumph of his own. Elu could not breathe,
never had he seen a sight so breathtakingly erotic as that before him, the rain washing
all into the earth at their feet. Celeborn lowered his arm, a smile lifting the lips he
leaned to brush against his king’s. Elu smiled back at the sheer joy in that smile and
rested against his kinsman's body, the rain cooling their heated skin.

Then reality intruded, with unwelcome force. Elu stiffened and his eyes went wide. What
was he doing?! What had possessed him? He pushed Celeborn away - though carefully, not
touching the bandaged shoulder - turned his back on the boy. With trembling fingers, he
laced his leggings closed, keeping his back turned, shaking with the knowledge of what he
had done. Guilt choked him - how was it possible to live and be this vile? - and its
heavy fury drove him several steps away. Then he rounded on the prince, anger bursting
from him like fire from the mountains.

‘What are you doing here?!’ he shouted. ‘How did you…?’

Celeborn blanched. Staggered. Concern overriding all other emotions, Elu ran forward,
just in time to catch him as he stumbled. Lowering him gently to the ground, he looked
anxiously at the soaked bandage. There was no blood on it. He sighed in relief as
Celeborn looked up at him in hurt confusion.

‘Why are you angry?‘ the boy whispered, his voice much too weak for Elu’s peace of mind.

Kneeling on the rain soaked ground, Elu settled Celeborn against the tree trunk and
sighed. ‘We should not have done that. Do you not see how wrong this is?’ Weariness had
overcome his anger. He knew himself helpless to fight this, and he did not know what to
do.

‘Why?’ the simple question, hurt, puzzled, nearly undid Elu.

‘Because you are my kinsman’ he said quietly, defeat making his voice soft, ‘Because you
are too young. Because I took advantage of you. Because you cannot possibly know what you
want…’

Warm fingers across his lips stopped the flow of words. He looked up into green eyes
which seemed suddenly to hold all the calm wisdom he could no longer find in himself.

‘Elu, my king, my beloved lord.' Celeborn‘s voice was laced with more than one kind of
pain 'Yes, I am young, but you insult me by saying I do not know what I want. I know well
what I want, and he is here before me.’

Elu made a quiet sign of protest and shook his head, ‘You should hate me, for what I did
to you. Wounding you through my folly, almost killing you when I…’ he faltered.

‘…did what we both wanted,‘ Celeborn’s smile was gentle, almost smug.

‘No!’ Elu wrenched himself away and stood looking down. ‘What we both wanted? I gave you
no choice.’

‘I goaded you into it,’ was the calm reply.

‘I injured you.’

‘It was an accident. I should not have challenged you, knowing how we both felt.’

Elu tried again. ‘You could have bled to death!’

Celeborn’s smile was weak but wry, 'Would you believe I did not notice? I was…otherwise
occupied.’

'There was so much blood!’

Again the smile, 'Now that,‘ he said quietly, ‘I will give you. Did you think I had
passed out from the force of your kiss, my king?

Elu almost laughed, before the seriousness of the situation reasserted itself. ‘And
now…’ he continued, You follow me out into a storm, barely able to stand, unarmed…’

‘I saw you. In my tent. I called you but you did not answer. You did hear, did you not?’

‘I heard,’ Elu’s voice was barely audible. He was not sure if he wanted to be heard, but
perversely the storm chose that moment to quiet. The wind calmed, the rain eased, as the
eye of the tempest sailed overhead, an island of uncanny peace.

‘Why did you not answer?’

Finwë, Olwë and Elu himself had trained this young man to be a king's advisor - the voice
of reason and calm among the storming and posturing of monarchs. It should be no surprise
that he was so persuasive, that he made it sound so easy. Seething with confusion and
guilt, Elu sighed, he had to stop this before he allowed himself to be talked around.

‘I did not answer because I hoped you would not know it was I who stood there.’

Celeborn made to argue and Elu raised a hand. ‘No, you must listen. I came here because I
could not condone what, we, what I, had done. This is impossible, Galadhonion, it cannot
be, for all the reasons I have stated. Do you not see that?’ The last was almost a plea,
certainly not the command Elu had meant it to be.

‘You did not seem to mind a few moments ago.’

Elu bowed his head in bitterness, ‘I am too weak. You were there and the storm was so
fierce, and…I wanted you so badly. And look at you now,’ he gestured to Celeborn, who had
sagged against the tree, exhausted.

But Celeborn would not be cowed, ‘I am wet, not injured further. And now, I believe, it
is my turn to speak and yours to listen. Hear me now Elu Thingol, my lord, my king.’

Elu’s head came up at that tone and he thought of the stag; a young stag challenging the
old. He felt that, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the future, and knew that the
prince would one day become a king himself.

‘Your arguments hold no truth, my Lord. I am young, yes, but I am come of age. I owe my
father gratitude, but I no longer owe him obedience. My path is my own to decide.'

