Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 1/?)  
Author: Maggie Honeybite  
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com  
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html  
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor  
Rating: NC-17  
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon  
Betas: Tehta, Manon  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.  
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism always 
welcome.  
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com,  
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.  
Summary:  Unexpected visitors to Imladris lead Melpomaen to 
make difficult decisions about his future and force Erestor 
to come to terms with his past.  
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  For those who've 
been waiting: thank you for your patience and I hope you 
enjoy!  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.  
 
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004  
 
 
Sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace, beside 
Elrond's chair, Melpomaen looked the picture of repose, his 
relaxed posture seeming to reflect the tranquility of his 
spirit.  And yet his thoughts were anything but peaceful 
and his heart far from calm.  Even his lover's hands, which 
gently stroked his hair, could not dispel the feeling of 
unease that plagued him.  
 
A worry had weighed heavily on his mind for a number of 
weeks now, chasing sleep from his tired eyes each night.  
No other resident of the Last Homely House had mentioned 
anything, and Melpomaen was unwilling to broach the subject 
himself, as his misgivings were rather private and involved 
the one person who was dearer to him than anyone else.  He 
had tried to convince himself that his anxiety was all in 
his mind.  But, try as he might, he could not shake the 
disturbing feeling that something was wrong with Elrond.  
 
For the past fortnight Elrond had seemed distant.  His 
hearing had seemed attuned to inner voices, not 
Melpomaen's, and his gaze had looked off into the distance, 
unseeing.  On a number of occasions Melpomaen's questions 
had gone unanswered, having simply failed to break through 
the fog that clouded Elrond's thoughts.  Elrond had been 
introspective in the past, even preoccupied, but this was 
different.  This was unprecedented.  Melpomaen was 
frightened.  
 
Desperate to chase away the shadows clouding his lover's 
mind, Melpomaen let his hand creep up Elrond's thigh, his 
fingers intent on caressing the one place that held the 
promise of forgetfulness and was almost certain to bring 
respite from heaviness of soul.  But Elrond's hand closed 
over Melpomaen's fingers before they had a chance to reach 
their destination.  
 
"No, love.  Please... not tonight."  
 
"What's wrong?" Melpomaen looked up at his troubled lover.  
"Are you wroth with me?  Have I done something to displease 
you?"  
 
"No, Melpomaen.  It isn't you." Elrond said, his hand 
gently caressing Melpomaen's cheek.  "There are other 
things that trouble me."  
 
"Won't you tell me what they are?  For weeks now you've 
been taciturn and unwilling to share your burden with me... 
Isn't that what I'm here for, meleth?"  
 
Elrond sighed heavily and closed his eyes.  He brushed his 
dark hair away from his face and looked down at Melpomaen 
again.  
 
"Sometimes I fear..." he began, then abruptly stopped.  
 
"What?"  
 
"I fear I am being unfair to you."  Elrond closed his eyes 
anew, lifted his hands to his face and bowed his head, 
hiding his expression from Melpomaen's eyes.  
 
"Unfair?" Melpomaen was astounded.  "Elrond, how could you 
think yourself unfair?  Your fairness and good counsel are 
extolled all over Middle-earth!  Of course you are fair..."  
 
"But not to you."  
 
Melpomaen rose on his knees and wrapped his arms around 
Elrond's shoulders.  Pressing insistent kisses to Elrond's 
hair, he poured all his love and devotion into his 
whispered assurances.  
 
"You are more than fair to me. You've taken me to your 
heart and your bed, and gifted more happiness upon me than 
I ever dreamed could be mine. No one has ever loved me the 
way that you do. No one has ever held me so dear, given me 
so much..."  
 
"Just what have I given you?" Elrond's voice was full of 
self-doubt.  
 
"Your heart... and your body. Your attention, your 
understanding..."  
 
Elrond sighed again, and returned Melpomaen's embrace with 
an almost desperate urgency.  His voice, though calm, was 
suffused with pain. "But is that enough?"  
 
"Elrond, listen to me! Your arms are more of a haven to me 
than Edhellond ever was! You have brought more joy and 
beauty into my life than the very stars in the sky, and if 
you -- you, in your boundless wisdom -- now choose to 
question those priceless gifts... I... well, I will not 
allow it!"  
 
Melpomaen clutched Elrond to his heart, willing his lover's 
cares to melt away into the still night air.  He felt 
Elrond's tense body relax into the embrace, the heaviness 
of his burden slowly coming to rest on Melpomaen's 
shoulders.  Melpomaen bore the weight gladly, relieved that 
he had brought one who was so dear to him a measure of 
comfort.  
 
"Melpomaen..." Elrond pulled away from Melpomaen's arms and 
looked into his eyes.  "You know there are things I cannot 
give you..."  
 
Melpomaen returned his lover's earnest look with steeled 
resolve.  "Those things do not matter," he said.  
 
The fire crackled in the fireplace, flames insistently 
licking at timber and giving off a flickering light.  
Shadows danced on the walls of the bedchamber, alternately 
casting corners of the room into obscurity and illuminating 
their dark secrets.  Elrond's long hair gleamed in the 
half-light, its velvet strands trailing over Melpomaen's 
hands.  
 
Melpomaen looked into Elrond's eyes and felt love and 
sorrow grip his heart like a tight mithril band.  «No,» he 
thought, «none of those things matter; not as long as I 
have you.»  
 
Gently he buried his face in his lover's dark hair, 
breathing in the scent he loved so much -- forest-green 
sweetness with a hint of musk.  "Come to bed, love," he 
said.  "It is late.  Let me ease your mind with my 
touch..."  
 
But it seemed that Elrond's cares had quite a powerful hold 
on him, for not even Melpomaen's tempting offer would erase 
the lines of worry from his face.  
 
"Mel..." Elrond whispered, "does it not pain you that we 
cannot... be free the way others can?  That any joy we 
share must be behind closed doors?"  
 
"We've talked of this before.  You know it does not 
matter."  
 
"Yes, I know.  But you are young; others your age are free 
to choose mates for life.  Do you not mind that we can 
never..." Elrond broke off and traced the outline of 
Melpomaen's cheek with his thumb.  "...that *I* can never 
bind with you?"  
 
There was little that Melpomaen could say to such a 
delicate question.  It was true; he *had* wondered what it 
might be like to walk up to Elrond in the middle of the 
crowded dining hall and simply take his hand, making his 
love obvious for all to see.  Such a simple thing... and 
yet so completely out of his reach. Once or twice his 
thoughts had even strayed to an image of himself and his 
beloved standing beneath the stars, surrounded by friends, 
exchanging gold bands in the solemn silence of the night... 
but every time he had quickly chastised himself, reining in 
his imaginings before they led him on more tricky paths and 
the inevitable realization of the impossibility of his 
wishes became too painful to bear.  
 
And now Elrond was asking him the very question he had so 
carefully avoided considering.  *Did* he mind?  
 
«Of course I mind,» he thought with resignation, «but if 
that is the price I must pay to have you near, then pay it 
I shall.»  
 
Closing his eyes, Melpomaen kissed his lover, intent on 
erasing all the doubt and distress to which Elrond had just 
given voice.  When he finally broke the kiss, Elrond 
remained quiet, his misgivings seemingly assuaged for the 
moment.  
 
"What you have to offer me is enough," Melpomaen said.  "I 
do not ask for more.  I do not need it."  
 
"But you are so young, Mel..." Elrond's grey eyes were once 
again uneasy.  
 
"I'm old enough to know what I want."  
 
"If you were not here with me, mayhap you would encounter 
someone else, someone who would be free to..."  
 
"You would send me away?!"  
 
Melpomaen stumbled backwards, the sudden contact with the 
hard floor painfully jarring the straight line of his 
spine.  "Please, love, no... I could not bear it..."  
 
Elrond's eyes misted over with tears.  Slowly, he bent 
forward and, cupping Melpomaen's face in his hands, knelt 
on the rug beside him.  
 
"I do not say such things to hurt you, Mel.  I would never 
do that.  Nor do I wish to have you far from me, for every 
moment in your company brings me happiness beyond measure."  
 
"Then why?"  
 
"It just... may be better this way.  At least for a while."  
 
Melpomaen looked directly into his lover's eyes.  "I am not 
a child who needs to be spared the pain of bad tidings.  I 
never *was* spared such pain, even when I was an Elfling.  
You have shared many of your secrets with me since you 
first claimed my heart.  Do not hide this from me.  
Whatever it may be, please; let me hear it."  
 
Elrond settled back on his heels, sighing deeply.  His 
fingers slowly rubbed his temples in a gesture of 
exhaustion.  "You are right, of course.  For one of your 
tender years, you are sometimes surprisingly wise..." he 
teased, but his light tone and jesting words failed to 
dispel the gloom in the air.  
 
"Elrond?"  
 
"Yes?"  
 
"Tell me."  
 
The room was quiet for a moment as the Elves stared at each 
other in silence, one carefully weighing his words, the 
other expectantly waiting.  Finally Elrond took a deep 
breath and spoke.  
 
"I received a letter a fortnight ago."  
 
Melpomaen regarded his lover calmly, managing to keep his 
face free of emotion, though his hands shook so much he had 
to hide them in his sleeves.  
 
"From Celebrían," Elrond continued.  
 
Melpomaen, kneeling before his Lord in an accidental 
gesture of supplication, suddenly felt like a true 
supplicant, waiting for the one who held his heart to 
pronounce his doom, and hoping beyond hope that it would 
not be so.  
 
"She will be here in the spring, Mel.  I do not know how 
long she will stay.  I do not know why she has decided to 
come; she did not say."  
 
Melpomaen closed his eyes and bowed his head, saying 
nothing, for what could he say?  Celebrían, as Elrond's 
rightful spouse, was entitled to come to Imladris if she 
wished.  It was Melpomaen who was the intruder, whose place 
in Elrond's life and bedchamber was secured by naught else 
but the fragile bonds of feeling -- private, ephemeral, 
fleeting.  He had built the hopes and joys of his heart out 
of stuff so gossamer that the delicate fabric might easily 
be torn by those whose claim on his lover was more solid.  
 
"You know that while she is here we should not..."  
 
Elrond's words trailed off into silence, but Melpomaen well 
understood what his lover meant.  Despite the feeling of 
fear churning in his stomach, his heart swelled with love.  
Ever considerate and honourable, Elrond would never place 
his estranged wife in the uncomfortable position of having 
to look away and pretend not to see what must be obvious to 
many eyes.  
 
Looking up to meet Elrond's solicitous gaze once more, 
Melpomaen did his utmost to look strong, though the lump in 
his throat served as a palpable reminder of just how 
vulnerable he felt.  
 
"Then I shall be naught but your advisor and scribe while 
she is here, and will love you only through the soundness 
of my judgment and the elegance of my pen, if that is all I 
am allowed," he said.  
 
Seeing Elrond's hesitant smile, he added: "Though your 
bedchamber may be closed to me, I would still wish to 
remain in Imladris, meleth... Just to look at you and hear 
your voice.  You know I can be discreet."  
 
"Mel, it may be distressing for you to see..."  
 
"You forget I am stronger than I look."  
 
Through tears that threatened to fall and contradict his 
brave assertion, Melpomaen watched Elrond's shoulders relax 
somewhat as the older Elf savoured the relief of sharing 
his troubles with another.  Moments later he felt Elrond's 
strong arms enfold him, the comforting warmth of his 
lover's body almost enough to erase the worry that gnawed 
at his insides.  
 
"I would never send you away against your will, Mel.  You 
know that," Elrond whispered into Melpomaen's hair as his 
hands caressed the small of the young Elf's back.  
 
Melpomaen only sighed in reply, and pressed closer to the 
invitingly warm body of his beloved.  Sensing the 
beginnings of a familiar heat between his thighs, he 
briefly felt ashamed of his visceral reaction to Elrond's 
nearness at a time when his lover required comfort, not 
passion.  Then he quickly reminded himself that comfort 
came in many forms, and the corners of his mouth lifted in 
a sly smile.  
 
"You said it pained you that we could not love freely 
except in the privacy of this bedchamber." His lips found 
their way to Elrond's ear and traced its delicate outline.  
 
"Yes..." Elrond's voice hitched in his throat and his hands 
tightened around Melpomaen's waist.  
 
"It need not be so."  Melpomaen slowly drew away from 
Elrond's embrace and smiled invitingly.  "I could show 
you."  
 
Elrond's grey eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to 
speak, but the question hovering on the tip of his tongue 
never came.  
 
Encouraged by his lover's half-stunned yet obvious 
interest, Melpomaen rose to his feet and extended a hand 
toward Elrond, who was still kneeling on the rug.  
 
"Come with me..." Melpomaen's seductive tone left no doubt 
as to the nature of the invitation.  Elrond grasped the 
proffered hand and let himself be pulled into an embrace.  
 
"Are you leading me astray?"  Elrond's question was 
playful, and Melpomaen's heart felt glad to see the gloom 
finally lift from his lover's brow.  
 
"Always," he replied with a mischievous grin and, stopping 
only long enough to grab a small bottle of oil from the 
mantelpiece, pulled an intrigued Elrond from the room.  
 
****  
 
Notes:  
 
This story begins approximately two years after the end of 
"Sweetness and Gall."  
 
Meleth – love (Sindarin)  
 
"Your arms are more of a haven to me than Edhellond ever 
was" -- Edhellond translates as 'Elf haven.'  Yes, I'm 
being cute.  
 
 
 
TBC  
 
 
 
 
Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 2/?)  
Author: Maggie Honeybite  
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com  
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html  
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor  
Rating: NC-17  
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon  
Betas: Tehta, Manon  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.  
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism always 
welcome.  
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com,  
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.  
Summary:  Melpomaen shows Elrond that they need not always 
hide behind closed doors.  
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.  
 
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004  
 
 
Moonlight filtered in through the frost-covered windows, 
painting glittering designs on the frozen surface of the 
glass.  The pale light bathed the room in a mysterious 
glow, making Elrond's office -- already deserted at this 
time of night -- seem even more serene and almost 
otherworldly.  The air was quiet save for the sound of 
hushed breathing and the rustle of silk, for though the 
room was an official one and usually stood empty after the 
day's administrative business was done, this night it 
hosted unexpected visitors.  
 
Two figures were poised in the room's centre.  One was 
standing, his dark hair falling down his back and his open 
robe revealing bare flesh.  The other, completely 
unclothed, knelt at his companion's feet, tracing the 
curves of the other's body alternately with his hands and 
with his mouth.  The two barely moved, almost as if 
unwilling to disturb the perfection of the tableau they 
made, silhouetted against the silver light of the moon.  
 
Elrond shivered in the cool night air, the light silk robe 
that had been comfortable in his fire-warmed chambers now 
inadequate in the unheated office.  He pulled at the fabric 
and attempted to wrap it around the figure kneeling at his 
feet, wanting to impart at least some warmth to Melpomaen, 
who looked so very exposed.  But Melpomaen barely noticed, 
so absorbed was he in his own efforts to warm Elrond from 
within.  Elrond felt fingers snake their way up his thighs 
as Melpomaen's tongue left a tantalizing trail of heat 
along his length.  
He trembled again, this time from delight.  
 
Letting go of his robe, Elrond tangled his hands in 
Melpomaen's hair, stroking the dark strands that were 
softer than any silk.  Black eyes looked up at him from 
beneath long lashes with an expression that was both coy 
and full of fire.  Melpomaen leaned his cheek into the 
caress and, still holding Elrond's gaze, let the tip of his 
tongue tease Elrond's hardening sex with such slow and 
deliberate ostentation that the gesture would have seemed 
lewd had his eyes not been shining with love.  «Elbereth,» 
thought Elrond. «How could I ever give him up?»  
 
Though entranced by the sensation, Elrond nevertheless 
sought to ensure his partner's comfort.  
 
"Mel, you are cold..."  
 
"Nay, I am fine."  
 
"I can see you shivering; let me warm you."  
 
Coal-black eyes looked up at him again, and Elrond read a 
hint of mischief in their depths.  
 
"Very well," Melpomaen said, rising from his knees and 
pressing his naked form against Elrond's own. "if you 
insist."  
 
Elrond wrapped his thin robe around them both, bringing 
their chilled bodies into closer contact.  He felt 
Melpomaen shiver and held him tighter to his chest.  The 
young Elf laid his head on Elrond's shoulder and kissed his 
neck.  
 
"We could go back to my chambers you know; 'tis warm 
there..." Elrond ventured reluctantly.  
 
"Nay!" Melpomaen took a step back and looked into Elrond's 
eyes with conviction.  "You said tonight that you wished we 
could be more free."  
 
"Yes, but..."  
 
Melpomaen's mouth curled up in a half-smile.  "I remember 
you saying once you wanted me here, in your office.  Well, 
here we are and... you are about to have me."  
 
"And the cold?"  
 
"It is of no importance." Melpomaen kissed Elrond softly, 
then began to steer him backwards.  "I have an idea."  
 
"What sort of idea?" Elrond barely had time to ask the 
question before the backs of his thighs encountered a hard 
wooden surface.  His desk. "You cannot mean to..."  
 
"Oh, yes I can." Melpomaen's naughty smile was obvious now, 
and in his eyes gleamed a strange light.  
 
Elrond felt his lover's fire quickly ignite his own 
passion.  Despite the chill in the air, the unadvisable 
location of the act they were about to perform, and his 
millennia-old judgment, which would normally keep him from 
rushing into actions so imprudent, he did not protest as 
Melpomaen pushed him back onto the desk.  He did not stay 
his lover's hands as they swept parchments off the polished 
wood to land in a haphazard pile on the ground.  Nor did he 
object as Melpomaen clambered up onto the oaken surface 
after him and straddled his thighs.  
 
Melpomaen looked so beautiful perched on the edge of the 
wooden desk that Elrond almost forgot to breathe.  The 
young Elf's body was luminous in the moonlight, dark hair a 
striking contrast to pale skin.  The muscles in his slim 
thighs flexed as he balanced astride Elrond's legs.  He was 
still cold -- that much was obvious from the goose flesh on 
his forearms and the tautness of his nipples -- but he did 
not seem to care.  Elrond pulled him in for a kiss, utterly 
under the spell of this dark-eyed beauty, who could be so 
quiet and proper in his library and council, and then 
turned into a sensual vision when night fell.  
 
"I am yours, love; take your fill," Melpomaen whispered, 
guiding Elrond's fingers to the juncture of thigh and 
buttock.  He gazed knowingly into Elrond's eyes. "I've 
wanted you all day; do not make me wait."  
 
Trembling with lust, Elrond gripped Melpomaen with one hand 
as the other blindly searched the desk's surface for the 
small glass bottle they had brought.  Finding what he 
sought, he kissed Melpomaen's mouth, hard, then wrenched 
the stopper from the bottle, not caring where it fell.  Oil 
coated his hands, warm and slick, anointing Melpomaen's 
body and leaving opalescent smudges on paper and wood.  
 
Melpomaen's flesh warmed under Elrond's fingers, his body 
yielding, eyes open, face beautiful.  "Yes," Elrond heard 
him whisper, and slowly pulled him down onto his lap.  
Gazing up into Melpomaen's face, he watched as the young 
Elf's dark eyes closed in pleasure and his lower lip 
twitched at the sensation of being penetrated.  Though it 
was a sight he had witnessed many times before, Elrond 
found it no less potent in its familiarity.  
 
Their bodies now joined, Melpomaen leaned his forehead 
against Elrond's and looked into his eyes, black meeting 
grey.  
 
"I could never tire of this..." The words were more breath 
than speech.  
 
"Of what, love?"  
 
"Being the recipient of your... attentions."  Wide-eyed 
wonder and unabashed enjoyment battled for dominance on 
Melpomaen's face.  
 
Elrond felt his heart beat faster.  "Do my attentions 
please you so?" he attempted to return the banter, though 
his voice shook slightly.  
 
"Oh, yes," Melpomaen said, thighs straining in his 
movements, eyes fixed on Elrond's face.  "I count myself 
most fortunate to receive attentions of such... magnitude."  
 
"Aahh..." was all Elrond could manage in reply.  All his 
eloquence and self-possession melted away at the sight of 
Melpomaen's wicked smile.  Realizing that words would 
certainly fail him now, Elrond took his cue from his body, 
which wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by 
Melpomaen's heat and to fill him again and again.  
 
He threw his head back, giving up all control, and let the 
wondrous creature that was his lover take him to a place 
where there were no fears, no regrets, no complications.  
Just pleasure.  
 
 
****  
 
From the shadows of the entranceway, through a crack in the 
oaken door, angry blue eyes watched the two figures on the 
desk.  The silent shape, barely perceptible in the half-
light, did not stir or in any other way betray his 
presence.  He simply stood there unmoving, as if frozen in 
place, and could almost be taken for one of the sculptures 
that adorned the hallway if not for the fury in his gaze 
and the fact that his hands were clenched into fists.  
 
Caegaran of the border guard, ever-loyal servant of 
Imladris and its Lord, on his nightly patrol through the 
empty corridors of the Last Homely House, stood with his 
feet planted in a fighting stance and did what he had been 
trained to do and had dutifully done every single day of 
his life for the past two centuries.  He watched.  
 
The keen eyes that had spotted many an orc hidden in the 
densest foliage and sent countless arrows on their unerring 
course to slay intruders now focused in desperate 
concentration on the scene before him.  Unable to look 
away, he took in every detail of an image he would give 
anything to eradicate from his memory -- that of the Lord 
of his heart being loved by another.  
 
And loved quite well, by the looks of it.  Against his 
better judgment, Caegaran scrutinized the two naked forms 
entwined in the moonlit room, his heart crying out in 
silent anguish at every pleasure-filled sigh.  He watched 
in horror as Melpomaen moved atop his Lord -- *his* Lord -- 
with skill that made it obvious the young Elf had done it 
many times before.  
 
So it was true then.  Rumours that Elrond had taken a young 
lover had flown around the barracks, spread by furtive 
whispers, raised eyebrows and the occasional wink, but 
Caegaran had refused to believe the malicious gossip 
circulating about his beloved Lord.  Now he had no choice 
but to believe.  The proof lay right before his eyes.  
 
He felt a sharp stab of pain in his gut, not unlike the 
feeling of being pierced with an enemy arrow.  «Would that 
it were an arrow,» he thought bitterly.  Any physical wound 
would have been preferable to this sensation of being hung 
from a great height and slowly eviscerated, not by knives 
or swords but by soft images and hushed sounds: a hand 
tenderly stroking a hip, long hair trailing over a naked 
back, a pair of heels precariously balanced over the edge 
of the dark wood, an imploring "yes!" coming from the mouth 
of one for whom he would have happily laid down his life.  
 
«Why?!» His heart grieved as bile rose in his throat.  «Why 
him?» His mind followed suit, rebelling at the thought of 
one as young and insignificant as Melpomaen holding favour 
with Lord Elrond.  A nightmarish haze swirled madly in his 
head until one clear question finally broke the surface of 
the painful muddle: «Why not me?!»  
 
He tormented himself with speculations about when and how 
the couple before him had first come together.  Who had 
initiated the liaison?  As innocent as Melpomaen had been 
all those months ago, Caegaran could not picture him 
approaching the Lord of Imladris with a romantic 
proposition.  Still, resentful of the young Elf's proximity 
to Elrond, Caegaran had spoken to him back then, trying to 
frighten the mouse-like scribe away from seeing his Lord 
and employer in a more intimate light.  
 
He recalled vividly how the dark eyes had widened in shock 
at his words.  He had not meant to upset Melpomaen so 
badly, and had even regretted the whole episode for a 
while, but no more.  Now he wished he had been more callous 
and direct in his warning, for his words had obviously not 
had the desired effect.  
 
All those months Melpomaen and Elrond had spent working 
together had clearly borne fruit, for now Caegaran could 
plainly see that the young Elf moving so seductively on the 
wooden desk was no longer the self-conscious and timid 
newcomer he had once been.  Something had changed him.  
Elrond's love had changed him.  
 
Anger bubbled up inside Caegaran, red hot in its fury.  To 
think that this young pup, barely out of his swaddling 
clothes, with neither position nor noble parentage to 
recommend him, actually shared Elrond's bed... It was an 
outrage.  Why, Melpomaen had called Imladris home for 
scarcely more than a full turn of the seasons!  Caegaran 
had dedicated his whole life to serving the Lord of the 
valley, doing his duty with the kind of selfless constancy 
that only came from a deep and hidden love.  He had adored 
the Elven Lord from afar, had nigh worshipped his beauty, 
wisdom and grace, but he had never -- never -- dared dream 
he could take the kind of liberties Melpomaen was so 
clearly used to taking.  He simply did not feel himself 
worthy, and thought Elrond as far above him as the moon was 
above the earth.  And now Melpomaen...  
 