Celeborn's smile twisted - too old and cynical an expression for so young a face. 'I do
not ask to be the love of your life. You are King. You will wed and have heirs, and I
would hope that you will adore her. May she bring you joy! One day I could wish to have
the like myself. But for now...'

For all his sureness of speech he blushed, and Elu had to push away a fond, tolerant
smile at the sight.

'For now I would have you teach me this, as you have taught me all else. I love you as my
kinsman and my friend, and I yearn for you. Do not send me away to slake my yearning with
those for whom I care nothing. Until desire fades and we become other than who we are
now, why can we not share what pleasure we can?’ Celeborn’s fingers brushed Elu’s strong
jaw, his voice was calm, quietly determined, ’ Our journey is long, and it is hard. Let
me share your burden, my Lord. Let me give you what comfort I can.’

The simple plea was devastating in its effectiveness. Of a sudden, Elu’s heart lightened.
His fear and guilt that he had somehow taken advantage of the younger elf had been
alleviated; his terror that he had caused permanent damage proved unfounded; his nephew's
possible wrath was something which could be dealt with, if needed, and his duty to his
people done - in time - without betrayal. Why had he been so afraid, so adamant that he
could not have this? Was it only because he wanted it so much?

The seethe of shame and doubt lifted, thinned like a mist and was swept away. All that
was left in its stead was peace, acceptance, profound and growing joy. And beneath it
all, a desire so deep and overwhelming in its intensity, they both trembled to see it in
each other.

Elu looked up, reaching to tangle his fingers in Celeborn’s hair. The night was again
quiet. Celeborn’s gaze was full of happiness, strength and wisdom lighting the fairness
of his face. For a while they merely looked at one other, absorbing the beauty and
presence of the other. Celeborn turned his head to kiss the palm of the hand that combed
through his mane of hair.

Elu closed his eyes, falling into content. It was then that he felt the shock go through
Celeborn's whole body - the lips against his skin parting in a gasp of horror. He
stiffened, catching the emotion, his eyes flying open - going first to the wounded
shoulder. But the cut was well enough, and Celeborn's gaze was focussed far off, where
the darkness under the trees moved in time with no wind, where shadow flowed across the
earth like a living thing, too deep even for elvish sight to penetrate. Cold and dread
went like a vapour before it.

Celeborn's hand clutched at Elu's wrist, as if to reassure himself by the pulse that his
Lord still lived. He stared in utter shock and fear at the thing that moved towards them,
winged, vast and black. ‘Aiya, Elbereth,‘ Elu heard him whisper in terror, ‘It is the
Hunter.’ 




Chapter 6

Shadow - deeper than a starless night - drifted at the edges of the wood, winding through
branches like many serpents. Trees shivered in response to its malice, as it spread,
flooding into the clearing in a silent, insidious tide. Within the heart of the darkness,
there was a form; far taller than any Elf, faceless, but fully aware, which moved with
cruel and beautiful grace towards them.

Elu struggled to hold to rational thought as instinct screamed at him to flee. With
breathless caution he moved, placing himself in front of Celeborn, shielding him from the
sight of evil. For it had not yet noticed them. The swirling, roiling blackness which
cloaked it, shot through with streams of red like blood, spread towards them inexorably,
but without urgency. It does not see us here.

Fighting his fear, Elu forced himself to be still, his hand on his kinsman’s arm warning
the younger Elf to do the same.

'The Hunter,' Celeborn had called it, remembering legends out of Cuivienen. But it could
not be, for Melkor - whom the elves had known by that name - was imprisoned in Valinor.
There could not be two. And the Hunter had seemed a great and terrible figure on
horseback, in mockery of Oromë. This bore a vampire's form, though as much greater than
the typical vampire as the eagles of Manwë are greater than the sparrows.

Shadow flowed more fully into the clearing, reaching out from the centre where the dark
figure moved, cold as a new grave. Tendrils of blackness seeped across the soaked ground
like mist, creeping closer, seeking, exploring, seeming to have a life of their own, an
awareness which would warn their master of anything they touched.

Slowly, carefully, the elves drew back from the reaching fingers of darkness, deeper into
the sheltering shade of trees and storm. They knew instinctively that they must not brush
against so much as a ribbon of that flowing cloak. For if they did, the chill thing would
become aware of them. Its unhurried drift would stop and its evil will focus on them,
freezing blood, stopping breath. Death would follow. Or worse.

Elu's fingers tightened on the hilt of his knife. Oh, he thought he could put a name to
this thing - this creature with the form of a blood-driven revenant, and the power of the
greatest of the Maia.

Gorthaur.

It was almost worse. Where Melkor's desire was to destroy, Gorthaur's was to torture. His
power might be less, but his intelligence and cruelty were greater than his master's. To
be found by him, to be taken to his stronghold, forced into whatever fate awaited those
elves stolen by the dark powers... I will not let it happen, Elu vowed, glad that he had
but newly sharpened his knife. We will die first. I will make sure of it.

They could not escape, the camp was too far away, and they could not fight - stone knives
against the might of a Maia? Gorthaur would crush them beneath his hand for the sheer joy
of watching them in agony.

Celeborn will not suffer, the king told himself in a grief so profound it seemed unreal.
A swift stroke to heart or throat and the youth would die before he had a chance to
realise what had happened. Then Elu would use the knife on himself. It was only a matter
of time.

A moment passed, as the two elves held their breath, awaiting discovery, tensed, fighting
the miasma of terror which flowed from Gorthaur like his shadowy cloak. Elu, in his
crouch before Celeborn, suddenly felt slender fingers lace with his and squeeze gently,
as if to say that he knew. He knew what Elu planned. He understood, and would not
struggle, accepting death as a gift from one he loved; his Lord and King. His lover.

At that thought, Elu’s spirit mourned. He had not feared, when he accepted this love -
the future of pleasure and warmth so generously offered - that it would be taken from him
in the next heartbeat. Now it would be for him to stop the breath which had so sweetly
mingled with his own, to steal the warmth from the lithe form, and the light from the
green eyes, to watch as Celeborn’s fëa was released from his body. Tears threatened, and
he clenched his teeth. I will make it quick, I promise you, melethron.

But something was wrong... The darkness was passing, oozing beyond them towards the trees
in the far side of the clearing. Why was it not searching, casting about for any elf
unfortunate enough to be caught in this storm? It had been within inches of discovering
them. Why had it let them slip?

In sudden, sinking horror, Elu realised what was happening. His throat closed as he saw
that the Torturer did not search for one soul, or even a few. Gorthaur moved, silent and
unstoppable, not wavering, nor seeking any other near his path, his goal now terrifyingly
clear… His prey was the whole sleeping company of the Teleri - the frail tents, full of
children.

This was no snatch of a few hapless souls, caught away from their kindred, helpless and
alone. This time many hundreds would be taken. Elu saw now the trap Gorthaur had laid,
involving Oromë himself, manipulating the very Valar to his own purposes.

When last the king had spoken with Oromë, the Vala had been puzzled and concerned. Evil
had, for a time, drawn off, he said, and was at work on some unknown labour in the North.
It was this he returned to Valinor to discuss with the other Powers. "I do not lightly
leave your people alone," he had said, "But while evil gathers in the North you should be
safe enough here for a time."

Now Elu realised that whatever had recalled Oromë to Valinor, whatever design of
Gorthaur’s had caused Manwë to call a counsel, it had been a ruse; the Torturer's true
intent was here, with the elves.

His mind raced. Did he move now he would be seen and slain. But if he did not, all chance
to warn his people would be gone, and the Cruel One would come upon the unsuspecting
Elves like a ravening wolf, taking those he wished, killing the others. The ground would
run red with the blood of Elu's slaughtered kin, and Gorthaur would glut his vampire form
with stolen life.

How to warn them? What chance was there to get to the camp first - in time enough to
sound the horn of Oromë, time enough for the Valar's great horse to bear him back?
Creeping darkness spread wide through the forest. Gorthaur would know, as soon as he
stood. He would be stopped. And yet… And yet he would not calmly accept this fate for his
people. He would not!

He barely felt Celeborn’s fingers slide from his as his mind raced along possible avenues
of escape and he formed and discarded a dozen plans to warn his people. There must be a
way….

Overhead, the storm still shrieked its fury. Wind whipped the tendrils of shadow spread
over the clearing into ragged shreds, like a torn black cloak which flapped in the
screaming violence of the storm. The noise was maddening, though as yet, the rain did not
return, leaving the wind to howl its passion into the night alone.

The darkness was almost across the clearing now, yet still the black tide lapped about
them, surrounding them with its welling evil. Elu’s fingers again tightened on the knife,
and he half-turned to assure himself of Celeborn’s position when the time came…

But Celeborn was gone.

Despite the danger, Elu gasped. On the ground, where the prince had lain propped against
the tree, lay
it, the soaked ground was wet with a darker stain. His heart stopped in horror. He looked
up, frantically searching, trying not to curse as fate was taken out of his hands.

He noticed first that there was a gap in the surrounding tide of drifting shadow, a
slight opening through which one who moved with swift precision could slip. And there was
blood - just as in his imaginings - blood on the ground. An uneven trail of it ran in a
thin stream from where Celeborn had lain, straight through the gap. Away from the camp.

Awful realisation gripped Elu. I taught him too well. He recalled the night he had been
discussing Valinor with his brothers - trying to explain the nature and limitations of
the Maia. Celeborn, only recently having come of age, had sat next to his grandfather in
silence, saying little, but listening intently, features grave and intent as he had
absorbed all that he had heard, storing it for future reference.