Caegaran watched as Elrond reached out a hand to stroke 
Melpomaen's face.  The young Elf smiled at the caress, then 
arched his back in a gratuitous display of wantonness.  A 
single bead of sweat made its way down Melpomaen's chest, 
gleaming in the soft light of the moon like a pearl.  
Elrond captured it with his tongue, closed his mouth around 
a dark nipple, then looked into Melpomaen's eyes and 
whispered words Caegaran wished he had not heard.  But he 
did hear.  They were words of love.  
 
Feeling his head spin and his stomach threaten to bring up 
its contents, Caegaran finally closed his eyes.  He turned 
and limped away, holding onto the wall for support.  There 
was a buzzing sound in his ears, as if all his thoughts had 
run amok, and the world looked out of focus.  Slowly, with 
the cool stone under his fingers grounding him in the here-
and-now, one certainty began to emerge in his muddled 
mind.  Melpomaen had stolen his love.  He would pay.  
 
 
****  
 
Notes:  
 
Caegaran is an original character who caused Melpomaen some 
trouble in the early chapters of "Sweetness and Gall" (and 
will no doubt cause Melpomaen more trouble in the future.)  
 
TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 3/?)  
Author: Maggie Honeybite  
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com  
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html  
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, Erestor/Gildor  
Rating: NC-17  
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon  
Betas: Tehta, Manon  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make any profit from 
them. Any writing I do is done with a deep respect for Tolkien and out of 
an abiding love for his Elves.  
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is always 
welcome.  
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com,  
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, just ask.  
Summary:  Visitors arrive in Imladris, throwing Melpomaen's and 
Erestor's lives into chaos.  
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and to Tehta, 
whose comments during the writing (and re-writing) process were 
invaluable.  
 
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004  
 
 
A warm wind ruffled Glorfindel's formal robes as he stood on the front 
steps of the Last Homely House, awaiting the official arrival of the Lady 
of Imladris.  Those gathered around him, all dressed in their ceremonial 
best, fidgeted impatiently or shifted from foot to foot, for the day was 
warm and pleasant and the heavy velvet robes most had donned for the 
occasion itched mercilessly under the hot noon sun.  Glorfindel smiled at 
the thought that Erestor had suggested he wear silk for that very reason.  
As usual, his lover's counsel had been sound.  
 
His eyes seeking out Erestor's figure, Glorfindel crossed his arms behind 
his back and decided he was quite happy to while away the long wait by 
feasting his eyes on the most beautiful Elf in the valley.  He didn't often 
get the chance to watch his lover from a distance, engaged in the 
performance of his official duties.  Knowing he might not get the chance 
again for a long while, he resolved to take full advantage.  
 
Erestor stood at Elrond's right hand, poised and proud, his face betraying 
no sign of emotion, strands of his coal-black hair fluttering around his 
shoulders.  As always, he was the epitome of grace and understatement.  It 
never ceased to amaze Glorfindel how his lover could make a simple black 
robe look so regal.  Then again, there were many things about Erestor that 
Glorfindel found amazing.  
 
Ever attentive, Erestor leaned over and whispered something in Elrond's 
ear, his demeanour all coolness and composure.  Elrond closed his eyes, 
listening intently, then nodded in thought.  
 
Glorfindel did not have the faintest idea what manner of observation his 
lover had just made to their Lord, but he did not doubt for a moment that it 
was something profound and insightful.  He was well aware Erestor was 
unparalleled in his capacity as advisor.  Even after knowing the serious Elf 
for many centuries, he still found himself in awe of Erestor's intelligence 
and perceptiveness.  It made him proud of the dark-haired beauty's 
talents.  It made him marvel at the subtle power veiled beneath that cool 
gaze.  It made him feel... aroused.  
 
Slightly irked by his lack of composure, he glanced around him to 
ascertain whether any of the Elves assembled on the stone steps were 
looking in his direction.  Fortunately, they were all far too preoccupied 
with gazing into the distance and trying to catch the first glimpse of 
Celebrían and her Lórien escort.  Exhaling with relief, Glorfindel 
discreetly rearranged his robes.  
 
Glancing back at his lover, he greedily took in Erestor's still profile, the 
darkness of his hair, all his quiet loveliness.  He felt a familiar sensation of 
vertigo begin somewhere beneath his rib cage and then spread its pleasant 
tendrils up his body, making his scalp tingle with its creeping thrill.  Right 
on its heels followed a wave of such sweet tenderness that moisture 
gathered in his eyes, turning the sun's rays filtering through the trees into 
glimmering streaks of multicoloured light.  
 
He had an urge to fall down on his knees and worship his lover's pale 
body; with his words, his hands, his mouth -- giving expression to the 
adoration with which his heart overflowed.  He ached for the welcoming 
ceremony and dinner festivities to be over, so that he and the lovely dark-
eyed Elf could retire to their chambers and take their fill of each other's 
flesh.  Glorfindel well knew the one on his knees that evening was most 
likely to be Erestor, as that was the position the quiet advisor usually 
preferred -- the master of control willingly unburdening himself of all 
authority in the freedom the darkness afforded.  Still, as much as it thrilled 
Glorfindel to have all that beauty kneeling at his feet and to feel the hot 
caresses of the very mouth that had uttered such sage counsel, he could not 
help wanting to bow down before Erestor and honour him.  
 
The shrill sound of trumpets brought Glorfindel out of his trance.  He 
straightened up, took in a calming breath and focused his attention on the 
Lórien convoy, which had just then come into view.  The Elves around 
him were chattering with excitement, hurriedly smoothing their robes and 
craning their necks to get a better look.  Many of them were young and 
had likely not witnessed such pomp and commotion before, as Imladris 
did not host illustrious guests often.  Glorfindel smiled indulgently.  He 
could hardly remember being that impressionable himself, though he knew 
there had been a time when he had reacted just as they, moved to awe by 
the sight of such splendour.  Now the only sight that made his heart pound 
was that of a lean figure dressed entirely in black, motionless at Elrond's 
side.  
 
Casting one last quick look in his lover's direction, Glorfindel suddenly 
felt his heart stop in his chest.  Erestor's shoulders were hunched and his 
muscles tensed as if he wanted to curl in on himself and disappear.  His 
already pale complexion had turned an unhealthy shade of white.  His 
eyes, usually so discreet in their glances, were fixed on the approaching 
entourage quite openly, and seemed to be filling with panic.  Something 
was very, very wrong.  
 
****  
 
Melpomaen's heart sank ever deeper with each step that brought Celebrían 
and her escort closer to the Last Homely House.  He had already felt it 
drop through the bottom of his stomach when he first caught sight of his 
lover's wife and yet, though he could hardly believe it possible, lower and 
lower it plunged, its wild shudders beating time with the sound of her 
horse's hooves.  Desperately anchoring his eyes on the ground before him, 
he had a bizarre vision of his poor heart tumbling down to his feet, to be 
crushed by the Lady's steady approach.  Unable to bring himself to look 
up, he did not raise his eyes until the sound of horses' hooves was replaced 
by that of neighing, only a few feet away, and he heard Elrond's beloved 
voice speak formal words of welcome.  
 
He dared to look then, and immediately wished he had not.  
 
He had heard talk of her great beauty, and had braced himself for the sight 
of her golden hair, her fair face, her bright eyes.  He had even been ready 
for the aura of authority and self-assurance she projected -- he knew she 
was used to commanding and being obeyed.  What took him completely 
by surprise and nearly knocked him to his knees in its unexpectedness was 
the air of entitlement, ownership even, that radiated from her.  It was 
obvious that she belonged here.  Though she chose to make Lórien her 
home, Imladris *was* her rightful place and Elrond *was* her husband.  
Valar-sanctioned, until the end of Arda.  
 
In that moment Melpomaen had the painful epiphany that, beside her, he 
amounted to nothing.  For all the love his heart held for Elrond, for all 
their closeness, Melpomaen's place his lover's life was precarious at best.  
He was an intruder.  She was the great Lady of this realm come back to 
stake her claim.  
 
Taking Elrond's proffered hand, Celebrían dismounted and was greeted by 
a formal kiss on the cheek.  The spouses exchanged a few quiet words, 
Elrond's face schooled in the mask of pleased tranquility he usually wore 
in the presence of official visitors.  His hand cradling his wife's elbow, the 
Lord of the valley gestured toward the well-wishers gathered on the front 
steps and led Celebrían toward them.  
 
He guided her along the long row of Elves lined up on the steps, like a 
commander inspecting his troops.  One by one, he introduced the members 
of his household to Celebrían, giving each one's name and position in the 
valley's hierarchy.  Watching the Elves bow before their Lady, 
Melpomaen could do naught but wait, dreading his turn, yet knowing it 
must come.  
 
Finally the rustle of silk drew closer and Melpomaen heard his lover's 
voice say: "This is Melpomaen; a junior advisor and scribe who works 
under Master Erestor."  Knowing he could put the inevitable off no longer, 
he bowed low and respectfully, then straightened up and looked into 
Celebrían's face.  
 
Her eyes were cool, her gaze serene and impassive, yet, when she looked 
at him, Melpomaen felt himself the object of such intense scrutiny that he 
nearly squirmed.  She did not smile, did not say a word; she merely 
watched, but Melpomaen nearly burned under her icy stare.  Instead of 
moving on, she lingered and proceeded to examine him from head to foot, 
almost as if trying to decipher some great puzzle.  
 
Barely stifling the urge to run and hide, Melpomaen gradually felt his 
suspicions turn into certainty.  «She knows,» he thought, looking down at 
the ground. «She's known all along.  That is why she has come.»  The 
inevitability and hopelessness of it all hit him full-force, nearly choking 
him.  He had loved and been loved by Elrond for nearly three years now.  
He should have known his happiness could not last.  It had been a prize 
too readily won.  Now it would be taken away.  
 
As Celebrían's steps gradually retreated and the next Elf in line was 
presented to her, Melpomaen nearly slumped onto the stone surface under 
his feet.  His muscles, held rigid and still by pure force of will on his part, 
now began to shake.  Despite the bright sun shining down on him, he felt 
quite cold.  «Courage,» he thought. «This will be over soon.»  
 
He raised his eyes and looked around, in an attempt to focus his mind on 
more neutral matters.  And that was when he noticed something that had 
hitherto escaped his attention.  
 
The Lórien convoy was somewhat larger than he had expected, elaborate 
though he knew it would be.  «That is no single escort!» he realized with 
amazement, for indeed the Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's 
warriors were not dressed in the uniform of the Galadhrim.  They seemed 
to be a separate group, and at their head stood an Elf whose beauty, 
manner of dress and noble bearing signalled to all that he was a Lord and 
leader in his own right.  
 
As the last of the introductions on the steps of the Last Homely House was 
made, Melpomaen saw Elrond turn and walk over to welcome the 
mysterious Elf, his greeting familiar.  «They know each other,» 
Melpomaen thought with surprise, then quickly chastised himself for the 
absurdity of his observation.  His older lover had, after all, millennia of 
experience; had fought for the good of Middle-earth probably long before 
Melpomaen's parents were even born.  It was no remarkable thing that 
Elrond and the stranger would be friends of old.  
 
Or were they?  Melpomaen found himself reconsidering his last thought as 
he watched the two Lords interact.  He knew his lover well enough by 
now to be able to judge his measure of affection and trust for those in his 
presence.  Elrond's demeanour around the noble visitor may have been 
informal, but trust was noticeably absent from his face.  Although pleased, 
the expression Elrond wore was guarded and not free of reservations.  
 
«I shall have to ask him about it tonight, when we are alone.» 
Melpomaen's thoughts followed a well-trod path, only to be brought up 
short by the brutal recollection of reality.  He would not be able to ask his 
lover any private thing tonight or any other night, for long weeks to come.  
They would not be alone.  Celebrían was now in their midst, and their 
lives had begun to undergo a frightening and painful metamorphosis.  
Melpomaen felt as if he were sinking into a familiar nightmare, only, this 
time, Elrond's arms were not there to hold him fast.  
 
****  
 
Out of the corner of his eye, Glorfindel saw Melpomaen blanch and steel 
his resolve under Celebrían's careful inspection.  A few paces away, 
Elrond looked somewhat less than comfortable.  Glorfindel felt a pang of 
sympathy for Elrond and his young lover -- the situation they found 
themselves in was not to be envied, and would likely deteriorate further 
before Celebrían's visit had run its course.  
 
He would normally have given more attention to his friends' plight, but 
just now his concern was focused elsewhere.  Erestor's stiff shoulders had 
not moved an inch since the courtyard had filled with visitors, and 
Glorfindel could see it was not merely proper etiquette that kept his body 
so still.  The advisor's eyes, instead of following the welcoming 
formalities with interest, were inspecting the stones beneath his feet, only 
occasionally glancing sideways at the source of his distress, as if to verify 
it was still there.  
 
The next time Erestor hazarded a guarded look in the direction of his 
supposed bane, Glorfindel followed his eyes and found himself staring at a 
group of Elves gathered to the left of Celebrían's convoy.  He recognized 
them, of course, as he had had dealings with them in the past, and he was 
only mildly surprised to find they had joined with Celebrían's escort and 
accompanied it to Imladris.  
 
«Gildor Inglorion and his Wandering Company must have encountered the 
Lórien warriors on the way,» he thought, still perplexed as to why the 
sight of golden-haired Gildor and his small troop of followers would cause 
Erestor to react so alarmingly.  
 
Then he saw Gildor catch Erestor's eye and send him a knowing, slightly 
mocking smile.  Gildor's eyebrow was raised, as if he were asking Erestor 
a question.  This gesture, although not overtly improper or threatening in 
any way, nevertheless had the power to immediately rivet Erestor's gaze 
back on the dust under his boots.  
 
Glorfindel, already dismayed at the alien sight of his proud lover falling 
prey to intimidation so easily, noticed with further dread that Erestor's face 
had now gone completely ashen and his nails were digging into his palms.  
 
«What manner of sorcery is this?» he thought with anger.  Erestor was 
anything but craven, so why would a mere look from Gildor Inglorion 
have him cowering in fear like a child?  
 
Suddenly awareness dawned on Glorfindel, simple and clear, yet terrible 
in its simplicity.  There was only one who had ever had such oppressive 
control over Erestor's heart and mind; only one who had caused the proud 
advisor to cry from shame.  Glorfindel had once sworn he would cut this 
Elf's throat if he ever came across his path, but he had never believed such 
a thing would actually happen.  It had seemed to him that Erestor's past 
was just that:  the past -- a memory that would never cast fresh shadows 
over their shared future.  And yet here was this very memory made flesh -- 
in the form of Gildor Inglorion's haughty smirk -- and there stood Erestor 
shaken to his very core.  
 
Glorfindel cast a furious look in Gildor's direction.  «If you cause one 
more tear to fall from Erestor's eyes you will rue the day your mother and 
father begot you; I swear it,» he thought, suddenly feeling fiercely 
protective of the competent diplomat who usually required no one to come 
to his defence.  
 
Gildor's eyes were still fixed on Erestor, as if daring him to look up.  The 
intensity of his gaze was such that Erestor could not help but meet it once 
again; unwilling, yet drawn as if by a magnet.  Gildor smiled broadly then, 
the disdain that almost dripped from his smile making his fair face take on 
a cruel aspect and sending a chill through Glorfindel's sun-warmed flesh.  
 
«Elbereth help me,» Glorfindel thought with desperation.  «The Valar stay 
my hand and let his visit be brief, or I may do things I shall later regret.»  
 
 
****  
 
As the sun's heat gradually lost its fervour, the courtyard slowly emptied 
of visitors.  All the important dignitaries had been escorted to their rooms 
to rest after the long journey, and even the less high-ranking of Celebrían's 
and Gildor's people had been shown to their quarters, where they could 
enjoy the comforts of the Last Homely House.  Those in Elrond's employ 
who had assigned responsibilities were busy carrying out their tasks, while 
those whose less eminent positions gave them no special duties to perform 
found there was naught left to gawk at, and so went about their regular 
business.  
 
After the furore of the mid-morning, the courtyard looked strangely 
empty, filled now with nothing more than grooms seeing to the travellers' 
weary horses, whose hooves filled the air with fine dust.  
 
A keen observer who looked closer, however, would have seen two 
figures engaged in private conversation, leaning up against a wall in an 
out-of-the-way corner.  Both were blond and had a warrior's build, though 
one was slightly taller than the other.  The tall one was dressed in the 
colours of Imladris' own guard, while his companion wore the distinctive 
grey uniform of the Galadhrim.  Their heads were bent together in the 
manner of old friends and their voices were quiet enough to signal to 
anyone watching that the topic of their discussion was of a distinctly 
private nature.  
 
"Which one was he?" the Galadhel asked.  
 
"The young one, dressed in blue.  The one who looked so frightened."  
 
"Yes, now I remember.  I can't fault him for looking frightened.  I, too, 
would tremble before the daughter of the Lady of the Wood."  
 
"His lover's wife," the Imladris guard added with bitterness.  
 
"His lover's wife..." the Galadhel laughed, more out of bewilderment than 
amusement.  
 
"Why do you laugh?"  
 
"His boldness is to be admired; to share the bed of Elrond Half-elven..."  
 
The Imladris guard flicked the hair out of his eyes in a gesture of 
annoyance.  "Enough!  Now will you help me or not?"  
 
"Patience my dear Caegaran, please.  Of course I'll help you."  The 
Galadhel paused and lowered his voice.  "What do you need me to do?"  
 
"Only that for which you are well known, Haldir." Caegaran smirked. 
"Seduce him."  
 
"Seduce the youthful advisor?" Haldir's laughter rang through the 
courtyard.  
 
"Shh, quiet!  Someone will hear."  
 
Haldir checked his exuberance, once again lowering his voice.  "But that 
is no challenge, Caegaran.  He is barely more than a child!  I would have 
him in my bed within a week, if not sooner, and where is the sport in that?  
It is hardly worth my time."  
 
"You are overconfident, Haldir."  
 
"What do you mean?"  
 
Caegaran raised a sceptical eyebrow.  "I am not certain you will manage to 
seduce him at all.  He and Elrond have been exclusive for many seasons 
now.  The young one has never been with another, nor do I think he 
wishes to be, for he is utterly faithful and devoted to his lover."  
 
"Ah." Haldir's eyes widened with understanding. "I think I see now why 
you need me.  After he has been used by another -- especially one of my 
reputation -- Elrond may not find him as appealing."  
 
Caegaran's face lit up with a menacing glow.  "Elrond will cast him out of 
his bed like a common harlot."  
 
Haldir regarded his friend's face carefully.  "I have never known you to be 
so devious, Caegaran."  
 
"I have never before been so grieved and offended."  
 
Haldir extended his hand and clasped his companion's forearm.  "You may 
rely on me, meldir.  Both on my talents and my discretion."  
 
"Thank you."  
 
"And I do not think the task itself will be so very unpleasant.  The young 
one is quite comely, if a bit thin..."  
 
Caegaran snorted with scorn, turning away from his friend's face.  Haldir 
laughed once again and, grasping Caegaran's shoulder, leaned in close.  
 
"You never told me his name," he whispered.  
 
"It's Melpomaen."  
 
 
****  
 
Notes:  
 
Galadhel – singular form of Galadhrim  
meldir – friend (male)  
 
For reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the last 
chapter of "Sweetness and Gall."   :)  
 
 
 
TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 4/?)  
Author: Maggie Honeybite  
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com  
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html  
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor  
Rating: NC-17  
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon  
Betas: Tehta, Manon  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.  
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.  
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com,  
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.  
Summary:  On the night of Celebrían's arrival, a banquet is 
held and a husband and wife attempt to talk.  
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.  
 
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004  
 
 
The welcome banquet was even more uncomfortable than Elrond 
had feared. Conversation at the head of the table was 
strained and sparse, the air heavy with unmentionable 
subjects.  Even the exquisite meats, pies and pastries, 
prepared with care by Imladris' best cooks, did little to 
lift the spirits of his uneasy dinner companions. Elrond 
watched as more than one unsettled guest took refuge in cup 
after cup of potent red wine. Though he dearly wished he 
could do the same, his obligations as Lord, host and 
husband prevented him from following their example.  
 
He had initially hoped Gildor Inglorion's unexpected 
appearance would enliven the meal or at least take its 
focus away from the tension between him and Celebrían. 
Though he himself was not especially fond of Gildor -- for 
reasons which were both personal and deeply rooted in the 
past -- he had thought the leader of the Wandering Company 
would find common ground with others at the table. News 
from faraway places was welcome, after all, and Gildor and 
his retinue had seen a great deal in the course of their 
travels.  
 
Unfortunately, as the evening wore on it became painfully 
clear that Gildor's presence, instead of easing the nervous 
mood, inexplicably served to heighten it.  His usually 
imperturbable advisor, Erestor, kept his eyes focused on 
the food gracing his plate –- and yet ate very little, if 
at all. For his part, Glorfindel seemed intent on 
compensating for his lover's strange lack of appetite, for 
he consumed copious quantities of wild game and fowl, all 
the while casting menacing looks at the Elf seated across 
from him at the table -- at the very same Gildor who Elrond 
had wished would make the night easier to bear.  
 
Elrond hardly dared to glance toward the foot of the table 
where, seated among advisors of lower office and lesser 
import, Melpomaen bravely suffered through the many-course 
dinner. Though his plate was nigh untouched, his wine 
goblet was quite empty and had probably been frequently 
refilled. Careful not to gaze too long at his unhappy 
lover, Elrond nevertheless detected an unnatural flush on 
Melpomaen's cheeks and perceived the deep red colour of his 
wine-stained lips.  
 
«Valar... Please let this torturous night come to an end,» 
Elrond sighed to himself, and felt Celebrían's cool fingers 
touch his hand.  
 
"Is the stuffed quail not to your liking, my Lord?"  
 
Elrond turned to look at his long-estranged wife, still 
unused to her presence beside him after so many years spent 
apart. She was smiling and her eyes shone not with guile 
but with amusement. It appeared she found the uncomfortable 
mood at table a matter for laughter rather than vexation.  
 
Elrond felt relief pervade his body and smiled back at 
her.  "It *is* somewhat dry and has an unfortunate tendency 
to stick to the palate," he replied.  
 
"Nothing that a good draught of wine would not remedy."  
 
"Aye, but it would hardly befit the Lord of the Last Homely 
House to overindulge in front of his guests."  
 
"Once the guests have retired for the night, however..." 
Celebrían's voice held a note of mischief and her eyebrow 
was raised playfully.  
 
Elrond could not help but laugh. He was suddenly reminded 
of just how much he had once enjoyed his wife's company, 
back in the early days of their marriage, when he still had 
the hope they might one day come to love each other. But 
his laughter died down as the pleasant memory was 
supplanted by a sense of loss.  In the end, they had never 
been more than companions, tied together by a complicit 
separateness. Beside him sat his wife, but she was a 
stranger.  
 
Celebrían's smile waned somewhat, and her features looked 
strained. She leaned in closer, her eyes focusing on 
Elrond's own.  
 
"I believe we are both in dire need of whatever 
forgetfulness and relief a strong bottle might offer," she 
said. "Do not think me blind to the upheaval my arrival has 
wrought."  
 
"I have never thought you blind, my Lady, though I must 
admit I had forgotten just how candid you could be."  
Elrond smiled.  
 
"You know diplomacy was never my strength.  I do not 
believe in speaking in riddles."  
 
"Speak plainly then. We are husband and wife, after all; 
there should be no secrets between us."  
 
No sooner had the words left Elrond's mouth than he 
realized how falsely they rang.  But they could not be 
taken back, and all he could do was cringe inwardly and 
watch Celebrían's lips curl up in a smirk as her eyebrow 
rose up in question.  
 
"No secrets?"  
 
Elrond felt his face grow hot and cast his eyes down to the 
starched linen tablecloth.  His fingers twisted the napkin 
in his lap.  
 
"Celebrían, I--"  
 
"I have not come here to cause you distress, Elrond, nor to 
cast blame." Her words were quiet, but effective.  Reaching 
out for his hand, she gave it one gentle squeeze, then let 
go.  "There is much that we do not know about one another, 
and that is not surprising, considering the nature of our 
situation."  
 
Elrond could not help but feel saddened to hear this long-
unacknowledged reality at last uttered so bluntly.  He 
looked up at his wife, seeking to gauge her reaction to her 
own words, but her face was as cool and impassive as ever.  
He let his eyes wander back to the ivory linen crumpled on 
his knees.  
 
Celebrían reached forward and, picking up a large flagon of 
wine, filled Elrond's cup to the brim.  She lifted it from 
the table and placed it in his hand.  
 
"Your guests will not mind," she said.  
 
"I daresay they will not," Elrond said, accepting the cup 
and cradling it in both palms. "Many of them have been 
enjoying the heady charms of this wine for quite some 
time."  
 
Celebrían laughed, her voice rising and then falling like a 
splash of clear water. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond 
saw Melpomaen cast an uneasy glance in their direction, 
then quickly look away again and reach for his drink. His 
heart clenching, Elrond followed his lover's example and 
brought the wine up to his lips.  
 
"Will you not have some?" he asked.  
 
"Perhaps later.  I had hoped we might... speak privately 
after the banquet."  
 
"I think there are still a few bottles of the raspberry 
wine -- the one you once liked -- in one of the cellars. I 
could bring one to your chambers once the guests are abed."  
 
"That is a most welcome invitation," Celebrían replied. 
"And one I shall be glad to accept. I have some messages 
for you from old friends, not to mention a stack of letters 
-- personal, not official. One from Arwen."  
 
Elrond smiled. "Is she well?"  
 
"She is better than well; she is quite happy and more 
beautiful than ever. But you will be able to read for 
yourself in an hour or two."  
 
"I look forward to it."  
 
"As do I. Only..."  
 
"What is it?"  
 
Celebrían shrugged her shoulders and, though her smile was 
impish, her eyes were sad.  
 
"Two bottles might serve us better than one. There is much 
that we need to discuss."  
 
 
****  
 
 
The door closed behind Elrond, shut quietly and with care. 
Celebrían lingered a while with her fingers on the metal 
handle, listening to the sound of her husband's footsteps 
slowly receding down the hallway. His stride was measured 
and weary, as if his feet were loath to carry him to his 
chambers for his nightly rest. «Of course he is in no 
haste,» she thought, smiling sadly. «He will have naught to 
keep him company this eve but his empty bed.»  
 
Moving to the fireplace, she absentmindedly picked up the 
empty wine bottles and glasses from the tiled floor, 
placing them on the small side table. The maids would clean 
them up in the morning; there was no need to trouble anyone 
this late. Half of the Last Homely House was likely already 
deep in reverie: the household staff exhausted after a long 
day spent catering to the guests, and the visitors finally 
relishing the comforts of a well-provisioned realm. It 
would be best to let those who knew no grief enjoy their 
peaceful slumber. Not all were that fortunate, she knew.  
 
Carefully she blew out the candles lining the mantelpiece, 
leaving only the fire's dying embers to light the room with 
a soft glow. She struggled with the latch on the window for 
a moment, then opened it wide. It was so hot here, and the 
air inside the house so confining. Were she in Lórien, the 
moonlight would shine on her bed and the soft breath of the 
wind caress her cheeks as she slept.  
 
«Less than a day, and already I miss home,» she thought, 
unsurprised. She had expected it, had had no illusions 
about feeling at ease in the place she had once left by 
choice. And her expectations had thus far been confirmed. 
Really, it was uncanny how effortless it was to fall back 
into old feelings and habits, as if no time had passed at 
all. She and Elrond had spent a whole evening drinking wine 
to help loosen the tongue and calm their frazzled nerves, 
and yet neither had had the courage to broach the subject 
they both knew was uppermost in their minds. They had said 
much, but had shied away from speaking the crucial words 
that had the power to either hurt or heal. It was like 
groping in the dark and failing to grasp the hand of the 
one reaching out to you; like trying to make out the 
features of a face hidden behind a thick pane of glass. 
Things had changed very little indeed.  
 
They had talked of their children, had exchanged news of 
mutual friends and acquaintances, had even laughed about 
old times -- those that brought back memories of pleasures 
shared rather than mutual recriminations. But neither dared 
mention their current situation or the reason for 
Celebrían's visit to the valley, though it was obvious from 
Elrond's guarded looks that he thought of little else and 
feared her motives.  
 
He would do right by her, that much she knew. He always 
had. If it broke his heart and tore his joy to shreds, he 
would grant her any requests she, as his rightful spouse, 
was entitled to make. He had once bowed to her wishes with 
hope, trusting the promises they had made to each other 
would hold true. Now he would do it out of duty, and the 
young pair of eyes she had glimpsed at the end of the 
banquet table, nervously regarding her as the powerful 
rival she was, might overflow with tears.  
 
She had been curious about the young one ever since rumours 
of him had first reached her ears, and had taken every 
opportunity this day to look her fill –- though she was 
unlikely to determine his reasons for becoming involved 
with her husband by sight alone.  She was well aware that 
he could sense her eyes on him -- the tense set of his 
shoulders and watchful glances sent her way told her that 
he likely thought her a formidable foe -- but she did not 
avert her eyes or in any way try to ease his discomfort.  
He may have been young and possibly quite amiable, but she 
did not owe him a thing.  
 
He probably thought she was angry, maybe even vengeful, but 
she was not -- at least not anymore.  When the malicious 
gossip had first seeped into the Golden Wood Celebrían had 
seethed and cursed her husband's indiscretion.  But the 
anger had subsided, soothed into a more manageable form by 
time and logical persuasion.  Had she and Elrond not agreed 
to live apart, after all?  How much self-denial and 
seclusion could reasonably be expected of an Elf-man in his 
prime?  Would a heart left in the cold not naturally reach 
out for companionship?  
 
Wearily undoing her braids, she sank down onto the lace-
covered bed.  She would probably be seeing a great deal of 
Melpomaen in the coming weeks, for the Last Homely House, 
though impressive, was deceptively small.  Their paths 
would cross in the corridors or walkways, and she could 
already see him trying to shrink into himself, desperately 
wishing to blend into the walls to avoid her eyes.  If she 
were to walk up to him and take him by the shoulders, no 
doubt he would shudder, waiting for her to unleash her 
wrath.  
 
What Melpomaen did not know -- could not possibly know -- 
was that her indignation had been replaced by a sort of 
morbid curiosity: the fascination of someone who had for 
years gazed at one of the mysteries of life through an 
impenetrable screen.  There was a burning question on her 
tongue, and yet how could she possibly ask it?  How could 
she turn to her husband's lover and say, "What is it like?  
Do you love him?  What do you see when you look at him?"  
 
She knew what she saw, and imagined that most people saw 
the same.  Elrond was beautiful, wise and kind.  Most who 
looked upon him were amazed that an Elf who had witnessed 
so many sorrows could still glow with such vitality and 
passion.  He was a patient and considerate spouse, and 
Celebrían knew that, in marrying for the good of her people 
rather than her own, she had fared much better than most in 
her position.  Elrond was a good person; there was not a 
shred of doubt in her mind as to his worth.  And yet she 
looked at him and felt... nothing.  
 
Elbereth knew she had tried, as had he.  He had been so 
careful with her from the very beginning, seeming to 
understand her fears and reservations.  He did not touch 
her for almost two months after they were wed, for he could 
tell that she did not wish it.  When they finally did lie 
together as husband and wife, his fingers were gentle, his 
elbows heedful to keep his weight off her, his hips 
restraining their urge to push.  She looked at his strong, 
naked body and knew that there were some who would give 
nearly anything to be lying beneath him the way she was.  
There were those who trembled at the mere sound of his 
voice, let alone a more intimate caress.  And yet she did 
not.  
 
She would sometimes look at Elrond, over a shared breakfast 
or across a crowded hall, and wonder just why it was that 
she felt numb.  They were friends, after all -- of a sort.  
She knew he took pleasure in her company, and she in turn 
appreciated his.  And yet she could not help feeling that 
she was enveloped in a clear membrane which, for all its 
transparency, could not be punctured.  After a while, it 
simply became easier to be alone, and Elrond gradually 
learned not to ask for explanations she was unable to 
provide.  When she finally announced she would be moving 
back to Lórien he was not surprised, although his eyes did 
look at her with more sadness than he usually allowed 
himself to show.  
 
Tonight those same eyes had observed her with apprehension, 
even a hint of fear -- an expression which had taken her 
aback at first, used as she was to thinking of Elrond as a 
master of his emotions.  But it seemed that not all matters 
in the valley had remained untouched by the hand of time.  
Her long-estranged husband had at last placed his heart in 
the keeping of another:  someone he cared about -- quite 
deeply, it seemed.  She wondered whether his trust was well 
placed and, if so, whether she was big-hearted enough not 
to begrudge him his new happiness.  
 
Celebrían leaned back on the soft pillows and drew the 
fresh cotton covers up to her chin.  The night stretched 
out before her, infinite in its stillness, tempting in its 
anonymity.  The bed was wide and empty, and she felt 
strangely comforted by the thought that none but she would 
rest in its embrace, tangling in the crisp sheets by dawn.  
Silence whispered in her ear, and she welcomed it as the 
dear friend it was.  
 
 
 
TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 5/?)  
Author: Maggie Honeybite  
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com  
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html  
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, Erestor/Gildor  
Rating: NC-17  
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon  
Betas: Tehta, Manon  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make any profit from 
them. Any writing I do is done with a deep respect for Tolkien and out of 
an abiding love for his Elves.  
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is always 
welcome.  
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com,  
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, just ask.  
Summary:  After the banquet, Glorfindel comforts Erestor.  
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and to Tehta, 
whose comments during the writing (and re-writing) process were 
invaluable.  
 
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004  
 
 
Glorfindel welcomed the dimness of the hallway with relief. The shadows 
cast by a few flickering candles accentuated the emptiness of the narrow 
corridor, making it feel like a haven. They were walking quickly, eager to 
get away from the oppressive mood of the dining hall, Erestor clutching 
Glorfindel's hand as if he were afraid to let go. Glorfindel had tried to 
catch his lover's eye a number of times, eager to offer comfort, but Erestor 
kept staring at the ground. The demons chasing him were frightening 
enough to keep him from even looking over his shoulder.  
 
«Dinner must have been torment for him,» Glorfindel thought, the 
memory of Gildor's scornful smile making his blood boil. He took a few 
calming breaths; if he gave his anger free rein, he would be of little use to 
his lover, whose distress was clearly greater than his own. Erestor had 
made no scene, had barely spoken a word throughout the whole meal, but 
Glorfindel saw him grip his fork just a little tighter and down his wine 
with just a little more urgency than usual. Though his erect posture never 
wavered, toward the end of the banquet his hands had started to tremble.  
 
The most Glorfindel could offer in the way of reassurance was the warm 
pressure of his leg against Erestor's thigh throughout the meal. The 
banquet table did not lend itself to private conversations. He wished he 
could at least have had a chance to speak to his lover after the troubling 
events of the morning, but the demands of Erestor's position had whisked 
him away before Glorfindel could reach him.  
 
At last they came to the doorway they sought, and Erestor drew out his 
key with shaking fingers. He fumbled with the lock, turned the handle and, 
throwing his full weight against the wooden surface, forced the door open 
with his shoulder. Quickly, they made their way inside. When the door 
had shut behind them with a comforting click, Erestor leaned against it, 
closing his eyes and letting his shoulders sag.  
 
Glorfindel tentatively placed his hand on Erestor's elbow, waiting for him 
to speak. In response to the touch, Erestor's dark eyes opened and he 
attempted a half-hearted smile, although it seemed more like a grimace.  
 
"He is here," Erestor said.  
 
"I know."  
 
So the words had been spoken, unnecessary though they were. And yet the 
cloud of apprehension that seemed to hang about Erestor did not dissipate 
or even lessen, for how could it? The source of his distress had not 
vanished but at that very moment sat in the dining hall contentedly sipping 
wine. Erestor's heart, already bearing Gildor's bitter imprint, had just been 
branded anew, and though speaking the words aloud may have eased his 
hurt somewhat, this was not the kind of tale that would be rendered 
painless simply with the telling.  
 
"Are you alright?" Glorfindel asked, already knowing what Erestor's 
answer would be.  
 
"No."  
 
Glorfindel moved closer and enfolded his lover in an embrace. He felt the 
tension in Erestor's back under his fingers: muscles tightened to knots after 
the day's ordeal.  
 
"It galled me to see that smug look on his face, and his eyes -- always on 
you, always taunting... How I longed to wrap my hands around his throat 
and--"  
 
"Glorfindel, you know you can do no such thing."  
 
"I know. But I hate to see you suffer."  
 
Erestor brought his lips up to Glorfindel's ear. His voice held a note of 
desperation. "Then ease my suffering."  
 
"How?"  
 
"Make love to me. Touch me. Show me I am yours."  
 
Glorfindel's eyes opened in shock. He pulled away from the embrace and 
scrutinized Erestor's face.  
 
"You're certain? After the memories today must have awoken in your 
mind? You want me to--"  
 
"Yes."  
 
There was no hesitation in Erestor's voice, and so Glorfindel took him at 
his word. His hands wandered down Erestor's body, fingers gently 
kneading, careful not to push too hard or startle.  
 
"Glorfindel?"  
 
"Yes?"  
 
Erestor shifted in his lover's arms and looked up. His eyes, black and 
burning, held a silent plea.  
 
"I am not made of glass," he said.  
 
Glorfindel hesitated, his hands still handling Erestor's body with care. "I 
don't want to hurt you."  
 
"I need to feel your hands on me. Please, I need to feel your strong hands 
on me."  
 
Glorfindel's heart began to beat faster at these words. Erestor had asked 
this of him before, had wanted Glorfindel's hands to treat him harshly and 
mark his pale skin with bruises. Although their lovemaking wasn't always 
so, there were days when Erestor craved this, days when he revelled in 
being mastered and taken without ceremony. At first Glorfindel had 
reluctantly obliged, moved by love and wanting only to please. But, as 
their time together wore on, Glorfindel found he enjoyed the role more 
than he had at first expected. There was nothing that roused his lust as 
much as the sight of Erestor completely and willingly in his power, 
nothing that made the blood rush to his head as much as the feeling of 
dominating his lover. Hearing Erestor's rasping voice call out his joy at the 
fierce grip of Glorfindel's hands on his body was a thrill Glorfindel had 
come to savour.  
 
"Are you sure?" he asked, still unwilling to abandon himself to his desires 
without thought for Erestor's fragile state.  
 
Erestor nodded in response, parting his lips and arching his back so that 
his groin came into direct contact with Glorfindel's, teasing and tempting.  
 
"Yes," he said, and closed his eyes.  
 
"Very well. If you wish it."  
 
Taking his time, Glorfindel untied the black silk sash knotted at Erestor's 
waist, reached around in a wide embrace and carefully bound Erestor's 
hands behind his back. Erestor sighed, a shiver of anticipation making his 
mouth tremble.  
 
"Come this way," Glorfindel said, his voice slightly huskier than usual.  
 
Slowly he steered Erestor farther into the bedchamber, to a low armchair 
beside the curtain-draped window. The chair's back was waist-high and 
usually helped cushion the neck and shoulders of the one who sat in it, 
reading by the light of the afternoon sun. Today it would serve a different 
purpose.  
 
When Erestor's rear came into contact with the armchair's velvet 
upholstery, Glorfindel halted. Then he forcefully grasped Erestor's hips, 
turned him around and bent his body over the back of the chair. Yanking 
up the black robes, he grasped hold of Erestor's leggings and pulled them 
down in one swift tug, exposing his behind to the dim light of the candle-
lit room.  
 
Erestor gasped, his voice muffled by the soft upholstery, thighs parting in 
invitation. He looked so beautiful in the warm glow of the candlelight, 
buttocks pale and taut, raven hair falling all over the seat of the chair in 
disarray, that Glorfindel wondered for a moment why he should be the 
fortunate one to lay his hands on this lovely creature.  
 
«It is a shame to mark something so unblemished,» he thought briefly, 
letting his appreciative gaze wander over Erestor's backside.  
 
"Glorfindel..." an impatient whisper came from the midst of the velvet 
cushions. "Please..."  
 
Glorfindel looked around him, trying to find some object that might serve 
as the proper tool for the punishment he was to dispense. Seeing nothing 
appropriate, he decided that his palm would have to suffice, as it had many 
times before. Slowly he slid both his hands up Erestor's thighs, gripping 
the buttocks in his fingers. He dug his nails in, parted the firm flesh and, 
exposing the cleft, blew a stream of cool air across it.  
 
Erestor bucked and gasped, but Glorfindel would not be rushed. "Patience, 
lovely one. I have other things in mind for you before you feel my caress 
where you crave it most."  
 
Letting go of the yielding flesh, he flexed his large hand, brought his arm 
back to increase the momentum of his blows and delivered the first strike. 
The sensitive skin reddened almost instantly, a rose-coloured tint 
blossoming across Erestor's bottom like a modest blush. The shade looked 
so inviting that Glorfindel could not help but want to see it bloom and 
deepen its hue. He grabbed a firm hold of his lover's hip with one hand as 
his blows began raining down on the exposed buttocks in earnest.  
 
There was a certain pleasure to be found in this act alone. The feel of 
Erestor's rear under his fingers, firm yet resisting, the gradual 
transformation of the skin's paleness to a ruddier shade -- all those things 
were appealing to the senses. But what really set Glorfindel's blood racing 
and made him grow hard with desire were the sounds that accompanied 
his hands' punitive deeds: the resonant smack of a palm against waiting 
flesh; Erestor's breath coming in short, needy pants; his encouraging 
moans, somewhat stifled by the velvet cushions.  
 
When at last Glorfindel judged that Erestor had been sufficiently marked, 
he stilled his hand, fell on his knees, brought his open mouth to one of his 
lover's flushed buttocks and bit down forcefully. The delighted howl that 
emanated from Erestor's mouth only spurred Glorfindel on, and he sank 
his teeth in again. Breathing hard and gripping the advisor's backside with 
both hands, he exposed the tempting cleft once more and ran his tongue 
along it, hurriedly preparing the way, for he knew that he could hold back 
no longer.  
 
The loud cries of rapture that were by this time coming from Erestor's 
mouth could easily be heard in the next chamber and probably halfway 
down the long corridor as well. Glorfindel wondered briefly whether the 
banquet was still under way or whether guests had begun to filter back to 
their rooms. He would normally have been more concerned by their 
lovemaking's lack of discretion, but at this moment he honestly cared not. 
All he could think of was burying himself deep in that eagerly proffered 
rump and thrusting until he had no more strength left to move.  
 
Blood thumping in his ears, he fumbled with his own clothing and 
scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Erestor's thighs, brought his length into 
position and slid inside. Then he stilled.  
 
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse.  
 
"Yes!"  
 
Erestor's answer was almost a scream, and Glorfindel took it as licence to 
forsake all caution. His hands gripped his lover's hips harshly as he arched 
his back and began pounding into the willing body. Somewhere at the 
fringes of his consciousness he could hear Erestor's euphoric shouts along 
with the sound of the chair's wooden legs scraping across the floor. If the 
Last Homely House had caught fire at that moment and required his 
immediate aid, he would have said, "Let it burn."  
 
It did not take long for both Elves to reach their climax and collapse over 
the back of the armchair. Long moments passed in sweet, blissful 
insensibility as blood slowed and awareness gradually returned. As soon 
as Glorfindel had regained enough composure to be able to tell which way 
was up and which was down he stood up, not wanting to crush Erestor, 
and set about untying his hands.  
 
Erestor flexed his wrists, allowing the blood to flow once again in his 
numbed fingers, and pushed himself upright. Not meeting Glorfindel's 
gaze, he quickly pulled up his leggings and smoothed his wrinkled silk 
robes over them. Tangled hair had fallen into his eyes, but he made no 
effort to brush it back, rather letting it conceal his flushed features.  
 
"Erestor?" Glorfindel moved to touch his tousled lover, but stopped when 
he saw Erestor's shoulders stiffen.  
 
Erestor turned away from Glorfindel's open arms, facing the window and 
hugging himself tightly. He hung his head.  
 
"I cannot even keep my voice low, but shriek my disgrace all over 
Imladris. You must be so mortified to hear such sounds, Glorfindel, so 
ashamed of me..."  
 
"Erestor, no!"  
 
Alarmed, Glorfindel quickly closed the short distance between himself and 
his lover, enfolding him from behind. Despite Erestor's struggle to free 
himself from the embrace, Glorfindel would not let go, but held on until 
Erestor gave up all attempts at resistance. Smoothing the raven locks off 
Erestor's face, he brought his mouth up to a pale temple, alternately 
kissing and whispering soft words.  
 
"I could never be ashamed of you. You make me proud."  
 
"But my behaviour--"  
 
"Only kindles my passions further and adds to my pleasure."  
 
"You sound as if you speak true, Glorfindel, and yet how can I believe--"  
 
"Erestor!" Glorfindel turned his lover around, looking intently into his 
eyes. "I am not Gildor."  
 
Erestor's shoulders slumped and he leaned heavily against Glorfindel. For 
a long while his eyes remained focused on the stone floor as his uneven 
breathing returned to a normal pace. Finally he looked up.  
 
"I know not how long he is staying," he said, his voice tired. "But even if 
his visit is only brief, I cannot see how I can bear it. It has been less than a 
day and already I feel as though I am going mad. Whenever he looks at 
me, it is as if everything I have learned or become since that time simply 
disappears, and I am left exposed and ashamed."  
 
"It is he who should be ashamed, to have treated you so badly."  
 
Erestor wound his arms around Glorfindel's waist and laid his head on the 
seneschal's shoulder, his eyes closed.  
 
"The Valar have been kind to me, Glorfindel, placing you in my path," he 
said.  
 
Glorfindel's heart soared so high that for a moment he felt light-headed. «I 
am the fortunate one,» he thought, and would have said the words aloud 
but for fear that his voice might break. Instead held Erestor close, glorying 
in the feel of the advisor's breath on his collarbone.  
 
When at last he could trust himself to speak, he said, "However long 
Gildor chooses to stay, we will cope, Erestor, we will stand together. You 
are not alone."  
 
 
****  
 
 
Notes:  
 
Again, for reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the 
last chapter of "Sweetness and Gall."   :)  
 
 
 
TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 6/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make any profit from 
them. Any writing I do is done with a deep respect for Tolkien and out of 
an abiding love for his Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is always 
welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, just ask.
Summary:  Glorfindel is worried, Elrond is tired, Melpomaen feels 
cornered and Celebrían is concerned. 
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and to Tehta, 
whose comments during the writing (and re-writing) process were 
invaluable.
 
 
 
Imladris, TA 1004 –- One month after Celebrían's arrival
 
 
-- Early morning -- 
 
Glorfindel hesitated for a few seconds before raising his hand to the door.  
The rap of his knuckles against solid wood sounded disturbingly loud, 
almost rude, in the silence of the hallway.  He flinched.  He did not want 
to disturb Elrond in the sanctuary of his chambers -- not during the few 
morning hours that were uniquely Elrond's own -- but felt he had little 
choice.  Once the Last Homely House was fully awake and the official 
business of the realm commanded all of Elrond's attention, it was next to 
impossible to engage him in a private conversation.  
 
And the matter Glorfindel was hoping to speak to Elrond about was 
distinctly private.  That night Erestor had once again woken abruptly from 
a fitful sleep, shaking and bathed in sweat.  Gildor's continuing presence 
was affecting the quiet advisor greatly, and it went against Glorfindel's 
nature to stand idly by and do nothing.  It was time to tell Elrond; 
Glorfindel was badly in need of his friend's wisdom and insight. 
 
The door opened almost immediately. "Glorfindel. Come in."  
 
"Elrond, it is barely past dawn.  I had expected to find you in your 
nightclothes or dressing gown, not in your official robes.  Is everything 
well?" 
 
"I could not rest, that is all, so I decided to put my waking hours to good 
use." Elrond's voice sounded tired. 
 
Glorfindel felt a twinge of guilt.  In his preoccupation with Erestor's well-
being he had nearly lost sight of Elrond's quandary.  Now, looking at his 
friend's face, he could see that Erestor was not the only occupant of the 
Last Homely House who had found little solace in reverie over the past 
month. 
 
Something clinked, and it was only then that Glorfindel noticed the sharp 
steel weapon in Elrond's hand. 
 
"Polishing your sword?" he asked. "But we have expert bladesmiths who 
would be more than willing to do that for you.  You need only go down to 
the armouries..." 
 
"But I prefer to do it myself.  I am quite capable, having learned the craft 
in my youth.  And I find it soothing." Elrond moved to the desk and 
carefully set down both sword and polishing stone, then turned to 
Glorfindel, the line of his back tense.  "What did you want to speak to me 
about?" 
 
"It can wait. I think I would rather hear about what makes you leave your 
bed and seek your sword before even the sun has risen," Glorfindel 
replied. "Here, sit.  Let me rub your shoulders.  You look like you haven't 
slept in weeks." 
 
Elrond pulled the desk chair toward him and straddled it.  Resting his arms 
on the back of the chair, he bowed his head and closed his eyes, letting 
Glorfindel's hands do their work.  
 