"They may put on or discard their fana - their forms - as we change our clothing,"
Thingol had said, "But still they chose them with great care. The form has its own
demands and at times can overrule the will of the one who wears it. Many dolphins - so
Ulmo has said - who now chase in heedless joy through the waves were once servants of
his, who have forgotten what they are because of the shape they chose to wear; who became
what they wished to seem."

He had little thought when he spoke with such reverence that he had been handing his
kinsman a weapon to use against the greatest Maia of them all. For Gorthaur wore the fana
of a vampire - as exquisitely sensitive to the scent, and as unable to resist the lure of
spilled blood as a gliding shark.

Knowing this, Celeborn must have unbound his wound, torn it open, until the blood ran
down to his fingers, splashed onto the grass, and he had gone, laying a trail that would
lead the monster away from his folk. Even as Elu watched, stomach heaving in revulsion
and terror, a tendril of darkness moved over the bright spoor. It halted, and like an
inquisitive animal, nosed again over the blood, testing, tasting. Elu saw it ripple with
discovery, saw the knowledge pass along the undulating ribbon of shadow, into the very
heart of the darkness itself.

Gorthaur stopped. Elu could sense the Maia's attention like a cold breath against his
soul. It shifted, its focus pulled aside by base obsession, as the body asserted its
wants - the sweet, primal call of filling the mouth with blood, of escape from death, for
just one moment. Having fought a similar battle himself, and lost, Elu could have pitied
it - but that pity would have been wasted on one so cruel.

Slowly, reluctantly, the darkness shifted, distracted, no longer singular in its purpose.
Moving a fraction at a time, it turned, searching, diminishing. As the awe-inspiring
power and dark majesty of Gorthaur’s evil will was stripped from him he was reduced to a
creature of addicted, hungry malice, bound into creeping, seeking need. Overwhelmed at
last by the lusts of its ill-chosen form.

And Celeborn had made himself its lure, its prize, the one thing which could sate its
desire.

It had his scent now. Elu watched, nausea threatening to choke him, as the creature bent
to the ground. He heard, through a sudden lull in the howling gale, a quiet lapping
sound. It turned its head, and its eyes were the colour of gore.

Elu tensed to move. Though his heart was sickened and his soul rebelled, he would not go
after his young lover. He would do what they both knew he must - take this offered chance
to save his people. Heart breaking, but steady in purpose, Elu waited, and as soon as the
creature was intent on its trail of elven blood, he moved silently into the howling
storm, running swiftly for the unsuspecting Teleri camp.

***

Celeborn stumbled on the rain-slick ground. His breath came in panting, terrified sobs as
he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Thorns clutched at him. His chest burned with
every ragged breath he drew.

But these hurts were as nothing compared to the fire in his shoulder. Did it still bleed?
Stopping for an instant he held a hand to the wound, dug his fingers in, opening it
further, not caring that the agony made him scream. Doubtless his cries would prove
another lure to the thing that followed.

But still the bright flow lessened as his body sought to save itself - blood seeped under
his fingertips, rather than welling. He could not afford to have his pursuer turn back,
so he scooped a sharp stone from the ground and sawed its edges against the cut,
deepening it. Immediately, he felt a warm rush over his hand and his head spun with
dizziness as the blood ran freely once more from the widened wound. He had to keep
Gorthaur after him, following the drugging scent of Elvish agony.

Pain bloomed behind his eyes like a black rose. He knew he could have fallen into it and
be lost. Instead he filled his mind with thoughts of another warmth spilling over his
hand, another dampness hot and filled with the essence of life; the gift of Elu’s body,
the evidence of his love and desire. Celeborn held it in his heart as a talisman against
the terror and agony of this night, against the certainty of his own death.

Deeper into the forest, he forced his faltering steps onward. Dimly, he could hear a
noise above the storm, a deep rushing sound, and he recalled the great river the elves
had forded the day before. Knowing he could not reach it before the evil that tracked him
fell upon him, still he lurched on, heart labouring as his body spent itself, forced to
pause frequently, leaning against the comforting bulk of tree trunks as his ears strained
for the sound of following death.

Elu had returned to warn their people. Of that he was gladly sure. His King was no
foolish hero to put his people in needless peril for his own glory. Still, it would have
been nice to be able to entertain the fantasy of rescue. Once Gorthaur caught him - and
the Maia would catch him, for he was greater even in his diminishment than Celeborn, even
had Celeborn not been half-slain by exertion and bloodloss - death would not be swift. He
drew a shuddering breath at the thought, trying instead to focus on the hope that Elu
could reach the elven camp in time; rouse the warriors and blow the horn-call of Oromë.

As though his hope had summoned it, a high, pure note rang out, echoing and re-echoing
among the trees, calling into the night. Oromë would hear it, Celeborn knew, and would
come swiftly. His people would be safe, none lost to the overwhelming terror of the
Torturer.

None but himself.