For a while the room was quiet.  Elrond's breathing gradually slowed, to 
the point where Glorfindel thought his friend had finally succumbed to his 
fatigue.  But when Glorfindel moved his hands away, intending to let the 
tired Elf get whatever rest he could in relative privacy, Elrond looked up. 
 
"Well?" Glorfindel asked. "Are you going to tell me what terrors the night 
holds for you or will you confide in none?" 
 
Elrond took in a long breath and began in a low voice: "I have such 
dreams sometimes...  Last night I thought I heard Mel screaming, calling 
for me.  I woke and listened for his voice, but it was nothing.  Nothing but 
the fruit of an overactive, feverish mind." 
 
"Have you talked to him?" 
 
"I haven't spoken to him in weeks, Glorfindel; he avoids me and I have not 
sought him out.  What would I say to him if I did?  I know so little..." 
 
"A strange admission from one renowned for his wisdom." Glorfindel 
smiled. 
 
"I may know the lore and history of our people but I know nothing of the 
contents of my wife's heart." 
 
Glorfindel moved around to Elrond's front, and sat down on a low stool.  
He leaned forward, eager to catch every word.  
 
Elrond continued.  "She knows, Glorfindel.  She hasn't spoken it aloud, 
but I can see it in her face.  She knows exactly what Melpomaen means to 
me." 
 
"And?" 
 
"She is deciding what it all means to her.  To her pride." 
 
"She is deciding your doom." 
 
"And his."  
 
Elrond lowered his head into his hands and remained still, his bearing not 
that of a warrior ready to do battle, but of a prisoner waiting to be 
condemned.  Suddenly Glorfindel understood the reason for the dark 
shadows under his friend's eyes. 
 
"You will do as she asks," he said. It was a statement, not a question. 
 
"Yes.  I owe her that much." 
 
Anger began to build in Glorfindel's chest. "She owes you much more."  
 
"Do not start this argument again, my friend.  It led nowhere the last 
time." 
 
"You expect me to hold my tongue and allow her to destroy your 
happiness like she did before?" 
 
"There was no happiness to speak of, before.  And yes, I do expect you to 
hold your tongue." 
 
Glorfindel rose to his feet and shook out the folds of his robe, incensed.  
'What of Melpomaen and what you owe him?' he was tempted to ask, but 
held back.  Elrond had doubtlessly put the question to himself many times; 
there was no need to further torture a conscience already in pain.  
 
Walking over to the side of the desk, Glorfindel glanced down at Elrond's 
sword, which lay beside its polishing stone.  He picked up the blade and 
held it up to the light, examining its straight edge and perfect symmetry -- 
the product of countless hours of concentration and single-minded focus.  
A labour not of love, but of dread. 
 
Turning to face Elrond once again, he laid the weapon back down. "How 
long until she speaks her mind?" he asked. 
 
"I don't know." 
 
"And so you wait." 
 
Elrond nodded.  His long, unbound hair fell forward over his shoulders, 
framing his pale face.  Without his circlet of office or his elaborate braids, 
he looked younger, more exposed.  Glorfindel felt a vague ache in his 
chest at the sight of his old friend looking so uncharacteristically helpless. 
 
"Elrond, I think you're carrying your misguided loyalty too far." 
 
"Thank you for your opinion, but I will live my life as I see fit." Elrond's 
voice was louder than usual. 
 
"We have had this argument before, when Celebrían first decided to leave 
all those years ago; do you remember?"  Glorfindel could hear his own 
voice rising in volume.  "She had her way then, and she is about to have it 
again." 
 
"I could not keep her here by force.  And, besides, this is different." 
 
"How is this different? In that she is about to trample on two hearts instead 
of just one?" 
 
Elrond started as if he'd been slapped. "Glorfindel, watch what you say!" 
 
"And allow her to leave your life in ruins again?  No!  Elrond, you are a 
strong, decisive leader, but that same quality sometimes makes you as 
stubborn as a mule."  Glorfindel took a deep breath, then another, willing 
his racing blood to calm down. "I have spoken as a friend.  Even if my 
words were harsh, you know I have your best interest at heart." 
 
Elrond nodded but did not reply.  His eyes were looking past Glorfindel's 
shoulder, staring unseeing at a decorative fresco beside the door. 
 
Glorfindel shook his head in exasperation, his patience at last worn out. 
"However, if you wish me to keep my opinions to myself, I am perfectly 
capable of doing so," he said.  Getting no response, he walked toward the 
door and reached for the metal handle, resigning himself to the fact that he 
would continue to encounter a dejected-looking Melpomaen in the 
corridors for weeks to come.  
 
Before the door had even closed behind him he heard the clatter of a chair 
being shoved out of the way and the clink of Elrond's sword against its 
polishing stone. 
 
 
**** 
 

-- Late morning -- 
 
Haldir was watching him again.  Melpomaen could sense the guardian's 
eyes on him as he slinked past the exercise yard, and instinctively picked 
up the pace.  If only the walkway wasn't so exposed...  The path between 
the main buildings and the medical archives in the healing house wound 
its way right next to the enclosure used by border patrol guards to keep 
their fighting skills sharp.  Here there were no arched doorways to duck 
into, no heavy curtains to hide behind.  Aside from a few sparse trees, 
there was nothing that a harassed scribe could use for shelter. 
 
Melpomaen's feet hastened along the stone pathway, his arms full of 
papers.  His peripheral vision registered a number of silhouettes in swift 
motion, but he did not turn to look; the clash of metal blades and the 
occasional encouraging shout or grunt told him all he cared to know. A 
heated sparring match was in progress, pitting some of Imladris' finest 
warriors against a few of the Galadhrim.  Although the fight had 
presumably been initiated in the spirit of friendly competition, 
Melpomaen's ears had picked up a number of muted invectives originating 
from the spectators.  It seemed the honour of each realm lay in the sweaty 
hands of its duelling soldiers.  
 
Haldir wasn't fighting this time, but stood to the side, observing the 
progress of the match with interest.  Melpomaen held his breath and 
hurried along; the last thing he wanted was to attract Haldir's full attention.  
That piercing gaze had already been trained on him far too often lately.  
Melpomaen was beginning to feel like a target. 
 
"Melpomaen!" Haldir's voice rang out, easily carrying over the noise. 
 
Melpomaen let out the breath he had been holding and reluctantly slowed 
his near-run.  Turning in the direction of the voice, he attempted a smile. 
 
"Haldir. Good morrow." 
 
"And to you, my friend.  Care to join the rivalry?  Imladris could use some 
help." 
 
Melpomaen scanned Haldir's amused expression and decided that the 
guardian was definitely jesting, although whether he was laughing with 
him or at him was somewhat unclear.  Haldir's thin-lipped smile was 
kindly enough, but the look in his eyes was so intense that Melpomaen 
nearly looked away.  
 
"I shall be of far more help if I keep off that field, Haldir.  My skills with a 
sword are notoriously inadequate." 
 
"You do yourself a disservice.  I am told that few could match you thrust 
for thrust." 
 
Melpomaen's arms reflexively tightened around his papers.  In spite of 
himself, he blushed and nearly took a step back.  Why was it that Haldir 
had the ability to throw him off balance so easily?  And why did he insist 
on doing it at every possible opportunity? 
 
"I assure you, Haldir, I would do Imladris little honour with weapon in 
hand," he replied curtly. 
 
"All the same, I should like to cross blades with you before duty calls me 
back to the Golden Wood.  I am certain we would both profit from the 
experience.  Even seasoned warriors can gain much in the practice of their 
craft, and I can sense that there is a great deal you could teach me...  I'm 
quite willing to learn, you know." 
 
Haldir's voice would have been almost hypnotic had his words not been 
punctuated by the tapping of his sword against his boot.  Distracted by the 
sound, Melpomaen glanced down to where the metal blade made contact 
with polished leather. 
 
Haldir's boots were tall, and had quite obviously been designed to show 
off their owner's muscular legs to good advantage.  The soft black leather 
hugged the curve of the guardian's calf and ended around mid-thigh, the 
boots' elegant line automatically drawing the eye's trajectory to the very 
place Melpomaen should not have been looking.  
 
«Surely those boots are not part of the uniform of the Galadhrim,» 
Melpomaen thought, making a conscious effort to pull his eyes away and 
feeling furious with himself for the fact that such an effort needed to be 
made.  Every encounter he had had with Haldir over the past month had 
made him feel like a mouse trying to avoid a trap.  To his dismay, the trap 
was getting progressively more tempting. 
 
"Perhaps another time, Haldir." Melpomaen hugged his papers to his chest 
and drew himself up to his full height. 
 
"Another time then," Haldir said, inclining his head.  Smiling, he turned 
and sauntered away. 
 
Melpomaen's eyes could not help but follow the progress of those 
entrancing black boots, though he felt a wave of loathing for himself at 
such evidence of his weakness.  Haldir's slow stride made admiration easy 
as his snug leggings flexed over thighs and buttocks.  He walked 
gracefully, like a large predatory cat, his every move radiating sensuality.  
After a month of enforced celibacy, this kind of blatant display was the 
last thing Melpomaen needed.  He closed his eyes and conjured up an 
image of Elrond's face, feeling awful for having betrayed his lover even in 
thought. 
 
Forcing his eyes back down to the dusty stones beneath his feet, 
Melpomaen turned and set out for the healing house once more.  This time 
there was no urgency in his step; he did not think he was in any danger of 
attracting Haldir's attention again so soon.  Some hunters enjoyed toying 
with their prey, taking sadistic pleasure in wounding and leaving the 
hapless creature to slowly bleed and weaken.  Melpomaen knew he had 
not seen the last of Haldir, but he could also sense that it would be a while 
yet before the Galadhel moved in for the final kill. 
 
 
**** 
 

-- Early afternoon -- 
 
The healing house medical archives were kept in one large, many-
windowed hall, which offered little privacy to those working within.  
When Celebrían pulled back the curtain and entered, the first notable thing 
she saw was the tall figure of Erestor standing beside a table at the other 
end of the room, studying a scroll.  Briskly, she made her way over and 
stated her errand. 
 
Erestor bowed his head in a polite greeting. "A book on sleeping draughts?  
We have plenty of material on the subject, and the dried plants used to 
make the draughts themselves are kept in an adjacent room.  You have 
certainly come to the right place, my Lady, although I am perhaps not the 
best person to advise you." 
 
The dark circles under Erestor's eyes seemed to lend credence to his claim.  
Celebrían quickly put her doubts aside, however; whatever personal 
demons had kept Erestor from getting his proper rest had little to do with 
his knowledge about these matters.  "But you are practically Elrond's right 
hand; I know he relies on you for counsel on matters not only of politics 
but healing as well."  
 
"You are very kind."  Erestor crossed his hands over his chest and bowed 
again, acknowledging the compliment.  "But, you see, we have recently 
begun re-cataloguing all our scrolls and volumes, and the bulk of the 
project has rested on Melpomaen's shoulders.  While I am still quite 
muddled when it comes to all the changes, he knows this archive like a 
good warrior knows his sword and armour; I daresay he could find what 
you seek blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back." 
 
The temptation was too great; Celebrían could not help herself.  "That 
sounds most intriguing," she said. "However, I assure you that no such 
services will be required of him."  She smiled, amused to see Erestor 
looking somewhat flustered.  She had always delighted in throwing the 
dignified advisor off balance; to his credit, he usually reacted to these 
attempts with good humour. 
 
True to his reputation, Erestor lifted both eyes to the ceiling and shook his 
head, though Celebrían could see him trying to suppress a smirk.  For a 
moment, the fatigue vanished from his features.  Then he looked over his 
shoulder and called out, "Melpomaen! Your expertise is needed.  You 
know I have a hard time finding aught in this archive without you of late." 
 
Another curtain moved behind Erestor, and Celebrían realized she had 
judged the archive's lack of privacy inaccurately.  The bookshelves at the 
very back of the room were arranged in such a manner as to offer a good-
sized working space hidden from prying eyes.  She managed to catch a 
glimpse of a desk piled high with papers before Melpomaen appeared 
beside Erestor, and the curtain once again swung closed.  
 
Melpomaen smiled, apparently pleased at being complimented so, then 
saw who it was that required his assistance and immediately sobered.  "My 
Lady." He bowed low. 
 
Though his show of respect seemed genuine, Celebrían remained on her 
guard.  She had received enough false praise and deference over the years 
to be wary of sycophants.  And she had still not had a chance to make up 
her mind about this one; despite the Last Homely House's relatively small 
size, Melpomaen had managed to successfully avoid crossing her path 
since her arrival. 
 
"The Lady Celebrían has inquired about sleeping draughts," Erestor said.  
"Is that not the section you recently re-organized?" 
 
"Yes." Melpomaen nodded. 
 
"I shall leave it to you, then; I need to carry these back to the main 
library." Erestor picked up the stack of scrolls he had been examining, 
bowed, and headed for the exit.  Melpomaen's eyes followed his progress 
across the spacious hall until Erestor had disappeared behind the heavy 
curtain. 
 
Then the young Elf cast a nervous glance at Celebrían. "May I ask about 
the purpose of the sleeping draught you wish to prepare, my Lady?  Not 
all plants are equal, and not all draughts require the same concentration of 
herbs.  They must be chosen carefully, with the recipient in mind." 
 
Celebrían looked Melpomaen squarely in the eye, but kept her expression 
neutral.  Though her primary goal in coming here had been to obtain the 
herbs she wanted, she saw she had just been given a perfect opportunity to 
test Melpomaen's mettle.  She was curious about how he would react when 
subjected to her scrutiny.  "It is to be used simply as a sleeping aid for 
someone who has been hard pressed to find rest lately," she said curtly.
 
"Very well." Melpomaen bowed and led the way.
 
They walked among the tall stacks, Celebrían neglecting to look at the 
titles of the volumes they passed, and using the opportunity rather to 
observe Melpomaen at his work.  Though he looked anxious in her 
presence, he was clearly comfortable amid the interminable maze of books 
and scrolls.  As they wandered in deeper into the forest of paper, his step 
grew progressively more confident and he seemed to relax.  At last they 
came to a bookshelf filled with meticulously organized volumes, and 
stopped.  
 
Melpomaen reached up, retrieved a large book and opened it to a page 
filled with drawings of plants.  "For the most common kind of sleeping 
draught, there are several options."  He pointed to a picture of a green herb 
with a tall, slim stalk and bunches of small white flowers.  "Valerian is the 
most reliable and the quickest to take effect, but it has a tendency to cause 
headaches and restlessness if used too regularly or if combined with strong 
drink." 
 
He hesitated, then flipped a page.  "Lavender oil is very effective in 
inducing sleep, and is therefore used quite widely." 
 
"Yes, I have heard of it."  
 
Melpomaen seemed to grow uncomfortable.  "When used in excessive 
quantities, however, its effect may be... stronger than was originally 
intended," he said, glancing up warily.  
 
Celebrían had to keep her eyes from flying open in surprise as she realized 
the nature of his concerns.  «He's afraid I want to obtain a draught that will 
cause harm!» she thought, both with shock and not a small measure of 
amusement.  «I wonder who he fears would be the target of the potion.  
Himself, perhaps?  Or my husband?»
 
Melpomaen's next question confirmed Celebrían's suspicions. "Is it for 
yourself, my Lady?  I mean, is the person in question male or female?" 
 
Celebrían paused for a moment, then, watching for a reaction, said simply, 
"The draught is for Elrond."  
 
Melpomaen blanched.  "Is he not well?" he asked, his voice louder all of a 
sudden, all shyness gone from his demeanour. 
 
"He is well enough; I have simply noticed that he has been tired lately.  I 
thought to help." 
 
"But he is a healer!  Surely, if he needed a draught prepared, he could do 
so himself--" 
 
"Sometimes healers are slowest to look after their own concerns." 
 
A look of understanding flitted across Melpomaen's face and, for a 
moment, Celebrían had the impression that he regarded her not as 
someone to be feared, but as a co-conspirator.  Then the timidity returned 
to his eyes.  "I see what you mean.  I think I know exactly what you seek."
 
He flipped a few more pages, then pointed to another drawing.  "Sweet 
Balm would be ideal, in my opinion.  It is mild and takes a healer's skill to 
prepare if the desired properties are to be achieved, but it works well and 
has no unwanted side effects."  He closed the book and placed it back in 
its slot, then looked at her again, his expression helpful.  "I could sort and 
mix the flowers for you, if you like.  That way the quality of the draught 
would be assured, and Lord Elrond would get the rest he needs." 
 
Celebrían inclined her head with a smile, and followed Melpomaen into 
the adjoining room.  She had noticed the gentleness and care with which 
he pronounced Elrond's name, and so was not surprised to see his hands 
take as much care with the measuring, chopping and sorting.  Every 
imperfection was carefully picked out from among the tiny flowers, and 
then the painstakingly weighed portions were placed in little cloth bags 
and tied with ribbons. 
 
"You take pride in your work, I see," she said. 
 
Melpomaen did not look up, focused as he was on his task.  "If something 
is worth doing, it is worth doing well.  Especially if it is a medical matter," 
he said, tying a ribbon around the last herbal sachet.  "If someone is 
counting on the potion I prepare to ease their pain or restlessness, then I 
am honour-bound to be diligent." 
 
He looked up then, and smiled, his eyes meeting hers unhesitatingly. His 
face was open, without guile, and Celebrían could sense that, just then, he 
was not thinking of her as a rival or a hateful obstacle to getting what he 
wanted.  She could even guess at the images that filled his mind: dark hair 
spilling over a linen-covered pillow; grey eyes vacant from sleep; a 
beloved face, peaceful and at rest. 
 
She took the herbs from him, her hand brushing his briefly.  "Thank you, 
Melpomaen," she said, then turned away.  Lost in thought, she walked 
toward the exit and pulled back the curtain.  It wasn't until the afternoon 
sun shone over her head once again that she realized she had actually 
spoken his name out loud for the first time. 
 
 
****
 
Notes:
  
I took a few liberties when describing the properties of the various herbal 
remedies listed in this chapter, and so Melpomaen's lecture on ways of 
treating insomnia should in no way be taken as valid naturopathic advice!  
;)  While it is true that Valerian, when taken too frequently, will have the 
opposite effect (headache, restlessness), I know nothing about its 
interaction with alcohol.  Lavender oil should not be ingested, as it is 
toxic; it is meant primarily for external use.  Sweet Balm (also known as 
Lemon Balm or Melissa) -- a personal favourite -- is indeed mild, although 
it is probably no harder to prepare than any other herb.  It makes a very 
nice, soothing tea, and is sold in teabags. 
 
 
 
TBC

Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 7/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: maggiehoneybite@hotmail.com
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  A dream triggers bad childhood memories for 
Melpomaen.  Glorfindel offers comfort and advice.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.



Edhellond, TA 934 


"I still think you were somewhat harsh." 

"Don't argue with me!  The boy needs to learn, and the 
sooner he is taught about responsibility, the better.  He 
is old enough now and should be more of a help to you.  And 
what does he do?  Play in the water all day or sit with his 
nose buried in books."

"His teachers say he is quite bright; he knows nearly all 
his Tengwar, while others his age--"

"Others his age have already been taught the rudiments of 
shipbuilding while he has yet to learn how to sand a plank.  
It is high time he started earning his keep -- to repay us 
for our kindness in taking him in, if nothing else."

"He will, just give it some time..."

"He has had plenty!  I will not suffer a parasite to live 
in my house.  If he expects to eat my bread he will have to 
work."

Melpomaen nestled closer to the wall in the corner of the 
dark hallway, knees drawn up to his chest.  His skinny arms 
hugged his twenty-year old frame, but did not bring much 
comfort.  There was little warmth to be gained from his own 
embrace, especially when his empty belly rumbled as it did.  
His foster-father had lost the argument as usual; Melpomaen 
would once again go to bed without supper.

Through the narrow crack in the door Melpomaen could see 
his foster-mother bustling about in the kitchen, clearing 
bowls and spoons from the table with a loud clatter.  Metal 
pots gleamed in the firelight, the aroma of their contents 
-- or what was left of them -- twisting Melpomaen's stomach 
into an envious knot.  Swallowing hard, he resolved to 
sneak into the larder after everyone had gone to sleep. 

He had displeased them again, made them angry.  This was 
nothing new, of course, nor was his punishment a novel or 
inventive one, and so the harsh tone of his foster-mother's 
voice should really not have upset him the way it did.  But 
it did.  «Parasite» -- her words still rang in his ears, 
reminding him of just how useless he was.  

Even his foster-father was beginning to see him in this 
light.  Though he had spoken up in Melpomaen's defence, his 
usually booming voice had been quiet, his words lukewarm.  
As soon as the argument was over, the broad-shouldered man 
had slunk out of the kitchen and gone straight to his 
workshop without stopping to ruffle Melpomaen's hair like 
he once would have done.  It was this that hurt more than 
anything.  Melpomaen pressed his fists into his eyes to 
stop the hot tears from falling.

«I will try harder,» he promised himself.  «I will work all 
day in the workshop, I will leave my books be.  I won't 
give anyone cause to tell me I am no good.»

«But you are no good,» a mocking voice in his head reminded 
him, and Melpomaen hugged himself tighter.  It was true.  
In his foster-father's workshop he was about as useful as a 
Balrog in an archive full of parchments.  He dropped things 
and broke them, could not wield the saw properly and was 
not even fit to carry the long wooden planks.  They were 
heavy; he was small for his age and not as strong as the 
other boys.

«What kind of shipbuilder will I make?» he despaired, 
comparing his narrow shoulders unfavourably with the 
muscular bodies of the Elf men in the settlement.  Every 
passing year seemed to make the differences more apparent, 
bringing his dubious heritage into sharper focus.  It was 
no longer just his black hair and pale skin that set him 
apart from the blond Edhellond Elves.  As Melpomaen got 
older it was becoming clear that whatever abilities he had 
inherited from his unknown parents had ill equipped him for 
life in a seaside village.

«If only I could do something different,» he thought, 
remembering with longing the book-filled shelves in the 
house of one of his tutors.  But his foster-father needed 
help, and Melpomaen was not about to question the path laid 
out for him by his elders.  Who was he, after all?  Nothing 
but a foundling: the only survivor of a travelling party of 
Elves butchered in an Orc raid.  He should be grateful his 
foster-parents had agreed to take him in lest he starve in 
the woods.  It was not his place to make demands.

Melpomaen sniffled and wiped his nose with the cuff of his 
sleeve.  He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from the 
seat of his leggings, then moved toward the passage that 
led to the yard, intent on sneaking out and finding some 
peace.  Stopping by the door to the fire-lit kitchen, he 
peeked in.  And he could not look away.

His little foster-sister sat in a chair in the centre of 
the room, happily swinging her short legs, which did not 
yet reach the floor.  His foster-mother stood behind her 
youngest child, brush in hand and an indulgent expression 
on her face.  She was combing the little girl's hair; 
carefully stroking the blond strands and running them 
through her fingers in great, silky handfuls, as if they 
were a precious treasure.  "Pen-neth," she whispered.  The 
child leaned back trustingly into her mother's hands.

Envy flooded Melpomaen's entire being.  No one had ever 
combed his hair that way or looked at him with such 
affection; no one had called him "pen-neth."  Truly, no one 
took any notice of him beyond ensuring that he was fed, 
clothed and working.  He had never dwelled on it before, 
but now the realization came like a hammer blow between the 
eyes: no one loved him.  If he were to go away tomorrow, 
they would look on his leaving with relief; they would have 
one less mouth to feed.  

Blinded by his tears, Melpomaen ran out of the house, 
needing to feel the sea breeze on his face.  Night had 
already fallen, and so his mad dash toward the river went 
unobserved.  When he reached the familiar banks, he stopped 
and sank to his knees, relieved to be alone at last.

He dug his hands into the cold sand, feeling the tiny 
grains grind against his fingernails, and raised his face 
up to the sky.  "Elbereth," he whispered, his voice a 
desperate prayer.  "Fairest Lady, please let someone love 
me.  I don't want to feel so alone."  The river flowed by 
slowly, indifferent to the troubles of the boy crying on 
its banks.  No one was there to hold Melpomaen or comfort 
him.  It was the wind that dried his tears.


****

Imladris, TA 1004


Melpomaen surfaced from his troubled sleep like a swimmer 
coming up for air, throat constricted and stomach full of 
dread. He sat up quickly and tried to calm his breathing, 
right hand instinctively reaching out for someone who was 
not there. Encountering nothing but cold, empty sheets, his 
fingers tightened into a ball and withdrew. He cursed 
himself for being a fool; it had been many weeks since he 
had last shared his bed with Elrond, and yet his body 
refused to forget.  
 
His mind knew better, however. When the cobwebs of sleep 
inevitably fell away, the grim certainty that things had 
changed was there, immovable like a rock.  Once awake, it 
was impossible to go on pretending that things were all 
right.  And now it seemed that even his dreams were not 
safe.  How could Lórien be so cruel?  Melpomaen shuddered 
at the painful memory he had just revisited.  Though many 
years had passed since that unloved child had wept on the 
banks of the Morthond, the thought of it still had the 
power to make Melpomaen feel as cold and lonely as he had 
felt that night.

Unwilling to stay in his bed a moment longer, Melpomaen 
lowered his bare feet to the floor. Quickly he pulled on 
the previous evening's discarded robe and ran a hand 
through his sleep-matted hair. Without even bothering to 
find a pair of shoes, he slipped into the corridor and made 
his hurried way to the library. His own chamber felt much 
too constricting for these mid-night vigils; the archives 
at least had books and scrolls, and those promised 
forgetfulness of a sort.  
 
As expected, the library was deserted. When Melpomaen 
stepped through the heavy double doors he found himself 
alone, surrounded by nothing but paper-filled quiet.  If 
not for the very real hiss of his candlewick, he might have 
thought he had slipped back into a dream.

He set his candle down and moved in the direction of the 
far wall, toward the high shelf housing part of the 
extensive history of the Second Age.  But before he had 
made his way across the tiled library floor, his eyes were 
drawn to a large volume propped open on a lectern in the 
corner.  He moved closer and saw that the book was actually 
a work in progress, the fine calligraphy filling only 
three-quarters of the page.  

«This is Elrond's work,» he thought, his fingertips 
hovering above the elegant script, careful not to smudge.  
«And how fine do the letters look on the paper, how skilled 
the hand that wielded the quill...» He could almost see his 
lover's long, slim fingers holding the writing instrument 
with their habitual grace.  Elrond's face would be the 
picture of concentration, dark hair tucked behind an ear so 
as not to hamper his work...

With a strangled sob, Melpomaen gripped the book's bindings 
and kissed the edge of the page.  He could still sense the 
presence of the master scribe who had stood here and penned 
these lines.  How he longed to touch those beloved fingers, 
trail kisses along Elrond's hands, his wrists, and higher, 
up to his lovely mouth...  Elbereth, how long it had been 
since he had held that body in his arms, felt that warm 
voice rumbling in his ear... 

"Melpomaen!"

Melpomaen whirled around and nearly fell over at the sound 
of his name being called from the library entrance.  But he 
had dared to hope in vain; the voice was only Glorfindel's.

"Do you make it a habit of frequenting the library in the 
middle of the night and kissing poor, unsuspecting books?"

Melpomaen found that, just now, he had little patience for 
being mocked.  He glared at Glorfindel, nearly bristling 
with annoyance.  "I was only--" 
       
"Don't get angry, pen-neth -- I know how difficult things 
have been for you lately.  I know you cannot rest.  It is 
nothing to be ashamed of, you know; half of Imladris seems 
to be suffering from the same malaise.  I thought I might 
find Erestor here, as a matter of fact.  But, as it seems I 
have found you instead, maybe you wouldn't object to a bit 
of advice from a well-meaning friend, who--"

"I do not need advice."  

"Indeed." Glorfindel raised a sceptical eyebrow and walked 
closer.  "What are you reading?" 

"It is... nothing, just an unfinished copy of a historical 
account."

"Which you have found to be of such great interest that you 
shower it with kisses.  Let me see that."  He reached out 
his hand and lifted a page to get a closer look.  "Elrond's 
writing.  Oh, pen-neth..."

Melpomaen flinched at the sound of sympathy in Glorfindel's 
voice and hugged his ribcage tightly, just as he had done 
when he was a boy.  

Glorfindel moved a step closer and picked up the book.  "I 
wonder what he has been copying in here, hour after hour.  
He need not do the work himself with so many skilled 
scribes in his employ."  Looking down at the page, he read, 
"But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, 
before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still 
they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only 
when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into 
song."

Glorfindel fell silent.  Melpomaen could not see the 
expression on his friend's face, for he had shut his eyes 
when Glorfindel began reading, but he heard a muted thud as 
the book was placed back on its wooden lectern and sensed 
the air shift as a warm body moved closer to his own.  
Moments later he felt himself enveloped in a pair of 
powerful arms and rocked gently as a soft voice whispered 
in his ear.

"Oh, Mel."

"He is unhappy."

"As are you."

"I..." The words stuck in Melpomaen's throat.  "I do not 
know how much more of this I can stand, Glorfindel.  I feel 
as though I am coming apart...  I would do right by him; I 
would leave if it would make things easier, and yet I 
cannot bring myself to do it."

Glorfindel's arms tightened around Melpomaen for a moment, 
then released their hold.  The older Elf looked at 
Melpomaen's face, and smiled reassuringly.

"And still you say you do not need my counsel." 

Melpomaen shrugged and looked down at his bare feet.  
"Maybe I do," he said. "Though I know not what you could 
say that would make things easier."

"Easier?" For a moment, Glorfindel looked as if his 
thoughts were far away.  "No, it is not in my power to do 
that.  But I can make things clearer.  I can give you the 
unadorned truth -- I am known for that."  He wiped 
Melpomaen's cheeks with the back of his knuckles.  "What 
say you?"

Melpomaen felt a certain weight lift from his chest at the 
prospect of discussing his troubles with a friend, even if 
no solution to his heartache could be found.  A lump formed 
in his throat -- part sorrow, part gratitude -- and he 
nodded.

"Very well."


****

The flames in the fireplace were low, flickering rather 
than burning, slowly turning the glowing embers to ashes.  
The large kitchen was mostly in shadow, and Melpomaen was 
glad of this, for he did not think he could lay his heart 
bare in the glaring light of day.  

Glorfindel was apparently taking his self-imposed role of 
confidant very seriously, for he fussed over Melpomaen like 
a concerned healer over his patient.  In his zeal, he had 
even prepared a sickeningly sweet hot potion, which 
Melpomaen now sipped from a steaming cup while trying not 
to scald his tongue.  The taste of it was rather revolting, 
for Glorfindel's culinary skills were obviously far 
inferior to his battle prowess, but Melpomaen felt much 
cheered by such evidence that someone cared for him, and 
drank the beverage without protest.

"Pen-neth..." Glorfindel began, then stopped, and looked at 
Melpomaen closely.  "Perhaps I should cease calling you 
that; you hardly seem the same young Elf who began work 
here a few years ago.  Much has happened since then.  You 
are certainly no child."

"It's all right, really.  I do not mind."

Glorfindel smiled.  "I will not insult your intelligence by 
explaining matters which are already quite plain and on 
which you no doubt have thought a great deal.  I will 
simply state what I believe needs to be done."

Melpomaen nodded.

"You need to make a choice, and a difficult one," 
Glorfindel said.  "No one can help you, for the decision is 
yours alone.  You need to decide what you want."

"But I already know--"

"No, pen-neth.  You know what is in your heart, and you 
know that you are hurting.  What you need to do now is open 
your eyes and make a rational choice, like an advisor in 
Elrond's council, dispassionately weighing both sides of 
the matter.  And then live with the consequences."

Melpomaen put down his cup and placed both his palms down 
on the table to steady himself.  Although he knew 
Glorfindel usually avoided subtlety, the older Elf's candid 
approach still made him feel as if he were riding an out-
of-control horse through the woods, branches whipping past 
him at high speeds.  

Glorfindel continued.  "Your lover is married.  That will 
never change.  His marriage is not a happy one, and that is 
not likely to change either."

"How can you be sure?"  

Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his 
words, then replied, "I have been a witness to their union 
long enough to judge that to be true."

"Oh."  Melpomaen was dizzy.  He felt pain in his fingers, 
and realized that his nails were digging into the wooden 
surface of the table.

Undeterred, Glorfindel continued.  "If you wish to be able 
to love openly, to bind yourself to another in the eyes of 
the Valar, then you should leave him now.  For -- know this 
-- if you choose to love him, you will forever have to stay 
in the shadows."  Leaning closer, he added, "He would not 
hold it against you, you know.  He cares too much for your 
happiness, and has had to make a number of impossible 
choices in his life, too."

"But I cannot leave him!" Melpomaen heard his voice shake, 
then crack, and clenched his teeth in an attempt to hold 
back tears.  "Is it so wrong for me to want him all for 
myself?" 

Glorfindel comfortingly draped an arm around Melpomaen's 
shoulder. "Not wrong, no.  Just impossible."

For a long time, they were quiet.  Glorfindel kept his arm 
in place, and Melpomaen found its solid presence around his 
back soothing beyond measure.  He leaned against the older 
Elf, appreciating the solace offered by such a touch.  It 
seemed like an eternity since he had been held this way.  
After the years he had spent in close proximity with 
Elrond, being wholly deprived of physical contact had 
proven a shock; he found he missed his lover's reassuring 
embraces even more than the sensual nature of their bond.

Glorfindel did not seem to mind Melpomaen's need to be 
consoled with nearness.  Melpomaen closed his eyes and felt 
his heartbeat slow as his thoughts hung suspended somewhere 
between one painful decision and another.  It did not take 
a lot of effort to summon up the image of Elrond's face -- 
so beautiful, so beloved, and... not his.  Suddenly the 
impossibility of the choice he had to make seemed 
overwhelming.

"What should I do?" he whispered. 

Glorfindel's voice was kind, but firm. "It isn't a question 
of what you *should* do, pen-neth.  It's a question of what 
you can live with."

****

Notes:

Elves reach their majority at the age of 50.  At 20, 
Melpomaen is the equivalent of a human 7- or 8-year-old.

Pen-neth – young one

Lórien is the Vala of dreams.

Extra points for those who can identify the Silmarillion 
quote read by Glorfindel (and kissed by Mel) in this 
chapter.  ;)



TBC

Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 8/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  An unpleasant encounter with Gildor forces 
Erestor to confront his past.  Extra warnings for Gildor 
nastiness in this chapter.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall"  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004


The stack of official letters was getting progressively 
higher, in proportion to the burgeoning cramp in Erestor's 
hand.  A messenger would leave early in the morning, and 
the state missives would slowly make their way to 
Thranduil's kingdom.  It would be a number of weeks before 
Imladris received a response to its correspondence, and it 
was far from certain that the answers sent by the Woodland 
king would be those Elrond and his advisors hoped for, but 
that was out of Erestor's hands for the moment.  No doubt 
his diplomatic skills would eventually be called for, but 
they were not needed yet.  
 
Sighing, he flexed his fingers and closed his eyes, 
allowing himself the luxury of thinking about what the 
evening would bring.  Glorfindel would come and find him in 
the library; they would have a light evening meal in the 
privacy of Erestor's chambers and retire to bed early.  
Whether or not they made love mattered little, as long as 
Erestor could lay his head on Glorfindel's shoulder and 
feel safe.  He tried not to think about the somewhat 
pitiful fact that he -- a seasoned politician and 
negotiator -- now craved nothing more than the 
forgetfulness of a familiar embrace. 
 
Footsteps rang out on the stone tiles behind him, heavy and 
self-assured, and Erestor smiled.  He turned to greet his 
lover -- and froze. For it was not Glorfindel who stood 
leaning against the doorway, casually running a hand 
through his golden hair: it was Gildor.  Gildor, who smiled 
as if he knew every last one of Erestor's thoughts and 
owned them, even after all this time.  Gildor, who looked 
as if he were coming to claim what was rightfully his. 
 
'No' -- it was such a simple word, and usually so easy for 
Erestor to utter.  'No, Glorfindel, I cannot go riding 
today; I have too many matters that require my attention.'  
'No, Elrond, I do not think this course of action is 
advisable; it is too rash, and the issue requires further 
study.'  Erestor had had much practice saying 'no' -- but 
not to Gildor.  And even now, when his body longed to run, 
he could not make the word pass his lips.  His throat only 
tightened and his tongue turned to wood, and he felt as if 
he were a young Elf again, on his knees before Gildor and 
saying all manner of things that were asked of him, but 
never 'no.' 

"At last, a chance for us to be alone." 

Gildor's tone was deliberate and slow, as if he knew that 
his presence alone was enough to paralyse Erestor.  
Playfully he pushed himself away from the doorframe and 
walked closer, his mouth twisted into a smile with which 
Erestor was all too familiar -- not an expression of 
goodwill but a thinly veiled threat.

Erestor felt dizzy and cold.  His hands shook, and he 
quickly put down his quill lest he stain the letter paper 
with inkblots.  «Get up and walk away; just get up and walk 
away!» he thought frantically, but could not get his feet 
to move.  Gildor was close now, near enough to touch.

"I've much desired to speak with you since my arrival, 
Erestor." Gildor's voice was low, but penetrating, and 
Erestor felt it resonate through him.  Every syllable was 
like a violation.  

"I've... had pressing business to attend to." 

"Come now, Erestor, you don't actually expect me to believe 
that, do you?  It is an untruth.  And there should be no 
falsehoods told between friends.  Friends like us."  He 
leaned over Erestor's shoulder, stroking his braids, and 
breathed into his ear.  "Good friends."

Erestor turned his head away, and suddenly felt it snap 
back into place, his hair pulled with a brutal yank.

"Don't turn away from me when I'm speaking to you.  You 
used to be better behaved in my presence.  Have you 
forgotten the meaning of the word discipline?  Mayhap I 
should remind you?"

"Please... I..." 

"You once liked my discipline, Erestor.  You yielded to me 
so beautifully." Gildor tugged at Erestor's hair again, 
pulling his head back and exposing his throat.  He caressed 
the expanse of neck with a single finger.  "Wouldn't you 
like to do so again?"

Erestor wanted to scream.  He twisted under Gildor's 
oppressive touch, but his former lover's grip was strong.

"The blond warrior who guards you so closely and watches 
your every move...  He may look like me -- similar hair, 
similar build -- but does he give you what you need, 
Erestor?" Gildor tipped Erestor's head back further, 
looking into his eyes.  "Does he give you what you crave?  
If he doesn't, you know that I could."

Gildor's hold on Erestor's hair was painfully tight; 
Erestor's eyes began to water.  He tried to blink back the 
tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, but the 
humiliation he felt only made them overflow.  Everything 
about Gildor -- his voice, his scent, his touch -- was 
evoking memories Erestor had striven to bury for ever.  He 
had spent centuries trying to forget, and here was Gildor, 
throwing the past in his face, forcing him to relive it.  
Erestor closed his eyes, fervently wishing to be somewhere 
else. 

Suddenly Gildor let go of Erestor's hair and stepped away.  
"I won't take up more of your valuable time, counsellor."  
Erestor's title on Gildor's tongue sounded more like an 
insult than an honorific.  "If you want me, you know where 
to find me.  And if you don't find me soon, I'll seek you 
out myself, lover.  I promise you that."  He lowered his 
voice to a whisper.  "I am not finished with you yet."

Erestor heard Gildor's footsteps recede past the library 
entrance and into the hallway beyond.  He was alone again, 
and yet he felt anything but safe.  Not when his fears 
seemed to lurk everywhere: in the corridors of the Last 
Homely House, in the library he had once believed to be his 
sanctuary, in the long-ignored corners of his mind.  

His scalp ached from the pull of Gildor's hands on his 
hair, and freshly awakened memories threatened to overwhelm 
him in their intensity.  He got up quickly and hurried to 
his chambers, desperate to break free of the unwelcome 
images and emotions but, even as his feet hastened down the 
corridor, he knew it was no use.  For it is impossible to 
outrun the past.


****


Ost-in-Edhil, SA 1078


Erestor is sitting on a narrow bed covered with a heavy 
brocade, his eyes fixed on the wooden door and his ears 
listening for the sound of footsteps in the hallway.  He is 
waiting for his lover, who is late.  
 
His hands are in his lap and his hair is pulled back from 
his face, so tightly that his temples ache.  He is clad in 
a high-necked, dark robe whose cut he does not like.  He 
has, however, been instructed to wear it, and he knows 
enough by now not to disobey instruction. 
 
He has been motionless for a long time and his limbs are 
stiff, so he shifts slightly to allow the blood to flow 
more freely to his feet, and winces in pain.  The welts on 
his back have not had enough time to heal.  They would 
normally be almost gone by now, but Gildor's treatment of 
him has been growing harsher of late. 
 
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of silence, the 
metal handle turns and the door creaks open.  Erestor feels 
a dizzying combination of exhilaration and dread at the 
thought that Gildor has come. 
 
"Good, you're here," Gildor says.  Despite the fact that it 
is he who has kept Erestor waiting for the better part of 
two hours, his tone is not contrite.  But Erestor does not 
expect an apology; if he has learned anything over the past 
year it has been to curb his expectations. 
 
"Let's get on with it," Gildor says nonchalantly. "I have 
other matters I must attend to tonight." 
 
Erestor nods, his heart clenching at such obvious signs of 
his lover's indifference.  He gets up from the bed and 
begins to undress, feeling self-conscious under the 
critical eye of the other Elf. 
 
'Beautiful' Gildor used to say, and 'sweet one,' but it has 
been a long time since Erestor has been addressed in such a 
manner.  Those innocent, loving days seem like a foreign 
country now, or a fanciful tale one tells without really 
thinking it to be true, so greatly have things changed 
since their liaison first began.  Erestor isn't certain 
which of his words or deeds made Gildor's affection turn 
chill, but he holds on to the desperate belief that the 
damage can still be undone.  Even now, as his hands slip 
the dark robe from his shoulders, he keeps his back 
straight and his movements restrained, quietly hoping that 
Gildor will be pleased. 
 
An errant ray of the sun illuminates a strand of Gildor's 
hair, making it shine like spun gold.  Distant memories 
rise up in Erestor's mind and reverberate like ripples on 
the water.  His breath catches in his throat and, for a 
moment, he can almost imagine that things are the way they 
once were.  But, of course, they are not. 
 
Gildor appraises Erestor's naked form and takes off his 
cloak and tunic, leaving his breeches and boots in place.  
He rests his hands on his hips and smiles. 
 
"Over there, by the window," he says, and Erestor feels a 
stab of fear.  This is the first time Gildor has asked for 
this; he does not know what to expect.  He is not certain 
if this means that his lover will be more careful or choose 
to give free rein to his more base tendencies. 
 
Seeing Erestor's hesitation, Gildor takes him by the 
shoulders and steers him toward the open window.  He does 
not push, but Erestor does not need such blatant coercion; 
he lets himself be led willingly enough.  It takes barely a 
few steps to cover the distance, and soon they are close 
enough to feel the cool breeze and yet far enough not to be 
seen from below. 
 
"Your clamour hurt my ears last time; today I wish to 
ensure your silence," Gildor says. "Brace your arms on the 
windowsill and look out so that those passing by may see 
your face.  If you do not wish them to know just what is 
being done to you, you will have to stay quiet and keep 
your expression neutral." 

He strokes Erestor's face with his hand, and Erestor cannot 
help but lean into the caress.
 
"You are quite proficient at concealing your emotions in 
public; I've seen you in Celeborn and Galadriel's council," 
Gildor says, a note of approval and admiration slipping 
into his voice.  The touch of his fingers is gentle, not 
cruel, and Erestor's heart thumps in his chest, for here is 
Gildor as Erestor once knew him:  tender and kind.  Joy 
gripping his throat, Erestor has the conscious thought that 
he is willing to suffer much for the sake of moments like 
these –- moments when, in spite of everything, he feels 
loved. 
 
But the moment does not last.  Moving efficiently, Gildor 
pushes Erestor forward so that his hands grip the wooden 
window frame.  He gets behind Erestor, nudges his legs 
apart and, freeing his erection from the confines of his 
breeches, pushes in.  Erestor has not been prepared 
properly, and so it hurts, especially since Gildor does not 
take his time but forces himself in roughly, with no regard 
for the body accepting his assault, and sets a rapid pace. 
 
Jostled by the well-built Elf behind him, Erestor struggles 
to keep his body still and his face free of emotion.  There 
are soldiers in the courtyard below, some of whom are not 
strangers to him, and he does not want them to witness his 
humiliation; does not want anyone to know of his shame.  
His hair comes free of its binding and falls around his 
face, and his cheeks burn. 
 
A thought comes to him, unbidden as ever and, as always, he 
cannot push it away.  «It would not be as shameful if I did 
not enjoy it so,» he thinks, and knows this to be true.  
For even now, through the guilt and the pain, what Erestor 
feels most keenly is the pleasure.  His abused body sings 
with the pure delight of being treated so roughly, 
shivering from the primitive thrill of being dominated. 
 
Erestor feels Gildor tense behind him and hears the last 
grunt accompanying his lover's climax.  Gildor squeezes 
Erestor's buttocks painfully as he pulls out, then leans 
over to whisper in his ear: "Just what you craved, my 
lovely, was it not?" 
 
Erestor does not answer.  He is shaking. 
 
"You're fortunate I'm willing to give it to you, lover.  
And fortunate I refrain from making your unnatural 
preferences known," Gildor adds.  He uses a cloth to clean 
himself, then quickly puts on his clothes.  In less than a 
minute, he is at the door and looking over at Erestor, who 
is still standing motionless at the window. 
 
"See you again, melethron," Gildor says with a smirk, then 
he is gone.  The door closes behind him and silence once 
again reigns in the cramped room. 

Erestor releases his grip on the window frame and moves to 
the side, out of the range of vision of those who might be 
watching from the courtyard below.  He rests his naked back 
against the wall, feeling the discomfort caused by his 
still-fresh welts rubbing against the cold stone and 
welcoming it as fitting penance for one so depraved.  
Reaching down to his groin, he wraps his hand around his 
neglected erection and strokes quickly, eyes closed, face 
flushed with shame.  When he comes, the spasm of pleasure 
he feels is both bitter and sweet, and the face that 
appears before his eyes is Gildor's.  
 
Once his shaking legs are steady again, Erestor straightens 
up and walks over to the bed to retrieve his clothes.  He 
loathes himself, more so than ever before, but he will make 
no promises of 'never again.'  He has learned by now that 
such oaths have no authority over him.


****

Imladris, TA 1004


"Erestor?  Come now, what is the matter?"  Carefully 
closing the door behind him, Glorfindel slipped into the 
room.

Erestor was sitting in the centre of the wide bed, his legs 
drawn up to his chin and his eyes focused on a point in the 
distance.  Glorfindel could barely make out his face as the 
room was oppressively dark, but he could tell that his 
lover was hurting.  Erestor usually liked his living space 
to be bright and airy; that he had drawn the curtains down 
over the high windows could only mean that his anguish had 
reached new depths.  The heavy velvet drapes hung like a 
shroud, letting in barely a sliver of light and giving the 
bedchamber a tomb-like feel. 

"Elbereth... What did he do to you?" Glorfindel settled 
down on the blankets and ventured a tentative embrace, half 
afraid that Erestor would flinch and pull away.

Erestor tensed for an instant before hesitantly laying his 
head on Glorfindel's shoulder.  "He has not done a thing to 
me in centuries, as you well know," he answered, his voice 
strangely hollow.

"And yet it still haunts you."

"Yes.  It haunts me still."  

It was a simple admission, not an accusation, and 
Glorfindel could think of nothing to say in reply that he 
had not said a hundred times before.  For a few moments he 
simply sat there, stroking Erestor's arm and listening to 
his even breathing.  But his nature demanded action, and he 
was not content to offer comfort in so passive a manner for 
long.

"I would show him the extent of my wrath, avenge your 
pain... You need only command it," he said, feeling as if 
he were pledging an oath.

To his great surprise, the dark eyes that looked up at him, 
though still shadowed with grief, held a trace of 
amusement.

"My champion," Erestor said, his lips curling into a half-
smile.

Glorfindel fell silent, remembering how reluctant his lover 
had once been to accept his assistance.  Although his 
natural urge was to do battle against all foes that 
threatened the one he loved, he knew there were demons that 
could not be slain by the sword alone and against whose 
slippery, obscure menace he was utterly powerless.

After a few moments, Erestor spoke again. "Glorfindel?" 

"Yes?"

"Thank you, but..." 

"But what?"

Erestor's face was serious and calm, if a bit grim, and 
only the determined line of his mouth told the tale of the 
internal struggle he had likely just waged.

"If there is anything to be done, it is I who must do it," 
he said.  "If I do not, I shall never be rid of these 
ghosts."

"Is there nothing I can do?" Glorfindel asked.

Erestor turned toward him, the proud expression he 
customarily wore gone, his dark eyes vulnerable.  

"Hold me." 



****

Notes:  melethron - lover 


TBC
 

Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 9/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  Haldir and Caegaran are up to no good; Elrond 
confronts Gildor.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  Sincere apologies 
for this chapter taking so bloody long!  RL got out of 
hand...  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004


The door to the barracks office swung open, then shut with 
a clatter, the force of the wind making the hinges creak.  
Caegaran, sitting behind the desk in the corner, flinched 
at the noise and swore under his breath.  Then he nodded to 
his visitor and pushed the ledger he had been examining to 
the side, clearly not averse to the unexpected 
interruption. 