As the last golden notes faded, and the brightness left in their wake dimmed, there came
a shuffling, hissing sound, close behind him. The creature came. Chained by its own body,
pursuing a goal which made it ignore the ruin of its carefully laid ambush, it followed a
trail of base need - of Elvish blood, scented and sweetened with pain and fear.

As the pursuit drew closer, dizziness threatened to overwhelm Celeborn. He staggered, and
fear waned with his strength. He knew not what form death would take, and likely he would
be unconscious when it did stoop on him, but even if he were not, even if it was
agonising and lingering, still he would hold to the knowledge that his people would live.

Elu would live.

It was worth this. Even if it had been to save Thingol alone, still it would have been
worth it.

His mouth was still full of the taste of Elu's skin. He could still feel the king's
glorious surrender in the primal wildness of the storm, the cries of helpless yielding;
the sobbing breath and desperation with which Elu had thrust into Celeborn’s hand, giving
himself completely to the younger elf. Driven to pleading cries as Celeborn had taken him
over the edge into searing, soaring ecstasy, his hands had clutched at Celeborn as though
at something wondrous, irreplaceable, as his body convulsed with pleasure. If I have only
that, to hold against the horror of what is to come, it is enough. And more.

He staggered again, shocked as he fell forward, not into more thorns, but into open
space. In his weakness, above the roaring of his own blood in his ears and the shrieking
of the storm, Celeborn had misjudged how close to the river he actually was. Pain pulsing
through his body in sickening waves, he stumbled forward, saw it foaming white in the
darkness of the night, already swollen by the torrential rain of the storm.

Fear came upon him like a blow from without - like the strike of a mighty weapon. It
mattered not that there was no true echo of it in his heart, still it crushed him, like
the hammer of the underworld. I am not afraid, he told himself, I am not. But a will
other than his own stopped him, turned him, reluctant, sickened and fascinated, to face
the thing that emerged from the trees behind him.

It no longer shuffled along the ground. Some measure of control Gorthaur had found over
himself, and now he stood tall, cloaked in nightshade. His eyes gleamed chill, but his
dripping mouth was crimson, and it smiled in cruel enjoyment, for if his plans had been
ruined, now, at least he would have revenge in full.

One look at the river had been enough to tell Celeborn he would not survive a fall into
its foaming, churning depths. The river spirits had been stirred by the storm into an
angry mass of hissing foam and dangerous undercurrents. If he did not drown, he likely
would be killed as he struck his head on one of the rocks that lay on the bed of the deep
water.

And in truth, it sat ill with him to throw his life away, out of fear. He would rather
die fighting. .Searching the ground near him, he looked for something, anything with
which to he could attack the hideous thing. Its will was bent on him now - commanding him
to look at it. With all his stubborness he resisted. He would look when he was ready, not
before. Until then, his warrior’s soul demanded that there must be a weapon with which he
could at least strike at the abomination. Perhaps he could, even now, injure Gorthaur, do
him some harm. His pride demanded it, his courage bore the impulse out.

But there was nothing. No branch lay near his feet, no rock was near at hand.

Gorthaur laughed at his searching. Yet the laugh was hollow to Celeborn’s ears; almost
disappointed, full of fury. The Cruel One wanted him to cringe, to beg for life and at
the end, for death. It knew that it had had to compel the terror Celeborn now felt, that
the young warrior before it felt in truth nothing of the kind. Rage seethed in the cold
eyes, breath hissed between sharp teeth as the great vampire glided forward, close now,
exuding malice, radiating desire to break the elf who stood proudly before it.

Celeborn stood quiet, standing as straight as pain and dizziness would allow. He lifted
his head, staring straight at the Maia, and his expression was one of disdain. In that
moment, caught on the cusp of death, he was unaware that his beauty was such that
Gorthaur felt it as physical pain - an unwelcome rebuke and reminder of what he himself
had once been. Gorthaur's hatred grew.

But to Celeborn's fading mind came only an image of Elu, strong and loving. It was, no
doubt, the last image he would ever see. And he was glad, thinking of the proud tilt of
Elu’s head, the warlike beauty, the smile, dazzling in its brightness; the grey eyes,
filled with a light of marvellous trees, which Celeborn now would never see. One final
time, he admired the silver-steel hair, falling over wide shoulders, the tall, strongly
muscled body, the long, powerful legs as the king stood straight and tall between
Celeborn and his tormentor.

Feeling rather than seeing Gorthaur step closer, Celeborn smiled faintly. Three more
steps and it would be on him. But he cared not. He was dying, and Elu was here. That was
all that mattered.

He drew a deep breath, his smile a fair, sweet thing, as the hooked iron claws slid from
beneath the vampire's cloak, and Gorthaur hesitated between the body's desire to drink,
and the spirit's desire to marr and ruin such sickening innocence. Normally, they
cowered, whimpering in fear. This one did not, and the Maia's hatred almost choked him as
he stalked closer.

In Celeborn’s mind, Elu raised his knife, the dim light gleamed down the length of the
stone blade.

Stone. He had long lost the feeling in his fingers but when he clenched them he could
dimly guess the cut and seep of blood as the edges of the stone he had picked up earlier
bit into his flesh. He nodded slightly to himself. Sharp enough.

He would wait until Gorthaur was another step closer, then he would cut the Maia's
throat.

The mere attempt, he knew, would be utter folly - he could scarcely move, and his sight
was failing. He would fall into Gorthaur's grasp as spent and powerless as an autumn
leaf. But he would try. With his last breath he would try.

In his mind, Elu’s lips brushed his own.

Melethron, the king whispered.

I hear you, my beloved Lord, Celeborn whispered back. Farewell.

*** 



Chapter 7

***

Elu sprinted into camp, silver hair wild about his face, his shouts echoing loudly
between the silent tents. Urgency and anguish trailed him, almost visibly, and the camp's
guards did not hinder him, but ran by his side, weapons in hand, awaiting his command.

Hearing their King's shouted warning, elves ran out of tents and shelters, pulling on
armour of heavy leather, readying for battle. Mothers and children gathered with the
speed of long practice into the centre of the camp, warriors quickly forming an armed
ring about them. None wasted time to question or wonder, they simply moved, warrior,
woman and child into their given positions. Hesitation meant death. The graves of those
they had lost to confusion marked their passage to the sea.

Knife in hand, Elu shouted instructions over his shoulder as he ran. Warriors followed
him until they received their orders, then peeled off to carry them out, moving with
disciplined grace and speed. In moments, the camp was as well defended as its position
allowed. All stood ready.

Elu skidded to a halt outside his tent. Ducking under the flap he seized the horn of
Orome which lay by his pallet, tore it from its wrappings, bore it outside where he could
straighten, lifting it to his lips. He blew. The clear note pierced his spirit, soaring
through the storm, splintering it with silver-gold light. And with that note Elu’s mind
and heart cried out, reaching - hopelessly - for the one he knew already lost to evil
this night.

The call was sounded, and the note died away. Though his people watched him, Elu could no
longer restrain his grief. He sank to his knees, the horn gripped tightly against him. It
was done, Oromë would come. The sacrifice would prove acceptable, and Celeborn's life
would pay - this time - for the lives of his people... Elu bowed his head, weeping, his
arms wrapped tight around the great emptiness within him.

Melethron, he whispered into the tempest, forehead touching the soaked ground.

Faint, and far off, a young, clear voice answered him. I hear you, my beloved Lord.

And a light kindled in Elu's heart - desperate, painful. His head snapped up, his breath
shortened with shock. Celeborn clung, barely, to life, and was about to throw even that
remnant away in a last stand of heroic stupidity - or despair.

Farewell.

"NO!!!"

Elu’s scream rent the night in two, turned every head. Careless of dignity and rumour he
shot to his feet, bolted for the trees from which he had just emerged. His household
warriors, Nowë among them, made to follow.

‘No!’ he shouted at them, ‘Stay here! Wait for Oromë!’

They stopped, obedient, but uncertain, and Nowe - who had been old when Elu was but a
child - said 'My Lord? What is it?’

‘Gorthaur.' Elu shouted, not staying his pace. 'So that I might return and sound the
horn, Celeborn drew him off. I thought surely at the cost of his life. But it is not so.
He lives!'

'We will go with you.'

'No! What will the extra force help, save to draw Gorthaur's wrath? Alone I may pass
unseen. Now do as I bid and stay!' Then he was running, reaching out, following the faint
warmth, the dimming light of his young kinsman's failing life.

Trapped, cornered and dying, Celeborn stood alone, would fall alone. Was falling, even
now. No, Elu moaned in silent anguish as he ran, pushing roughly through undergrowth,
sprinting down deer trails, begging over and over, Do not! I am coming, please…

***

Celeborn staggered, reeling a little under the pressure of darkness. He had said
farewell, now he must strike, while he could still stand. There was a roaring in his ears
like that of the great Sea, drowning out the noise of the river behind him. It seemed he
would reach Valinor long before the rest of his folk.

But as his mind turned inward, marvelling at the approach of death, there came instead -
comet-fiery and majestic, but terribly afraid - the life filled presence of Elu Thingol.

Celeborn! Do not do this. I command you, do not! I am coming…

Shadow stepped closer. The great wings of darkness mantled over him, stretching,
spreading until they filled his sight. Claws reached for him, poised in anticipation over
belly and face, wondering, perhaps which to rend first.

It is too late, he murmured to the frantic king, I love you, and I have no regrets.

He could feel Elu sobbing, taste gulped breaths of rain-filled air, but he himself was at
peace, detached from horror. The breath of the great vampire fell on his face. Cold, and
filled with a thousand whispering voices, it told him of the endless emptiness and
despair which awaited him, ruined, twisted, never allowed to die.