"Haldir.  Welcome."

"Caegaran, my friend.  There's a storm coming, and a fierce 
one, I can feel it.  I'm surprised you're not out riding 
through the woods; you love this kind of weather."

Caegaran swore again, this time quite audibly.  "I would if 
it weren't for these damned accounts, Haldir.  I cannot go 
anywhere until the task is done, and just now it is more 
likely to finish me than the other way around.  Trying to 
make expenses balance out against inventory is... ah..." 
Another few curses rolled off Caegaran's tongue.  

"Your turn for office duty on the roster, I take it?"

"Yes.  Though I'm about as suited to it as you would be to 
a life of chastity. I should be out on patrol, where I 
belong, not rotting here in this Valar-forsaken office."

Haldir walked closer.  He lifted the cover of the ledger 
Caegaran had been working on, and thumbed through a few 
pages.  "My sympathies.  Although I must admit that I am 
glad to find you here, and find you alone; I've been 
meaning to ask a favour. You have a good number of dressage 
whips and riding crops in your weapons inventory, do you 
not?  I'd like to borrow a few.  Strictly in confidence, of 
course."

"Why?"  Caegaran, who had been tilting his chair back and 
balancing it on two legs, now let it swing back to a 
horizontal position.  He narrowed his eyes.  "Were you 
planning on going riding?" 

"In a manner of speaking." 

Haldir's and Caegaran's eyes met.  For a moment both were 
silent, and the only sound in the barracks office was the 
tapping of a tree branch against the window.  The wind 
outside had grown strong.  At last, Caegaran said: "Well, 
regardless of your intentions, I'm afraid your timing 
couldn't have been worse.  Some of our riding crops have 
disappeared lately, and the mystery of where they have gone 
is still unsolved.  When I told Lord Glorfindel about it 
last week he seemed strangely irritated.  Really, I don't 
see why he should take such trivial trouble so very much to 
heart.  If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was taking 
it personally."

"Really?" Haldir lifted an eyebrow.  "How very interesting.  
It makes me see the eminent Lord Glorfindel in a whole new 
light."

"Oh, honestly, Haldir, you have one thing on your mind.  
Speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask about the 
seduction of the young advisor.  Shouldn't one of your 
reputation have made significant progress by now?"

Haldir's eyes flashed with a dangerous glint.  Then he 
regained mastery over his emotions, and gave a controlled 
smile.  "You cannot rush an artist like myself, Caegaran.  
I am taking it slowly for now -- we do not want to frighten 
him away, after all, but to lure him.  You need not worry, 
however; it will be quite effective in the end.  Our young 
friend will experience an unforgettable night in my 
company, and as for the morning... well, that is not my 
concern, is it?"

"No.  How will you go about it?"

"I will not throw myself upon him like some callous 
Easterling, if that is what you're asking.  But he is no 
virgin maid, and I do not intend to treat him as such.  
Besides, I have a feeling he will not object to being used 
roughly -- these quiet, repressed librarian types often 
enjoy that sort of thing -- and I do plan on indulging 
myself."  Haldir's smile grew lewd.  "I deserve something 
for my pains, don't you think?  Stretching a courtship over 
these many weeks does tend to whet the appetite."

The cares seemed to lift from Caegaran's face. "When will 
you do it?"

"I was thinking about midsummer night's eve.  The very air 
that night is a potent aphrodisiac, so I shall be doubly 
difficult to resist."  Haldir winked.  "Besides, did you 
not say that it was on that night that Elrond and the young 
one first--"

"Yes." 

"Then it will be a fitting betrayal to crown a doomed 
affair.  Elrond will be most displeased to see his young 
pet sleeping with another on a night that's supposedly 
sacred to them both."

"How will he know?"

"Oh, I will see to that, as well.  I am nothing if not 
thorough."  Haldir straightened his tunic, evidently 
pleased with himself.  "You may leave the matter in my 
capable hands, Caegaran."  

"Be sure to put them to good use, then." Caegaran's face 
grew serious.  "I mean it, Haldir.  I have been humiliated 
and hurt, and I want the young one to pay. I want him to 
know the meaning of shame and regret."

Haldir's nodded solemnly.  "He will."

In the distance, thunder rumbled.


****


Gildor was accustomed to giving commands, that much was 
obvious.  He was also used to being obeyed and to having 
his instructions carried out with attention paid to the 
smallest detail.  Elrond could tell all this from his 
vantage point at the window overlooking the wide courtyard.  
Below, the stablehands were scrambling to see to Gildor's 
horse, flinching as the horse's owner berated them for 
their laggard service.  Dark clouds were quickly gathering 
overhead, and Gildor, just returned from his daily ride, 
was more eager than usual to be back indoors.

A bright flash tore the sky in twain, bringing all the 
occupants of the courtyard into sharp focus, its ominous 
silence a prelude to the thunder that was to come.  One of 
the stablehands cringed and covered his ears.  Mere seconds 
later, the air was filled with a loud crash that rolled 
over Imladris, resounding in its fury.  The storm was 
close, very close, and it was coming quickly. 

A cool wind blew in through the open window and ruffled 
Elrond's hair.  The first heavy drops of rain fell on the 
windowsill, spattering on the long sleeves of Elrond's 
robes as he reached over to close the panes of glass.  By 
the time the latch on the window was securely fastened the 
rain outside was coming down in sheets, the trees were 
bowed under the onslaught of the gusting wind and the sky 
was dark as night.

The stablehands, drenched to the bone, doubled their 
efforts to coax the shying horse into the stables, goaded 
by Gildor's angry cries.  His store of patience evidently 
exhausted, Gildor did little to keep his wrath in check.  
Elrond was dismayed, though unsurprised, to see him slap a 
stable boy who had inadvertently let go of the horse's 
reins.  As might have been expected, this only frightened 
the animal further.  It bucked under the hands of its 
handlers, thrashing its head and neighing wildly, desperate 
to get away from the storm, yet not certain where to go.

Deciding he had seen enough, Elrond turned away from the 
window and walked toward the candles on the mantelpiece -- 
by now the room's only source of light.  The fact that 
Gildor had a hot temper was no shock; Elrond had witnessed 
it before.  The incident in the courtyard below only served 
to emphasize his impression of Gildor as someone who could 
be unkind.  

«Gil-galad would never have treated a frightened animal so, 
nor a well-meaning servant,» Elrond thought, his mind 
turning to events in the distant past and conjuring up 
images of the High King calming a horse in a similar storm.  

Gil-galad's gentleness was a sharp contrast to Gildor's 
abrupt ways, and it had always puzzled Elrond that the two 
of them had been friends.  After unsuccessfully trying to 
develop some sort of camaraderie with Gildor in the Second 
Age, more out of a sense of duty to Gil-galad than any 
particular desire for a close friendship with the 
unapproachable Elf, Elrond had finally turned to his lover 
and asked for an explanation of their strange affinity.  

Gil-galad had laughed.  "Ah, Gildor," he had said.  "There 
is more to Gildor than meets the eye, and more good than he 
is willing to show most.  His great weakness is his 
arrogance, and the fact that he loves strength and will not 
easily suffer those who are weak.  It can make him cruel, 
at times."  "Unlike you, my Lord," Elrond had replied, 
heart full of love, and the conversation had concluded in a 
passionate encounter on Gil-galad's wide bed.

Elrond smiled to recall that afternoon, then sighed.  
Whether he liked it or not, he would have to speak with 
Gildor, both about his unnecessarily harsh treatment of 
Imladris' stablehands and the Wandering Company's travel 
plans.  Erestor's odd behaviour was beginning to worry him, 
and he strongly suspected that Glorfindel's recent early-
morning visit -- prematurely interrupted by an argument -- 
had a great deal to do with the dark circles under 
Erestor's eyes.  

Though he had not been told anything directly, Elrond had 
pieced together enough clues to have a fairly good idea of 
the situation. The looks Gildor cast Erestor's way made it 
obvious that the two had met before, and Erestor's baffling 
nervousness seemed to indicate that he had somehow been 
hurt.  Elrond respected his chief advisor's privacy enough 
not to inquire into the matter, but he had heard enough 
rumours about Gildor's tastes to imagine precisely what 
manner of 'hurts' Erestor had suffered.

He shuddered at the thought, convinced more than ever that 
he would never understand Gildor, would never get past the 
wall of arrogance and behold the Elf whose company Gil-
galad had seemed to hold dear.  Still, regardless of how he 
felt about Gildor, it was his responsibility to ensure the 
well-being of a loyal advisor and friend.  Elrond squared 
his shoulders and set off down the hall.


****


"Come in!" Gildor's tone was muffled, almost as if someone 
were holding a hand over his mouth. The uncomfortable 
feeling in Elrond's stomach grew, and he braced himself for 
whatever sight would greet him on the other side of the 
door. Gildor was adventurous, but surely he would not be 
inviting passers-by in if he were otherwise engaged? Elrond 
pressed down the door handle and held his breath, then 
released it in relief as the reason for the stifled quality 
of Gildor's voice became clear.

Gildor had his tunic half-off, arms raised above head, face 
trapped in between folds of wet fabric. His mud spattered 
clothes clung to him as only utterly sodden garments can, 
and it was taking him some effort to extricate himself from 
their grip. He grunted impatiently as he tugged at his 
sopping wet tunic, biceps straining in his struggle, chest 
and stomach exposed.  Elrond smiled at his good fortune; it 
seemed that his dreaded interview with Gildor had just 
begun with himself at an advantage. 

"Yes?" Gildor yanked the tunic over his head and flung it 
on the ground, where it landed in a dirty puddle, sleeves 
sticking out at odd angles like the tentacles of some 
strange water beast. Gildor's golden hair had seen better 
days, yet its owner did not seem to mind, for he reached 
for a clean towel and immediately began to rub it dry. 
Apparently it would take much more than this to unsettle 
the leader of the Wandering Company.

Elrond sensed that this was no time for diplomatic 
intimations; he decided to be direct. "I saw the 
stablehands struggling with your horse just now.  I also 
saw you hit one of them.  I wanted to tell you that I 
thought it unwarranted."

"Well, if you ask me, I think they could all do with a good 
whipping. I have seen more efficient work done in squalid 
villages of Men, and by lame and blind servants no less. 
The ones here are slow and don't take well to instruction."

"They do not need instruction. They are perfectly capable 
of doing the work in which they have been trained." Elrond 
suppressed his irritation. It would not do to have this 
discussion disintegrate into a shouting match. 

"Perhaps it is the training that is lacking, then. However 
do you run this realm, Elrond?" Gildor stopped towelling 
his hair and tilted his head in a challenging query. "Never 
mind. You never were one to rule with a strong hand. All 
conciliation to Gil-galad's resolve, always counsel before 
action."

Elrond took a deep breath, trying to make his words sound 
calm.  "Gil-galad and I did things somewhat differently." 

"Yes." Gildor regarded Elrond speculatively, as if 
remembering something. He let the towel drop to the floor. 
"He seemed to value your ways, though."

'Although I certainly do not,' was the implication, left 
unsaid but coming across quite clear nonetheless. Elrond 
felt his annoyance turn to anger. It was true that Gil-
galad was apt to act before thinking, and Elrond had often 
felt it necessary to temper his lover's deeds with advice, 
channelling all his bright intensity and ensuring that Gil-
galad's fire warmed instead of burning. But Elrond's 
counsel had always been gladly received, and the High King 
had said on more than one occasion that it was a gift he 
prized above many others. Gildor's words now called into 
question Gil-galad's very judgment as a ruler, and, as 
such, insulted not only Elrond, but the memory of his 
beloved King.

Elrond drew himself up to his full height, righteous anger 
lending weight to his words.  "Let no one question my 
abilities lest they dishonour the name of the one who held 
them in high esteem."

The air grew hotter in the room, silence only adding to the 
tension. Gildor tossed his hair back and maintained the 
pose, watching Elrond from under slightly hooded eyes, as 
if from a distance. Slowly, a smile spread over his face. 
He relaxed his posture.

"I mean dishonour to no one," he said. "Least of all to one 
I once called friend, and whose strength I admired."

"And who is not here to defend himself."

"Ah, but his Herald comes to his defence quite well, ready 
as ever to stand by him and serve his interests." Gildor's 
smile shifted from approval to mockery. "Tell me... rumour 
has it you served much more than that, and for many years, 
too.  I've never been able to understand it: however did 
you manage to please an Elf as passionate as Gil-galad?  
You, with your weighty tomes of lore, your calm and your 
reason -- I would think you'd be about as exciting to lie 
with as a slippery fish, and probably just as warm."

Fury blinded Elrond.  Before rational thought could hinder 
his instincts, his palm had connected harshly with Gildor 
face.

Gildor's head snapped to the side, but he did not hit back.  
Instead, he caught Elrond's wrist in his hand and squeezed.  
"Well, well." He lifted his eyebrows appreciatively, the 
mockery not quite gone from his face. "It seems I have been 
labouring under a misconception.  Behold the fire now!"

"Still your tongue!" Elrond jerked his arm away from 
Gildor's grip, but made no move to strike him again.

"You are presumptuous, Peredhel, to think you were the only 
one to love him." Gildor's smile waned, a bitter grimace 
taking its place.  "His star shone brightly, and many would 
gladly have revelled in its light, but he had eyes only for 
you."

Though acrimonious, Gildor's words were not hateful. There 
was a longing in them, a resentment that spoke not of ill 
will but of hopes denied. Elrond started at the sudden 
realization that the rivalry he had felt between himself 
and Gildor in Lindon might not have been entirely a product 
of his imaginings. How strange that the very thing that had 
fuelled the rift between them centuries ago should now give 
rise to an unexpected connection.

"Do not think I don't know that his spirit was as mighty as 
the winter winds," Gildor continued.  "His love must have 
been a thing to behold."

"It was," Elrond answered honestly.

Gildor's upper lip twitched, as if in acknowledgement of 
Elrond's fortune and his own loss. He touched his reddened 
cheek, and rubbed at the mark. "You have a strong hand, 
Peredhel," he said.

"I have not spent all my time among books. You would do 
well to remember that."

Gildor nodded, his mouth once again twisting in a half-
smile -- part conciliation, part menace. "And you would do 
well to bear in mind that I do not usually let those who 
strike me go unpunished.  My pride does not suffer insults 
lightly.  I may be a guest in your house, Elrond, but I am 
not yours to command.  I am no one's to command."

"Of course." Elrond extended his arm, bowing to his duties 
as host and peacemaker.  "Please, accept my apologies, 
Gildor.  I acted out of turn."  He clasped Gildor's 
shoulder and felt his own being clasped in return, though 
the tension in Gildor's muscles and his slight hesitation 
before responding spoke volumes about the true state of 
affairs between them.  This was a truce, not a gesture 
among friends.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" Gildor asked, 
decisively pushing the conversation onto other, supposedly 
less volatile, matters.

Elrond paused.  Though concern about Erestor was uppermost 
in his mind, he could well sense that voicing it would only 
make matters worse.  "Midsummer night's eve is nigh upon 
us," he said.  "I know that you and your Company will grace 
the festivities with your presence, and we are very glad of 
it.  But this is also the time of year when we begin to 
make preparations for the upcoming winter.  I wanted to ask 
you--"

"How long we would be staying." 

"Yes."

"To tell you the truth, I have not yet decided." Gildor 
walked over to the large wardrobe, opened it, and pulled 
out a clean shirt.  "I have heard much of the pleasures of 
midsummer night's eve in Imladris, and I had hoped that I 
might have some luck in matters of the heart then.  Or... 
matters of the body, at least."  He gave Elrond a knowing 
look.  "So it all depends.  Should things go well, my 
Company and I may stay until next spring."

"You have someone particular in mind."  Elrond made his 
words sound neutral, though he was aware he had not phrased 
them in the form of a question.

"Yes.  And the pursuit promises to be a challenging one; it 
seems I have competition." 

"If the rivalry is fair and honourable then I wish you the 
best of luck." Elrond forced the words through gritted 
teeth, calling on every last reserve of patience and tact 
to keep from speaking his mind.

"When have I ever been unfair or dishonourable?"

Gildor was toying with him in earnest now, the provoking 
stare and flippant tone goading Elrond into reacting, 
throwing him off balance.  «The Valar guide me to end this 
discussion quickly or, as Elbereth is my witness, I shall 
strike him again,» Elrond thought, clenching his right hand 
and consciously keeping it close at his side.  

As if in answer to his prayer, there was a knock at the 
door.  Gildor smiled, shrugged his shoulders and called, 
"Come in!"  Two servants hurried in with clean clothes and 
towels, and a tray filled with food.

"I will leave you now." Elrond took the Valar-sent 
opportunity to make his exit.  "You are still soaked from 
the rain, and that food looks inviting.  You must be 
famished after your ride."

"Pity our conversation should end so soon.  We were just 
getting started." Gildor picked up a cup of wine from the 
tray and lifted it in a toast.

"Yes, pity.  Good day, Gildor." 

"Good day."

Walking slowly toward the staircase, Elrond loosened the 
collar of his robe, utterly drained.  When he reached the 
stone balustrade, he paused and leaned on it, trying to 
bring the disordered impressions of his conversation with 
Gildor under some sort of control.  He closed his eyes.

"My Lord?"

The voice sounded timid yet urgent, and Elrond opened his 
eyes.  The Elf who stood before him was one of his own 
border guards, though Elrond could not remember his name.  
He stood with head bowed, some sort of ledger held under 
his arm, clothes wet from the rain.  

"Yes?" Elrond asked.

"Are you well, my Lord?"  The guard bowed lower.  "Forgive 
me for interrupting, but I thought you might need 
assistance.  If there is anything--"

"Nay, I am fine."  Elrond straightened up and smiled.  
After an encounter as trying as the one he had just had 
with Gildor, such a demonstration of devotion to duty 
gladdened the heart.  "Thank you for your concern."

"It is nothing." 

"Imladris is fortunate to have warriors like you looking 
after its interests."  Elrond saw the guard's cheeks 
redden.  Amused, he added, "What is your name?"

The Elf hesitantly met Elrond's gaze, his face earnest.  
"Caegaran, my Lord."

"Caegaran."

"It is an honour to serve you, my Lord Elrond, now and 
always.  If ever you require anything, anything at all--"

"I will be sure to ask." Elrond gave a kind, dismissive 
smile and turned toward the stairs.  He needed the solitude 
of his chambers now; his stores of patience had nearly been 
exhausted.  He walked up the winding staircase slowly, 
lifting his long robes and stepping with care.  When he 
reached the top, he looked back.  Caegaran was still 
standing down below, head bowed and hand over his heart.  
Elrond shook his head, impressed and a little mystified.  
Such dedication was rare indeed. 



****

Notes:  For some insight into the relationship between Gil-
galad and Elrond, and the rivalry between Elrond and 
Gildor, see my story "In the Bleak Midwinter."


TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 10/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  Glorfindel is frustrated; Erestor finds 
confidence in an unexpected source.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004 
 
 
-- Morning -- 
 
Erestor had the power to be maddeningly alluring -- 
something Glorfindel certainly did not mind; indeed, it 
usually brought him much thrill and enjoyment. What 
Glorfindel did mind was the fact that this gift of 
Erestor's tended to manifest itself in the most 
inconvenient of situations. Like now. Seated in Elrond's 
private council room, engaged in a small, informal meeting, 
Glorfindel struggled to focus his attention on his lover's 
words -- but to no avail. For how could he possibly heed 
the advice that fell from Erestor's lips when the mouth 
that uttered it was so ripe for the kissing, and the 
graceful, gesturing hands fairly begged to be gathered up 
together, bound behind Erestor's back and... 
 
"Glorfindel?" Elrond's matter-of-fact tone snapped the 
thread of Glorfindel's daydream. "What do you think of 
Erestor's proposal?" 
 
"Uh..." 
 
"Would it not solve the dilemma we have been grappling with 
for the past few days?" 
 
"Yes. Yes, naturally." Glorfindel fumbled for half-recalled 
phrases that might give him a clue as to the nature of the 
proposal on which he was supposed to pass comment. 
Unfortunately, his mind seemed entirely preoccupied with 
images of Erestor in various stages of undress. "Which 
dilemma would that be, exactly?"  
 
"There are so many of them, after all. However is one to 
keep track?"  
 
Erestor's sardonic tone sent chills down Glorfindel's 
spine. Oh, how he adored it when Erestor let his sharp 
instincts take over! Glorfindel did not mind being thought 
a fool at these councils if it meant he was the target of 
such sweet goading. 
 
"As Erestor was saying, if the east wing is opened to 
guests coming for the midsummer night's eve festivities, 
then the renovations on the corridor leading from the 
dining room to the currently unused guest wing may be put 
off for another year -- until such a time as the Dwarf 
Lords of Moria can send us their finest stone carvers, who 
have for the past few seasons been busy crafting the new 
throne room in the Greenwood." Elrond's face fell, and the 
proud tone of his speech lost some of its pomp. 
"Thranduil's request for their services was accepted before 
ours, as you know." 
 
Glorfindel suppressed a smile and saw Erestor do the same. 
So this was what the morning's long discussions had been 
about: finding the ideal way of presenting Imladris in the 
best possible light while hiding its few imperfections, and 
avoiding all opportunities for disunity between the Elven 
realms. It was a difficult task, and one Erestor was 
performing with his usual grace. Glorfindel glanced at his 
lover again, and felt his face grow warmer. 
 
"My Lord Elrond?" The door opened slightly, revealing a 
frazzled servant. "If I could just have a moment of your 
time... I'm ever so sorry to interrupt, but--" 
 
"That's all right; we were just about to pause in our 
discussions. Your interruption is most welcome." Elrond 
rose with relief.  
 
The door closed quietly behind him, and Glorfindel and 
Erestor were left alone. Almost instantly the tension in 
the room mounted. Erestor turned to face Glorfindel, a 
challenge in his eyes.  
 
"Did you not think the suggestion involving the main 
staircase merited further consideration?" he asked. 
 
"The main staircase?" 
 
"Personally, I would have preferred it if the second-floor 
balcony idea were discussed in more detail. Didn't you find 
it was dismissed somewhat prematurely?" 
 
"I..." 
 
"Glorfindel?" A strange light lit up Erestor's face. 
Slowly, he walked over to where Glorfindel sat wedged in 
between his hard wooden chair and the oak table. "You 
haven't heard a word I said, have you?"  
 
"No." Glorfindel looked down. 
 
"Why is that, my love?" Erestor's tone was teasing. "Why 
can you never keep your mind on the content of the speeches 
I make or the counsel I dispense? Are my words so foolish 
that they do not bear hearing?" 
 
"Of course not! You know your counsel is always wise." 
 
"Then why do your eyes not focus on the papers before you? 
Why are they always trained on my person?" Erestor leaned 
in closer, his voice low. "You weren't perchance imagining 
me... unclothed, were you?" 
 
Glorfindel glanced up. The words had shot straight to his 
groin. "What?" 
 
Erestor had the advantage, and he knew it. He raised a slim 
hand to the collar of his robe and undid the top two 
buttons. "You weren't picturing my body bare, here in the 
council room? Stripped of all garments, save perhaps... 
this sash." His fingers played with the black strip of 
silk. He smiled. "This sash, tied about my wrists?" 
 
Glorfindel's mouth dropped open, though no sound came out. 
His heart beat fast and he could feel his erection press 
against the underside of the tabletop. How was it that his 
Erestor -- such a wondrously unpredictable creature -- knew 
the very content of his fantasies? How much more did he 
know? 
 
It seemed Erestor knew a great deal. "Did your mind's eye 
see me spread out on this table, every inch of my flesh 
revealed? Or was I kneeling on the rug beside the window, 
pleasuring you with my mouth?" Eyes locked with 
Glorfindel's, he deliberately traced the curve of his 
bottom lip with his thumb. His voice dropped to a whisper. 
"Tell me, Glorfindel, was I willing? Or did you have to 
grasp my hair and--" 
 
"Erestor!" Glorfindel shot up and out of his chair, nearly 
overturning it in the process. His voice had come out as 
more of a croak than a warrior's baritone, but he cared 
little. Reaching out, he tried to grab his lover by the 
waist, but the lithe figure deftly stepped out of his 
reach. 
 
"Perhaps I have underestimated you, my love," Erestor 
continued, clearly very amused. "For surely one of your 
legendary prowess would not be satisfied until he had 
pinned me under his bulk and pierced me with his--" 
 
"Erestor!  Don't tease me like this..."  
 
"Is it not true? Did you not picture me leaning over this 
table, open to your hands' advances, welcoming you into my 
body's heat? Did you not want it?" 
 