At that threat, revulsion stirred again - distantly, wearily. He moved, a slow step away.
They seemed caught - he and the Maia - in a moment of nothingness, and he was afraid to
break it either by attack or flight. If he did either, the end would come.

The river! Elu screamed into his mind, Celeborn, the river! Please try…I will find you!

A clawed hand touched the back of Celeborn’s neck. Freezing, and slick as icicles, the
flesh was wet, and trembled with unclean desire. His skin crawled at the touch. How could
a Maia, even one such as Gorthaur, be reduced to this? How could power enough to shape
the world sate itself leech-like on innocent blood? This twisted, lusting creature had
once been as holy as Orome. What if its intention was not only to kill, to feed, but to
turn? Could it make me as foul as it is? Oh Valar! No!... No!

Celeborn…listen to me!

In that moment, he understood. What faced him now was not his body's destruction but his
spirit's damnation. The Maia would drink, yes, but not to death; for what Gorthaur truly
desired was to pervert and ruin what had once been pure. To make it like himself. And to
that fate Celeborn would not go calmly.

He made his decision. Taking a final step back he opened his eyes. Gorthaur stood before
him, as a mountain crowned with storm and shadow. A cruel flame was in his eyes, and a
chill vapour flowed from him, pooling at his feet into a lake of darkness. Tall, he
seemed, and terrible, with a barbed and blood-drenched beauty, twisted as a hook of
steel. Watching it, Celeborn took a deep steadying breath, found in himself the
remembered pride, the triumph, he had felt seeing his power over Elu. Then he raised his
chin, looked Gorthaur in the eye, and smiled.

Gorthaur gazed down at the elf before him, one hand resting on the back of its neck, on
the smooth warm skin. It had been worth delaying the end just to see the shock of
realization which had stiffened the disgusting child's back, made the pulse flutter
beneath his fingers. They always expected to die; they were always so disappointed to
find otherwise. This one had lasted longer than most, and it owed Gorthaur much
entertainment to make up for the disappointment of his plans. Slowly, and thoroughly, he
would strip the body, fibre from fibre, muscle from bone, and while it screamed in horror
he would put it back together in a more pleasing design.

He lifted a talon, sheathed in pitted iron, judging the angle at which to slit the elf’s
belly to cause the most pain without allowing death. He had to do it quickly, binding the
elf to him with blood and terror, ere mere accidental wounds snatched the fea out of his
grasp.

The elf trembled, stumbled backwards, and then, shockingly, wrongly, against nature, it
looked up at him - at his insupportable terror and majesty - and it smiled. Gorthaur’s
dark soul recoiled. Why would it smile? Why would it look at him in triumph? He would not
look so unless...

Measuring Celeborn's defiance by his own wisdom, Gorthaur came to an inevitable, shocking
conclusion. Just as he might sometimes send out one of his captains to die, drawing out
his enemies by apparent weakness, this elf must be only the bait in a trap the Valar had
set for him. It rejoiced now because it knew that Gorthaur would die with it; it smiled
because of its own cleverness, drawing his neck into the noose...

Defeated by his own paranoia, Gorthaur’s clawed hand slipped from the back of Celeborn’s
neck. The claw at his belly faltered.

It was all the chance Celeborn needed. Half-turning, feeling Elu in his mind, closer now,
running flat out, he reached mental fingers to his king, even as he flung himself out of
Gorthaur’s grasp and off the steep shelving bank of the river.

Gorthaur screamed in fury, and Elu in fear and frantic hope. But of the two, Elu’s voice
was the stronger and it was his cry Celeborn held to as the churning, icy waters closed
over his head, the warmth of Elu’s fingers clasped in his own.

***

As he felt Celeborn’s leap, Elu heart lurched in his chest. He felt the youth reach out
to him, imploring touch, desperate for warmth. In his mind, he flung a hand out, seeking
and catching slender fingers, holding the faltering spirit to life. I will find you! he
shouted to the presence in his mind, Do not leave me!

But there was no answer. Celeborn had used the last of his strength to throw himself into
the river. He lay unconscious, tossed by its currents. Or at least, so Elu hoped. Forcing
himself onward, questing for the mental signature that said, Celeborn, he did not allow
himself to consider the other explanation for that sudden silence.

Rain began again, lashing down in vicious streams. The undergrowth was thick and tangled.
Elu pushed through it, barely seeing what was before him. He struggled for calm, hearing
the churning chaos of the river above the roar of the storm. Somewhere in that maelstrom,
Celeborn’s body was being tossed like a fallen leaf. He had to get to the river! He had
to be in time to find the boy; to grab a hold. Yet he could see nothing in this storm. It
could already be too late - he could have been long swept past. Or dead - skull crushed
against the boulders in the river. Or pinned and drowning even as Elu blundered uselessly
around in the dark.

Calm, Elu told himself, I must be calm. But fear shortened his breath, leaving him
panting with the urge to panic. How had this happened? How had they come to this?

It did not matter any more. What mattered was finding his young kinsman, his lover, and
finding him soon.

Elu had no fear of Gorthaur this night. He had felt enough from Celeborn’s mind to sense
the Maia's utter shock when the young elf had smiled up at him. Somehow he knew that
Gorthaur had gone, retreated from a threat his own thoughts had conjured. They would have
to be more vigilant from now on, for this night would surely have increased the
Torturer’s unreasoning, bitter hatred of the elves ten-fold.

Irony twisted Elu’s mouth as he pushed through the forest, sprinting where the
undergrowth thinned enough to allow it. Gorthaur was powerful enough to throw down
mountains and reduce fruitful fields to dust and ash; yet he had been utterly defeated by
his own folly, and the courage of one young elf. Smiling grimly, Elu continued his
search.

The voice of the river was deafeningly loud now, he could see its foaming fury through
the trees, startlingly white in the flash of the lightning overhead. He pressed toward
it, squinting through the rain, Elvish sight trying to pierce the shadows of the howling
storm. Hold on, melethron. Hold on. I am almost here.

***

Hours later, Elu slumped in exhausted defeat at the base of a tall oak. He had searched
relentlessly, frantically calling with both mind and voice. Obsessively checking, again
and again, for some sign in the seething waters of a floating body, of silver hair
entangled in the rushing, headlong current.

He had run, for leagues up the riverbank, and then back down, and up again. Hoping,
praying for something to tell him if Celeborn still lay in the raging torrent, or had
been washed up on a hidden bank, unconscious and bleeding, his spirit fading…

But there was nothing. Nothing to tell him if his new found love was alive or dead.

He is dead. Too weary to weep Elu stumbled to a halt, reached out for the comforting
presence of a nearby tree and fell to his knees, its strength at his back. He is dead.

Raw, unable to contemplate that agonizing bereavement, Elu’s mind turned to his nephew
Galadhon. What could he possibly say to explain to the shattered elf how his son had come
to be injured in the first place, let alone lost and pursued by an evil Maia in the dark
heart of a summer storm? I will lose all. My whole family has been taken from me, in one
blow. Galadhon would find it hard to forgive him. And Elmo, his beloved younger
brother... what would he say? What would he think? For Elu must tell them the truth.
Celeborn would wish it, and Elu’s own honour demanded it, however much pain at the
perceived dishonour it would cause them.

It is *not* dishonour! The love and desire he and his kinsman had barely had time to
discover, seemed still nothing worse to Elu than truth. Honesty. A purity of feeling
intense as the touch of a glede. But Celeborn was gone, and somehow Elu doubted his
nephew would see it that way. Still I will lose all. And I deserve it. For exposing him
to Gorthaur's evil, abandoning him to his death. I deserve all the censure they can pour
on me, and more.

In the darkness of the storm, Thingol mourned, guilt streaking through his grief like the
blood that had rained upon the ground from his lover's wound.

***

Elu, my King. Help me, please…

He flinched. The voice had been in his mind, a figment of his tortured sorrow. He forced
it away, reaching once more for the numbed oblivion of pain.

But it spoke again, softly demanding. My Lord, where are you? I cannot see…

'Cannot see?' That was a strange thing for a houseless spirit to say. And even as he
thought it, Elu felt a tentative warmth in his mind, a weak presence in the void where
Celeborn had been. Hope went through Elu like a blade - as shocking and as sharp.

Celeborn?

A weary trickle of relief. Elu, where are you? I cannot move. But take care! Gorthaur
is….

Gorthaur is gone, There would be time enough later to collapse under the weight of this
reprieve, so unlooked for, so joyous, the king told himself. But now he must act, or all
might still be in vain.

As the younger elf scrambled for lucid moments amid a deepening swoon, the mind-touch
faded in and out. It was marvel enough, Elu thought, that he could speak at all - he had
lost blood enough to kill him, fallen into icy, raging waters. And a new injury pounded
in sickening agony through his mind, darkening his eyes, fraying an already weakened
spirit.

Where are you? Thingol asked, keeping his mind-touch as reassuring as he might, muffling
and disguising his own fear. You say you cannot see? What can you hear?

He could tell that Celeborn was utterly spent, craving for rest, even if it be the rest
of death. But then he felt the younger elf assert his will, getting himself under
control, forcing himself to provide Elu with the information the king needed.

I must have hit my head. All is uproar... No, wait. A waterfall. Large... not far away.

Two days ago they had passed such a fall. At once Elu launched himself along the deer
trail which followed the river. I know where that is. Stay there, I am coming.

A faint laugh sounded in his mind, I can do little else, my king.

The Teleri host had been too great to follow this narrow way, and had taken a longer,
winding course, so Elu, racing like an arrow in flight, came swiftly to the mists and
great music of the cataract. A fume of billowing mithril, it was, awe inspiring and
terrible. But he