By this time Glorfindel was nearly out of his mind with 
need, his desire burning so brightly that he feared 
touching the parchments on the table lest he spark a real 
flame. He wanted Erestor as much as it was possible to want 
another in such a fierce, carnal way; he longed more than 
anything to have him, here and now. And knew he could not. 
 
At least not here.  Wasting no more time, he grabbed 
Erestor by the sash of his robe and pulled him nearer. 
Their mouths were so close that their breath mingled. 
 
"Come upstairs with me, love, just for a little while. 
Don't deny me this now." 
 
"Glorfindel, this is hardly the time." 
 
"Please, Erestor." Glorfindel was not above begging. "It 
need not take long..."  
 
"Is that supposed to convince me?" Erestor raised an amused 
eyebrow, ever in control, though a measure of lust shone 
from his eyes. "I'm afraid your invitation leaves something 
to be desired." 
 
"Oh, you cruel Elf!" Glorfindel shook with frustration. His 
hands grasped Erestor about the waist, the tempting flesh 
beneath that dark robe driving him to distraction even 
through the silk fabric. "You would goad me with your words 
and then leave me wanting you? Have you no heart? Can you 
not see how I burn?" 
 
Erestor brought his mouth even closer to Glorfindel's, 
hovering on the edge of a kiss. "I do have a heart, and it 
belongs to you," he said. "And though I enjoy making you 
burn, I would much rather that we glory in the flames 
together." He brushed Glorfindel's hair away from his face, 
and caressed his cheek. "Come to my chambers this evening, 
after the day's work is done. I will not taunt or tease 
then; I will be yours, in any way you want me." 
 
"Tonight?"  
 
Erestor nodded, but did not elaborate, for the cadence of 
Elrond's voice outside the door signalled that the 
impromptu conversation in the hallway was about to end. 
Quickly, Erestor disentangled himself from Glorfindel's 
embrace and moved to the front of the room once more. The 
door swung open, and Elrond walked in.  
 
Erestor's hands smoothed his robes and rose to his throat, 
instinctively wanting to fasten the two buttons they had 
earlier undone. They hovered for a moment, then undid a 
third. He met Glorfindel's eyes and smiled. 
 
"Hot?" asked Elrond, unaware of the erotic tension in the 
room. 
 
"A bit. Summer is nigh upon us." Erestor's controlled tone 
revealed nothing. His lean figure was once again still and 
graceful. 
 
Glorfindel settled deeper in his uncomfortable chair, 
hoping its sharp angles would cool his ardour, unlikely as 
that was. He reached for a cup of water and raised his eyes 
to look at Erestor, resigned to let the sweet torture begin 
anew. 
 
 
**** 
 
-- Evening -- 
 
The day, though filled with countless tasks and hardly 
idle, passed much less quickly than Glorfindel would have 
liked. The summer sun inched across the sky with 
excruciating slowness, its light and warmth seemingly 
eternal, the promise of night's dark cover far out of 
reach. 
 
When evening finally fell Glorfindel did not bother with 
the communal meal but headed straight for Erestor's rooms. 
He passed no one in the empty hallways; all were gathered 
in the dining hall. By the time his hand reached for the 
door latch his body was humming with anticipation. 
 
Erestor was already there, tidying up various papers on the 
side table, a few candles casting a warm glow across his 
face. He looked peaceful. 
 
Glorfindel let the door click shut behind him, waiting for 
Erestor to turn about and meet his eyes. Then he walked 
closer, took Erestor's face between his hands and kissed 
him deeply. Honey on the tongue, silky hair beneath his 
fingers, hot breath on his face: how little it took to 
trigger that imperceptible shift from emptiness to 
belonging. One touch of Erestor's willing mouth -- and he 
felt peace pervade him, as if by magic or divine design. 
 
"Have you eaten?" Erestor's tone was as warm as his words 
were practical. 
 
"Not yet." 
 
"I could have some food brought up." 
 
"Maybe later, love. Right now all I want is you." 
Glorfindel hesitated.  
"Unless you're hungry?" 
 
Erestor shook his head. "No, not hungry." He kissed 
Glorfindel's neck, smoothing back his hair. Then he asked 
outright: "How do you want me?" 
 
There it was again: that directness, the boldness that had 
the power to turn Glorfindel from seducer to seduced. 
Glorfindel pulled away to look at his lover's face. 
Erestor's eyes still had a mischievous glint in them, 
though the day's long labours had muted it somewhat.  He 
seemed eager to relieve tension with physical intimacy; the 
long weeks of preparations for the festival must have taken 
their toll. 
 
"Any way I can have you." 
 
"No, I meant... do you want me on the bed or on the floor, 
on my back or on my knees, and with my hands bound, or--" 
 
"You certainly waste no time," Glorfindel said, leaning in 
for another kiss. Then, just because he wanted to and 
because he loved the feel of it on his tongue, he repeated 
his lover's name: "Erestor." 
 
Erestor smiled. "I think I have kept you waiting long 
enough. At this morning's council I thought you would storm 
out and seek release in private; you looked ready to burst 
into flames. I... might have been a little cruel to you 
then."  
 
"A little. You are shameless sometimes." 
 
"Only around you." 
 
"Yes." Glorfindel's breathing had grown quicker.  
 
"Let me show you how shameless I can be," Erestor said, and 
took a few steps back. His hands untied his sash and then 
unfastened the buttons he had tormented Glorfindel with 
earlier that morning. Inch by inch, his pale body was 
revealed, aglow in the warm light of the candles like deep 
drifts of snow under the fiery caress of the sun. Only, 
Glorfindel knew that the delicate skin wasn't cold to the 
touch, but burned with the strength and passion of the 
heart that beat beneath it.  
 
The dark silk robe dropped to the ground. Erestor ran his 
hands over his chest and down to his navel, closing his 
eyes and leaning his head back. His fingers untied the 
lacings of his leggings and pulled at the soft fabric, 
tugging it down, over his thighs and lower. Soon he stood 
naked in the candlelight: tall and proud, and even more 
beautiful than he had been in Glorfindel's imaginings that 
morning.  
 
Glorfindel, who all day had had longed to possess Erestor's 
body, suddenly found his desires changing course. "Let me 
touch you," he said.  
 
"I am yours." Erestor held out his arms in invitation. With 
his hair falling sleekly down his back and his feet placed 
carefully side by side, he looked like a diver about to 
leap off a cliff and trace an elegant arc into the water 
below. 
 
"Mine." Glorfindel's arms pressed Erestor close, mouth 
tasting a pale shoulder, hands cupping a taut behind. 
"Mine. Come this way."  
 
Taking Erestor's hand, he led him to the side of the bed. 
He sat down, and pulled a standing Erestor toward him, in 
between his thighs, like a harbour welcoming a ship. Then 
he ran his hands up along that milky skin, over the 
hipbones, and brought his face closer. 
 
"Glorfindel, what are you doing?" Erestor took a half-step 
back. "I thought you wanted--" 
 
"I want to honour your body. You don't often give me the 
chance, Erestor. Tonight you will." 
 
"But--" 
 
"Shh... don't talk." Glorfindel closed his eyes and let his 
other senses guide him. He pressed his cheek to Erestor's 
erection, delighting in how it felt next to his skin: silk-
covered steel, a fragrant manifestation of Erestor's 
masculinity. He buried his nose in the curls beneath it, 
then sought out its length with his mouth. Erestor's hips 
bucked forward, and Glorfindel steadied them with a firm 
grip of his hands. 
 
Since Erestor usually preferred the submissive role in 
their encounters, Glorfindel rarely got the chance to enjoy 
this particular pleasure. Not surprisingly, the delights 
his tongue now explored tasted almost like forbidden fruit 
-- all the sweeter for their rarity. He gave himself up to 
the sensation, his mouth full of his lover's prowess, the 
muscles in Erestor's belly tensing with unconscious effort. 
The act was lovely in its intimacy, and Glorfindel would 
not have objected to spending the entire evening in such a 
way. But tonight he had other plans. 
 
When Erestor's sighs grew louder and his hips more 
difficult to still, Glorfindel pulled his mouth away and 
glanced up. Erestor looked half-drunk, his face flushed and 
expectant. Glorfindel undid his robe, then untied his 
leggings. When he was nude he lay back, pushing the 
discarded clothes out of the way. 
 
"Lie with me, Erestor," he whispered. "Have me." 
 
"What?"  
 
"You never do, and sometimes I crave it so." 
 
Erestor hesitated for an instant, then rested a knee on the 
edge of the bed. He looked at Glorfindel, uncertain, the 
seductive swagger of some moments ago forgotten. He seemed 
to be thinking. 
 
"The oil is in the drawer," Glorfindel supplied, and 
Erestor's face coloured. 
 
"I know," he said. "You used it on me many times." 
 
"Your turn, then." 
 
"I don't see why you insist that I--" 
 
Instead of answering, Glorfindel grasped Erestor by the 
waist and pulled him down on the bed. "Because you are 
beautiful and strong, and I want to feel that strength 
within me." He reached over to the drawer and pressed a 
bottle of oil into Erestor's hand. "Come, don't deny me." 
 
Erestor's eyes flicked up briefly, and, for a moment, 
Glorfindel saw the depth of insecurity hidden there. Then 
Erestor uncorked the small bottle and slipped a hand 
between Glorfindel's legs. Smooth oil on cool fingers -- 
Glorfindel closed his eyes and let sensation overwhelm him. 
 
Glorfindel had never been an inhibited lover, his self-
confidence serving him well in the bedchamber. None of his 
previous partners had ever had cause for grievance; he was 
always ready to give as well as receive, unconcerned about 
seeming foolish and secure enough in his virility to give 
up control. The same was true now: as Erestor's body slowly 
covered his, Glorfindel gave voice to his enjoyment and 
lifted his knees to allow for deeper access. 
 
Erestor moved slowly, flexing his hips and keeping his eyes 
closed. His hand gripped the bed sheets, the white linen 
bunched up into a ball beneath his fingers.  
 
"Erestor." Glorfindel lifted a hand to his lover's face. 
"Look at me." 
 
The eyes that met Glorfindel's seemed strangely young in 
their apprehension. How was it that Erestor -- so competent 
in all other spheres of his life -- could be so filled with 
doubt when taking pleasure from another: one who loved him, 
no less? 
 
Glorfindel's legs tightened around Erestor's waist, pulling 
him closer. "Can you not see how much you please me? How 
your spirit burns brightly, holding me in its grip? How I 
love being in your power... ah!" He threw his head back and 
clenched his teeth as his lover's hips moved more urgently. 
"Valar... yes. Oh, yes." 
 
Erestor pressed forward with more assurance. His eyes were 
open now, his hands touching Glorfindel's hair and face. 
His body was slowly acquiring the ease it displayed in the 
exercise yard: sleek and sure, filled with purpose.  
 
Glorfindel's hands travelled down over the shifting muscles 
of Erestor's back and firmly cupped his behind, encouraging 
him to thrust.  
"When you're inside me like this, I can scarce remember..." 
His hands squeezed, inviting Erestor deeper.  "Oh, like 
that... Elbereth!" He arched his back. "Oh, Erestor, I am 
yours..." 
 
Something changed in Erestor's eyes then: a glint appeared 
that had not been there before. His mouth, too, twisted 
into a more aggressive shape, and his hands tightened in 
Glorfindel's hair, possessively holding the head immobile. 
His hips moved faster. 
 
"Yes," Glorfindel breathed, closing his eyes again. "Yes, 
more." He felt Erestor's fingers release their hold on his 
hair and move lower down his body, caressing his buttocks 
and squeezing, lifting his hips. The hands that usually 
dealt with quill and parchment, and held a sword but 
rarely, were surprisingly strong.  
 
Slowly, Glorfindel sensed the delicate balance of power 
between him and his lover shift. Though Erestor's 
lovemaking had not suddenly grown more forceful, something 
in their bodies' striving had changed, the way tension 
mounts in the summer air just before a storm, not exploding 
outright but crackling in its potential. 
 
Aware of the sudden difference, Glorfindel looked up at his 
lover's face, and -- for the first time in all the times 
they had made love -- saw Erestor's eyes shine with 
awareness of his own power. 
 
The transformation was awe-inspiring. Eyes alight, Erestor 
seemed to have grown, both in stature and in mastery. 
Incredulous, Glorfindel felt the hands on his body grow 
more sure, the hardness within him, more rigid. Assailed 
from all sides by a might too great to withstand, he 
hovered on the edge of a precipice, then went over, his 
pleasure reaching its peak. Erestor followed moments later. 
 
They drew apart, Glorfindel barely conscious of what he was 
doing. When the breeze from the window began to cool his 
bare skin, he looked over at his lover. Erestor was 
glowing, the novelty of what he had just experienced 
colouring his face. 
 
"Did that just happen?" His eyes shone with wonder. 
 
"Yes."  
 
"You didn't mind?" 
 
"Mind?" Glorfindel turned on his side. "You were glorious. 
You should do that more often." 
 
"Maybe." Erestor's smile was both timid and coy.  
 
Glorfindel shifted closer. "Why would you hesitate to take 
me, love? Did you not take pleasure from it, too?" 
 
Erestor tensed. "You know I did," he said. "It's just that 
Gildor..." 
 
The words would not come, but Glorfindel had long ago 
divined the reasons for Erestor's reluctance. Gildor's 
presence was still there -- always there -- hovering like a 
poisonous cloud, hurtful even from a distance.  
 
This night, however, Glorfindel was determined to make 
Erestor forget, to make his eyes shine once more. "Gildor 
would be shocked beyond measure to see you act the way you 
did tonight." He smiled broadly. "Shocked and regretful, to 
see what he had missed." 
 
For a moment, Erestor looked startled. Then he laughed, and 
relaxed into Glorfindel's arms once more.  
 
The candles on the mantelpiece were slowly burning out, 
their tiny flames flickering and dimming. Outside, the 
light of day had long gone, and the first stars were 
appearing in the black expanse of sky. The room was darker 
now, but it felt neither menacing nor dreary.  
 
Glorfindel brought his mouth close to Erestor's ear. "You 
said something about having food brought up..." 
 
"Glutton." 
 
Erestor's tone was amused and carefree. Glorfindel let his 
arm tighten its hold on Erestor's waist, hoping the shadows 
that had been chased out of his lover's heart that evening 
would not return.  
 
 
 
TBC 


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 11/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  Melpomaen and Celebrían come to important 
realizations; the midsummer night's eve festivities begin 
at last.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004


-- The night before midsummer night's eve --

Glorfindel turned the corner in the hallway and froze, 
staring at the creature making its way in his direction. 
"What in Manwë's name?"

It had the legs of an Elf, to be sure, and certainly arms 
as well, for Glorfindel could see a pair of hands clutching 
the burden it carried.  Its head, however, was completely 
obscured by a mountain of papers, stacked so high they cast 
a looming shadow over the wall. The papers were loose, and 
the whole heap swayed so precariously that it seemed the 
pages were destined to be scattered all over the floor 
before long. Glorfindel could only presume that the being 
buried underneath all that work was an Elf, and an 
overburdened one at that. «Who would be toiling so late, 
and on the evening before the festival no less?» he 
wondered. 
 
He did not wonder for long. Unable to gauge its path, the 
creature tripped on an uneven floor tile and crashed to the 
ground, papers and all.  Its startled exclamation was 
accompanied by the swish of falling pages, which twirled 
like autumn leaves and settled on the floor. At last, 
Glorfindel was able to ascertain that the Elf in the middle 
of the picturesque heap was Melpomaen, although the irate 
look on the young scribe's face was at odds with his 
usually good-humoured disposition.

Indeed, the words that next came out of Melpomaen's mouth 
were better suited to an army barracks than the genteel 
hallways of the Last Homely House. "To Mordor with this 
damned inventory! I hope the fires of Mount Doom consume 
every last bit of this blasted paper, until there is 
nothing left but ash, and--" 
 
"Melpomaen?"  
 
Melpomaen looked up. "Glorfindel! I'm sorry. I don't know 
what came over me." 
 
"Likely the fact that you are trying to do the work of 
three people, pen-neth.  Who assigned this unreasonable 
task to you, anyway? It wasn't my Erestor, was it?" 
 
"No, I took it on myself." Melpomaen straightened out his 
robes and began the tedious task of gathering the pages 
back together. "Everyone else is too preoccupied with 
tomorrow night's festivities. I am the only one left who 
does not seem to mind working late." 
 
"Can this not wait?" 
 
"Probably.  But the work will still be here a week hence, 
and I cannot face the prospect of sitting alone in my 
chambers just now."  He efficiently shuffled the pages he 
had gathered into their original order. 
 
"Of course." Glorfindel knelt down on the floor beside 
Melpomaen and turned his attention to the disorderly mass 
of documents. "Let me help." 
 
On closer inspection, the pages were not as white or 
uniform as they had appeared from a distance. They were, in 
fact, quite colourful: covered in brilliant red, purple and 
green illuminations, with delicate golden detailing gracing 
their edges. The sheet in Glorfindel's hand contained a 
very realistic representation of a plant, with every stem, 
leaf and flower clearly labelled.  
 
"Healing plants?" Glorfindel asked. 
 
"Yes, drawings from the medical archives. We are moving 
them to the main library for the moment." Melpomaen pointed 
to the pile of papers he had been patiently putting back 
together. "These, on the other hand, are nature scenes 
drawn by a handful of Second Age artists. Most were used as 
sketches for paintings, and are little more than rough 
outlines of the final work. We keep them for archival 
purposes." He stilled Glorfindel's hand, which had been 
reaching out for a sketch. "You must be careful not to get 
the two mixed up; it would hardly help the healers 
researching their potions to find a drawing of a waterfall 
instead." 
 
"Don't worry, I can be meticulous when the need arises," 
Glorfindel said, trying to ignore the sceptical look on 
Melpomaen's face. For some moments, he applied himself to 
his task, carefully sorting the bright plants from the 
monochromatic sketches. Then a familiar riverside scene 
caught his eye. "I know this one!" He held the page up for 
Melpomaen's inspection. 
 
"Yes, the full-scale painting hangs in the dining hall.  
You probably see it every day. This is an early, rough 
study for the piece. See how the trees are not shaded in, 
the perspective is a bit off, and the lines seem hesitant 
here on the side."

"Oh, I remember it now.  But the final work is much more 
beautiful and impressive.  The sketch can hardly compare to 
the painting's brilliance."

"You're right, of course.  Still..." Melpomaen's words 
trailed off into silence.  
 
"Melpomaen? Is something wrong?" 
 
"I was just thinking." Melpomaen let the pages slip from 
his hands. They fanned out around his knees like a vibrant 
bunch of flowers. He looked up at Glorfindel, dark eyes 
wide and full of a strange kind of understanding. "I've 
always preferred the sketch to the painting, you know. 
Flaws and all, I find it somehow truer, more honest. It is 
imperfect, and yet it is lovely."  
 
"You talk in riddles, my friend.  I am not Erestor, who can 
decipher the meaning behind cleverly coded words."

"I'm sorry." Melpomaen shook his head as if waking from a 
dream.  "I did not mean to confound you, and I would speak 
plainly if the matter were simple.  But I barely know what 
I am thinking these days, and shaping the words to suit my 
muddled mind is a difficult task."

"A perilous affliction for an advisor, I'd say."

Though Melpomaen did not go so far as to laugh out loud, he 
made an amused sound, and smiled.  Glorfindel was relieved 
to see him find some pleasure in the teasing.  Such a sober 
young Elf he had seemed of late: hiding behind his work and 
yet apparently finding little comfort in it.

"Shall I help you gather these up and carry them to the 
library, pen-neth?" 

"Yes, thank you.  The load will be much lighter when 
carried by two." Melpomaen reached for the pile of papers 
on the ground before him, then stopped mid-motion.  He 
looked at Glorfindel, his face again filled with that 
strange half-awareness.  He held his hand out for the 
riverside sketch.  "May I?"

"Of course."
 
He took the page from Glorfindel's hand, and stared at it, 
unblinking. "I do like it," he said.  "Though some may call 
me foolish for not choosing more suitable works as the 
objects of my admiration.  Still, what does it matter what 
others say?  This one speaks to my heart."

"Melpomaen?" Glorfindel regarded the younger Elf with 
curiosity, aware that the subject of their conversation had 
transcended the sketch Melpomaen carefully held between his 
fingers.

"Sorry.  Speaking in riddles again."  Melpomaen gave a calm 
smile, his agitation gone. "Glorfindel?"

"Hm?"

"I would have a favour to ask of you tomorrow, before the 
festivities begin.  There is something I mean to do, and I 
will need your assistance."



****

-- The following night --

"The crimson and gold tunic," Glorfindel decreed, 
appraising Melpomaen.  "Yes, definitely the crimson.  Don't 
you find, Erestor?"

"I much prefer it to the green," Erestor agreed.  "The 
crimson is dark enough to be understated, and yet nicely 
complements your complexion.  And the gold accents set off 
the ribbons in your hair."

Melpomaen turned around once more, studying his reflection 
in the large mirror.  He had to admit that Glorfindel had 
proven more than capable of the task he had undertaken.  
When Melpomaen had asked the older, and decidedly more 
experienced, Elf to help him look appealing for midsummer 
night's eve, he had not expected such astounding results.  
Surely the radiant creature in the looking glass couldn't 
be him?  Where were the modest advisor's robes?  Where was 
the severe hairstyle?

"You look beautiful, pen-neth," Glorfindel said.  "You will 
have many eyes on you tonight, not least those of the 
person whose attention you seek."

"Do you think so?" 

"He would have to be blind not to notice your charms.  You 
are sure to make an impression."

"Good."  Melpomaen looked himself over in the mirror once 
more.
"And you're certain that these garments aren't too... 
tight?" he asked, feeling timid about the way the dark 
leggings hugged his thighs and accentuated the curve of his 
behind.

"Can you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Can you move?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"Then they're perfect."  Glorfindel smiled.  "You are not 
going to a state reception tonight, after all; there is no 
need for you to look authoritative.  As it is, you look 
positively sinful.  I might be tempted to try for you 
myself if I weren't certain Erestor would flay me if I ever 
did."

"Rake." Erestor suppressed a smile. "What makes you so 
confident that Melpomaen would welcome your advances?  His 
tastes run more to the dignified and serious, not to 
philanderers like you.  Not every Elf you gift with your 
attention will readily fall into your arms, you know."

"You did."

"Ha! I think 'readily' would hardly be the appropriate 
word."

Glorfindel quieted for an instant, his smile giving way to 
a more serious expression.  For a few heartbeats, the depth 
of his feelings for Erestor was plainly visible on his 
face.  Melpomaen looked away, so private did the moment 
seem.    

By the time he looked back, Glorfindel was grinning again. 
"True.  You certainly made me work to gain your trust." He 
moved across the room toward Erestor and embraced him.  
"Yet I am rewarded for my pains a hundredfold every time 
you look at me."

"Glorfindel... " Erestor lowered his eyes to the ground. 
"That's enough.  Melpomaen did not come here for a 
demonstration."

"It's all right!" Melpomaen lifted both hands in a 
placating gesture.  "I do not mind.  Tonight is a 
celebration of love, after all.  Besides, I had better take 
my leave; you two need time to get ready, too, and I can 
see that the bonfires are already being lit in the 
clearing.  Thank you for everything."  He moved toward the 
door.

"Wait just a moment!" Glorfindel intercepted him and 
steered him back toward the mirror.  "We aren't finished 
yet."

Strong hands pushed down on Melpomaen's shoulders.  
Compliant, he sat down on the chair in front of the looking 
glass, and gazed ahead.  Behind him he could see Glorfindel 
moving about, reaching over for a small glass jar Erestor 
was handing to him.

"I like what Erestor has done with your hair, Melpomaen.  
The braids hold it back from your face and show off your 
ears to good advantage.  I wonder, did anyone ever tell you 
that your ears are exceptionally well formed?  Elrond must 
have noticed, he has a keen eye for beauty."

Melpomaen caught Glorfindel's suggestive look in the 
mirror, and saw his own face redden.  He could well 
understand Erestor's reluctance to show affection in 
public.  Truly, some things belonged behind closed doors.

"Never mind," Glorfindel grinned again.  "The look on your 
face tells me everything I might want to know."  He 
gathered Melpomaen's hair in one hand and set the jar on 
the nearby table.

Melpomaen looked into the mirror with interest.  "What are 
you doing?"

"Simply making the most of one of your assets. It's a 
little trick I learned long ago, and one that has served me 
well in matters of seduction.  Now, I am about to do 
something that may feel a little too... intimate for 
comfort, but don't be alarmed.  My intentions are pure, and 
this will be over in but a moment."

"What do you mean?" Melpomaen barely had time to speak 
before he felt Glorfindel's fingers deliberately stroke the 
sensitive point of his ear.  He gasped and instinctively 
pulled away, feeling his body tighten at the erotic caress.

"Sorry about that, pen-neth. I know it feels a bit odd, 
coming from me.  But we're almost done.  I just need to do 
the other ear."

Melpomaen was better prepared for the touch of Glorfindel's 
fingers the second time around, and paid more attention to 
the reason for his friend's bizarre actions.  It seemed 
that some sort of shiny powder was being applied to his ear 
points.

Glorfindel hastened to explain.  "It is nothing but a 
mixture of ground pearls and fragrant oil -- precious and 
quite expensive, and therefore not in wide use.  When 
applied directly to the skin, it gives it a shimmering 
effect." He paused. "It also gives those who gaze upon you 
ideas as to what they might want to do to those beautiful 
ears of yours." 

Melpomaen had never before dwelled on the depth of 
Glorfindel's knowledge in these matters.  Evidently it was 
quite extensive.  The thought flustered him so much that he 
rose and turned to leave.  

"Melpomaen." Glorfindel stepped in between him and the 
door, and put a hand on his elbow.  The look on his face 
was sincere.  "There is one thing I want to say before you 
go.  All these preparations -- the clothes, the scented 
oils -- they are nice, and Erestor and I are glad to help.  
But they are not necessary, pen-neth, you should know that.  
You do not need these ruses to impress him.  He loves you 
already.  Very much."

Glorfindel squeezed his elbow.  Across the room, Melpomaen 
could see Erestor silently nodding in agreement.  Despite 
everything that had gone so wrong over the past few months, 
Melpomaen felt fortunate.  He stepped closer and kissed 
Glorfindel's cheek.  "Thank you," he said.


****


The door opened and Melpomaen stepped into the hallway, 
glancing over his shoulder to smile at the occupants of the 
room. Celebrían quickly retreated into the shadows.  It 
would not do to be seen skulking about the Last Homely 
House, watching her husband's lover.  She had no idea what 
she would say should he notice her, for how could she 
possibly give reasons for actions she could not even 
explain to herself? 
 
Humming quietly, Melpomaen began the long walk toward the 
main staircase. Celebrían followed at a distance, taking 
every opportunity to hide behind thick stone pillars. 
 
He looked well tonight, she had to admit.  It was evident 
he had taken special care with his appearance, abandoning 
his modest advisor's robes in favour of garments bolder in 
cut and richer in colour.  They suited him, though a 
certain residual awkwardness in his movements betrayed the 
fact that he was not accustomed to clothing quite so 
revealing.

Celebrían watched as Melpomaen's hands travelled to the hem 
of his tunic and pulled, trying to cover what he thought 
too exposed.  She smiled.  For all his seductive airs, he 
was just an innocent: a youth gripped by the kind of fierce 
love that is usually the sole prerogative of the young, and 
willing to do almost anything to hold on to what was dear 
to him.    

The curved staircase was just ahead, and when Melpomaen 
reached it Celebrían halted.  She would go no further.  Her 
pursuit was pointless, really, for what could she hope to 
accomplish by merely observing?  Sudden epiphanies were 
unlikely; she was old enough to know that this dilemma 
would not be solved by a flash of insight.  And yet 
something inexplicable had compelled her to shadow his 
footsteps -- something about the way the ribbons twisted in 
his hair, and the way he looked:  eager, nervous, and so 
much in love it nearly hurt to watch.

Melpomaen had nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when 
one of his ribbons came loose, fluttering to the ground in 
a golden serpentine.  He stopped and bent down to retrieve 
the satiny strip of cloth.  From her spot on the top 
landing, Celebrían watched as he walked toward one of the 
large stained glass windows and, using the reflective 
surface as a mirror, began to plait the thin golden band 
into his hair.  Arms raised, his hands worked deftly, gold 
flashing amid black, his head tilted to the left.

Memories are strange, unpredictable things.  Once their 
immediacy has faded with the years, they remain muted: mere 
echoes of the vibrant events they represent -- the way 
parchments stored on archive shelves tell vivid tales of 
events long past, but only to those who will listen.  And 
yet all it takes is a few words, a certain scent or a brief 
image, and their power grows and swells, crashing against 
the well-ordered present like a powerful wave.  And it is 
as if no time has passed at all.

So it was now.  Celebrían stared at Melpomaen, and yet it 
was not him she saw, but a young Elf-woman: the ribbons in 
her plaits not gold, but blue; the hair not black, but the 
colour of honey; the eyes not dark, but a dappled green, 
like patches of forest reflected in still water.  What she 
had long thought a dried-out bouquet suddenly exploded in a 
dazzling array of scent and colour, as memories held at bay 
for years flooded her senses.


****

Dol Amroth  TA 95


"Let me help you.  You'll only tangle it further."  
Celebrían threads her fingers through the honey-coloured 
mane, shakes out stray grains of sand, and begins to weave 
in the blue ribbon.  The hair feels heavy in her palm, and 
warm as a stone that has sat all day in the sun.

Her lover leans back into her hands, and tilts her head.  
The veil of honey falls to the side, revealing a neck as 
slim and graceful as a young pine.  Celebrían would gladly 
kiss her way down that neck, across the curve of the 
narrow, strong shoulders, and over the sharp collarbones, 
but the sun is already setting over the water, and she 
cannot linger.  She concentrates, efficiently braiding.  
Before long, waves of honey fall down her lover's back in 
regular plaits, blue ribbon securely fastened.

Celebrían's beloved turns and smiles.  "Can you not stay?" 
she asks.

"I am expected back home." 

Celebrían does not elaborate.  They have been over this too 
many times to count; she does not need to explain that her 
parents disapprove of this liaison and wish for her to end 
it.  Her lover already knows.  

"Can you not disobey them this once?"  The question brims 
with impatience.  "The night will be lovely; the sea is 
calm.  I would watch the stars with you."

"I cannot," Celebrían answers, wishing that she could.  She 
does not take easily to having her freedom curtailed -- she 
is strong-willed enough not to bend under her mother's 
influence -- but her parents' disapproval seems to have 
grown more serious in recent months, and she senses that 
openly going against their will would do more ill than 
good.  

"Have they said something else to you?" 

"Nothing new."

"Nothing?"

"Just that they want me to marry." 

She feels a twinge of guilt, for she has not been entirely 
forthright.  While it is true that her parents have been 
trying to persuade her to wed for some time, it is also 
true that their arguments have recently changed.  They no 
longer speak of her happiness and security, but talk rather 
of her duty to her people and the need for the line of 
noble houses to continue.  Celebrían has seen too many of 
her people die and watched too many white ships sail West 
from Dol Amroth's harbour not to feel a sense of 
responsibility to Middle-earth and the Elves left behind.  
Though she is loath to admit it, her defences against the 
claim of such obligations are beginning to crumble.

"And have they found you a suitable mate yet?" The 
sarcastic tone masks an undercurrent of pain.

"They talk of Elrond Half-elven."

For a while, the only sound that can be heard is the 
rushing of waves against the sand.  Finally, the question 
falls, quietly: "What is he like?"

"Fair, wise and kind." 

"As fair and noble as our people say?"

"Yes." 

All this is true, of course; Elrond is all these things and 
more.  And yet, although he is beautiful, his hair is not 
the colour of honey and his eyes are not the green of sun-
dappled leaves.  Celebrían hugs her knees to her chest, her 
sense of loss already acute, though the thing she fears 
losing has not yet been taken away.

Suddenly there is a hand on her shoulder and warm breath 
against her ear.  "He may be all those things, but he will 
never feel about you the way I do.  He will never need you 
as badly, or love you as sweetly.  You know that."  
Insistent hands push her back against the ground, a warm 
mouth seeking her own.  She feels her knees nudged apart as 
her body is pressed into the still-warm sand.  

"You'll wreck your ribbons again," she breathes in between 
kisses, but does not protest as her lover's fingers travel 
to the front of her dress and begin to tug at the laces.  

For some instants, the world narrows to honey-coloured hair 
and flushed skin.  Then Celebrían's lover stills for a 
moment, and asks: "What right do they have to take this 
away from us?"  Her voice is angry, but not defiant, as if 
she knows this to be a fight than cannot be won.

Some questions have no answers, and so Celebrían says 
nothing.  Instead, she holds her lover close, offering 
reassurance and oblivion, at least for a little while.  The 
rhythmic whisper of the waves is comforting; if she tries 
really hard, she can almost imagine that all is well.  Dusk 
slowly falls over the beach.  Soon she can see nothing but 
stars.  




Notes:

The Erogenous Elven Ear™ is, of course, a fanon invention -
- but one of which I wholly approve.  ;)

The gold ribbons Melpomaen wears in his hair indicate that 
he is not looking for a casual fling at the midsummer 
night's eve festivities.  For more info about this custom 
(invented entirely by yours truly), see "Sweetness and 
Gall."

Pen-neth – young one


TBC

 
Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 12/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  That would be telling...
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



"Have you tried the wine, my Lord? The vintage is 
excellent." 
 
"I haven't yet, no--" A goblet full of dark liquid was 
pressed into Elrond's hand.  He sipped.  The flavour was 
earthy, with a hint of sweet, ripe plums; it tasted of sun 
filled vineyards, and was indeed delicious. 
 
"In truth, I believe suffering the presence of the 
Greenwood guests is worth it for this pleasure alone," the 
wine bearer declared with a grin, swaying slightly. 
 
Elrond almost reached out a hand to steady him, but held 
back.  The librarian was proud, and liked to think he could 
handle himself in any situation.  That, coupled with his 
aggravating habit of peppering his sentences with the 
phrase "in truth," made his company trying at times.  
Especially when he had overindulged in potent beverages -- 
as he had tonight. 
 
Sighing, Elrond manoeuvred himself to the librarian's side.  
Judging by the speed with which the Elf's cup was emptying, 
his balance would soon become seriously impaired and, while 
the moss-covered ground in the clearing was soft to sit on, 
it would do little to break the fall of a full-grown Elven 
male.  Elrond freed his fingers from the wide sleeves of 
his robe, just in case catching his companion became 
necessary. 
 
"It may be a good idea to keep those sentiments to 
yourself, my friend, especially out here.  Our Greenwood 
guests may not appreciate hearing them -- and may decide to 
be less generous with their gifts in future years."  Elrond 
kept his voice low, in the hopes the librarian would do 
likewise.  His hopes were in vain. 
 
"Your words are wise, my Lord. As always, in truth. But I 
like to speak my mind!"  The nasal voice boomed among the 
trees. "One so seldom gets a chance to speak in the 
archives."  The tone turned sad.  "It is so quiet there.  
No one listens." 
 
Elrond made a conscious effort not to pull away from the 
alcohol-infused breath.  The evening was quickly spiralling 
downhill; now his companion was not only drunk and loud, 
but also maudlin.  It was time to steer the conversation 
onto other, more pleasant, paths. 
 
"I see you've braided silver ribbons into your hair," he 
said.  "Maybe one of our guests will catch your eye?  They 
not only have fine taste in wine but are quite comely as 
well.  Don't you find?" 
 
The ruse was evidently successful, for the librarian's face 
brightened instantly and his eyes began to roam over the 
Elves gathered in the clearing.  "Oh, yes, they are indeed.  
Such lovely, fair hair, in truth.  Such willowy grace."  
His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a growl.  "And 
I'm willing to wager that some of them have never known the 
skilled touch of an Imladris scholar.  Innocent flowers, 
just waiting to be plucked..."  He swayed again. 
 
Alarmed, Elrond steadied him.  Valar, the new course their 
discussion had taken was hardly better!  "I would advise 
you to proceed slowly," he said.  "You do not want to 
frighten them away, after all.  Seduce them gradually, show 
them your subtle skill, impress with your sophistication--" 
 
"Subtle.  Yes."  The librarian's brow wrinkled in thought.  
"Sophistication.  Of course.  That's just what I was going 
to do, in truth." 
 
"Good."  Elrond smiled.  "Now, why don't we go and sit 
under the big oak over there?  That way you can observe our 
Greenwood guests at leisure, and plan your approach." 
 
"Very well."  The librarian turned in the direction of the 
oak, casting one more glance at the Elves gathered around 
the bonfires.  Suddenly he started, eyes widening in 
disbelief.  "It cannot be!" 
 
"What?" 
 
"That!  Why that's... But he looks so... I have never seen 
him so... Elbereth, but that really is him!" 
 
"Who?"  
 
"Melpomaen!" 
 
At the sound of his beloved's name, Elrond felt heat 
suffuse his body as if he had gotten too close to the 
bonfires.  He followed the librarian's gaze, and nearly 
dropped his wine.  For the figure in the clearing did not 
resemble the prim, bookish scribe most residents of the 
Last Homely House were accustomed to seeing.  The Melpomaen 
slowly winding his way through the crowd was an erotic 
vision. 
 
The deep red of his tunic cast a warm glow over his face, 
the gold detailing on the sleeves and hem sparkling in the 
light of the flames.  His dark leggings clung to his calves 
and thighs, emphasizing every curve, every shift of muscle.  
He walked slowly, with a slight sway to his hips, as if 
challenging those around him to look.  His hair was pulled 
back from his face in an unfamiliar style, making his 
cheekbones look sharper, his eyes darker, and his ear-
points...  Elrond suddenly had the urge to curl his tongue 
around those delicate points.  Melpomaen's shapely ears 
looked like they had been painted with the moon's own 
silvery rays, and glimmered in the dim light of the 
clearing.  
 
It took a few moments for Elrond to realize he was openly 
staring.  He would have felt ashamed had he not seen that 
half the Elves around him were doing likewise.  As 
Melpomaen walked, the crowd parted before him and admiring 
eyes followed his every step. 
 
"Why, that young rascal!"  the librarian continued.  "I 
never knew he hid such a fine physique under those loose 
robes of his.  Tell me," he added, his voice gaining a 
sense of urgency, "I cannot see from here, but... what 
colour are the ribbons in his hair?" 
 
Elrond felt a brief moment of panic at the thought that 
Melpomaen had finally gotten tired of the uncertainty of 
their relationship and was taking advantage of the 
festivities to gain some much needed relief.  But then his 
eyes caught a golden gleam twisting among Melpomaen's 
braids. 
 
"Gold."  He exhaled. 
 
"He would not dress this way if he did not have pleasure in 
mind for the night," the librarian said.  "He must have a 
serious lover then.  I did not know he was spoken for."  He 
turned to Elrond, the drunken haze in his eyes fighting for 
dominance with logical thought.  "You wouldn't know who 
holds that young beauty's heart, my Lord, would you?" 
 
Elrond's heart was pounding.  The sight of Melpomaen so 
arrayed -- and the thought that the young Elf had put on 
such a display for his benefit alone -- made him feel as if 
he were split into strange, disjointed duality: his body 
feverish with the need to caress and his heart chilled at 
the thought that he could offer so little, and Melpomaen 
deserved so much. 
 
With difficulty, he averted his eyes from the tempting 
vision in the clearing.  "Yes, I do know.  And I think the 
young one merits someone a great deal better."  He pressed 
his still-full wine goblet into the librarian's hand and 
turned toward the forest at his back. 
 
"My Lord?"  
 
Elrond heard the surprise in his companion's voice, but 
kept on walking, needing to feel the trees' protective 
darkness around him. The oaks' tangled branches beckoned 
him nearer, promising solitude.  He hastened his step. 
 
He was nearly there when the touch of a cool hand on his 
shoulder halted his escape.  He turned, only half surprised 
to see his wife's blue eyes gazing into his own. 
 
"Taking a stroll?" Celebrían's face was unreadable. 
 
"Yes." 
 
Elrond saw her glance back toward the bonfires, eyes 
lingering on Melpomaen for a second too long.  Then she 
turned to him.  "Walk with me," she said, and took his 
hand.  He had little choice; he followed.  The silent 
shadow of the forest closed around them. 

 
 
****

 
Making his way through the clearing, Melpomaen felt more 
exposed than he had in his entire life.  Not even when 
lying naked beside Elrond had he felt so unnervingly on 
display.  His clothes clung to him with an uncomfortably 
sensual insistence, and dozens of eyes followed his every 
move.  Normally he would have turned and fled long ago, but 
too much was at stake. 
 
"Hello, beautiful!" a voice called to him.
 
"Are those gold ribbons for me?" someone else said, this 
time from the opposite direction, and Melpomaen came 
perilously close to abandoning the entire scheme.  Then he 
glimpsed Elrond's figure among the crowd, and kept on 
walking.
 
Elrond was looking Melpomaen's way.  There was a cup of 
wine in his hand, but he wasn't drinking it.  Rather, he 
held it as if he had forgotten it was there.  Suddenly the 
Elves around Melpomaen no longer mattered; he had an 
audience of one.  He slowed his walk and exaggerated the 
sway of his hips.  
 
Even from far away Melpomaen could see that Elrond's eyes -
- those beloved grey eyes -- were riveted to him, watching 
his progress through the crowd.  With that gaze holding him 
like a tender embrace, he no longer felt timid or ashamed.  
It was just the two of them now, and so he moved teasingly, 
every tilt of the head an invitation, every step a silent 
declaration of love.  
 
But then Elrond turned away.  In a moment, Celebrían was 
beside him, and the two were disappearing into the 
surrounding woods, heads inclined in private conversation.  
Melpomaen felt his foot catch on something, and nearly went 
tumbling to the ground.
 
"Careful, meldir, you don't want to get those clothes 
dirty.  They look far too good to be stained with grass." 
Haldir had appeared out of nowhere and steadied Melpomaen 
by the elbow.  "Unless, of course, the staining is done in 
pleasant company, in some private, out-of-the-way glade."  
 
"Oh, it's you, Haldir." Melpomaen stepped out of Haldir's 
reach, once again painfully conscious of his appearance.  
"No, I think I'd rather keep my garments clean."
 
"A shame, that.  Your Lord and his wife seem to have the 
right idea.  Or didn't you see them slip away into the 
forest like a couple of newlyweds?"
 
"I saw."  Melpomaen thought grief might choke him, so 
violently did it seize him by the throat.  To think that 
Elrond and Celebrían were actually going to...  He felt a 
churning in the pit of his stomach, and was almost glad 
when Haldir's strong hand grasped his elbow once more.

"Whatever is the matter?  Those gold ribbons look at odds 
with the lovelorn look on your face.  Is the evening not 
going as planned?  Do not tell me all that finery you are 
wearing is to go to waste."

Melpomaen did not trust himself to speak.  He merely looked 
at Haldir and tried to compose his face into an expression 
that would give less away.  The guardian's hand slid up his 
arm.
 
"Come, my friend, you look badly in need of a drink.  
Luckily I know just where to get the best vintage," Haldir 
was saying.  He steered Melpomaen toward the edge of the 
clearing, close to the large barrels of wine.
 
"I'm not certain I want to--"
 
"Oh, yes, you do.  Nothing like a glass or two to take the 
sting out of love's little disappointments.  Though I must 
say that whoever spurned you tonight is an utter fool."
 
The bonfires were as bright as they had been some minutes 
ago, and the guests laughed as loudly and sang with just as 
much merriment as when Elrond had stood with glass in hand 
and loved Melpomaen with his eyes.  But all the gaiety in 
the air now seemed hollow, the night's enchantment gone.  

Melpomaen sat down on a bench beside Haldir and took the 
glass that was handed to him.  The wine was sweet and 
strong; it made his head spin and numbed his body with a 
pleasant indifference.  He drank.  When offered more, he 
did not refuse.
 
 
****
 

Elrond and Celebrían walked hand in hand, strangely united, 
their footfalls cushioned by the forest floor. The wood, 
absorbed in its whispers, pay them no heed and let them 
pass unseen. They had come far, the laughter of revellers 
and the sighs of lovers now only distant echoes among the 
trees. They would not be disturbed here and could talk 
freely. And yet neither one had spoken a word. 
 
Celebrían's hand felt cool in Elrond's palm:  foreign yet 
familiar, at once a comfort and a threat. Wife, friend, 
enemy -- she was all that, and powerful in her many holds 
on him. Though often gentle, she could be uncompromising in 
her honesty. What would her judgment be now? Elrond longed 
to speak and break the silence between them, and yet dared 
not begin. The quiet night stretched around him like a 
void, heralding pain. 
 
"It is beautiful here.  I had almost forgotten."  
Celebrían's fingers reached out to touch a leafy branch.  
"I shall miss these woods when I am gone, though the ones 
in Lórien are certainly as fair." 
 
Elrond's heart stopped.  Or maybe it was just his feet.  
"You're leaving?" 
 
"Yes, in a few days. After the festivities have come to a 
close and all my Galadhrim have recovered, that is. I'd 
like to make the journey before the nights turn colder." 
She smiled and, quirking an eyebrow, added, "Do not tell me 
my absence will be lamented." 
 
Though said in jest, her words held enough barbs to wound, 
all the more so because they were true.  Elrond felt a tug 
of regret for all the things that lay broken between them.  
"Celebrían," he said.  "You know I am sorry.  I never 
meant--" 
 
"I know," she said quietly, fingers tracing the gold band 
he still wore.  "You did your best.  You always do."  She 
squeezed his hand and then let go.  "Anyway, it no longer 
matters.  My party will be gone within a week, and I with 
it.  If you have letters you wish to write, I will gladly 
deliver them.  I am certain many would be glad of news from 
you."
 
"I will write tomorrow, and give orders to have your 
company equipped with ample provisions for the journey.  
Would you like an escort to accompany you at least part of 
the way?  Many of my guards would welcome the distraction 
from the monotony of patrol."
 
"There is no need.  My Galadhrim are numerous and more than 
competent, and might even take offence at being offered 
assistance."  She smiled at him, as if sharing a private 
joke, then gently touched his shoulder.  "In a few days, I 
shall be on my own again.  As will you."
 
Elrond fell quiet.  Indeed, in a few days things would go 
back to their natural course.  The emotional distance 
between them would once again find its outward expression 
in physical separation.  It was what he had wished for, 
practically since her arrival.  And yet some part of him 
now felt inexplicably sad.  
 
"Thank you for celebrating midsummer with us," he said.  
"The people are always glad to see you.  Truly, you were 
the heart of the festivities this year, as in the past."
 
"You give me too much credit.  You have carried out your 
duties with grace and dedication for centuries now, and 
your people love you for it.  One small appearance by your 
wife could not have made that much of a difference."
 
"Still, it is always better not to toil alone."
 
Elrond had wanted the words to sound neutral, but the 
alienation he had felt over the past months could not help 
but colour their meaning.  He sensed something in the 
quality of the night's silence change then, as if a deeper 
stillness had bound him and Celebrían closer together.  

"That is true," she said.  "But you have friends here who 
care for you far too much to let you toil in loneliness and 
sorrow."  She held his eyes for an instant, then looked 
away, gazing over the tops of the trees.  There was a 
moment of silence.  Then:  "The young advisor, Melpomaen.  
He is a great help to you, is he not?"
 
Elrond's heart lurched.  "Yes." 
 
Celebrían's words were measured and careful, as if she had 
thought them over many times in her mind and wanted to 
ensure their accuracy.  "Then I am glad.  I have spoken to 
him only briefly, but I can see that he is bright and 
kind."  Slowly, she turned around and looked into Elrond's 
face, her expression solemn, almost shy.  "It gives me 
comfort to know that you are in good company -- if you and 
I can never be more than friends."
 
Elrond, whose speeches usually flowed with the ease of 
mountain streams and with just as much beauty, for once 
found himself utterly at a loss for words.  
 
Celebrían squeezed his hand.  "May your life be a happy 
one, husband.  May the Valar guide and keep you, and may 
the light of a hundred thousand stars shine upon you."  She 
kissed him softly, and finished in a whisper, "Upon you 
both."


****


Melpomaen's cheeks had more colour than usual and his eyes 
were brighter, but he still wasn't smiling, or talking 
much, for that matter.  Indeed, his lips, set in a 
horizontal line, were clamped as stubbornly together as 
reluctant virgins' knees.  Haldir poured another cup of 
wine and renewed his efforts.

"You know, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of your 
company for such a long stretch of time.  You always seem 
to hurry past me in those flowing robes of yours.  Flowing, 
*ample* robes of yours."  He took a sip of wine, conscious 
of the alluring red tinge it gave to his lips.  "I must 
admit that I always wished I might see more of you, so to 
speak.  And it seems my wish has been granted."  Smiling 
suggestively, he ran his eyes along Melpomaen's tightly 
clad form.  "Oh, I do love it when reality far surpasses 
the reaches of imagination."  

Melpomaen's expression did not change.  Haldir shifted 
closer on the bench; he would rouse the quiet scribe's 
interest if it took all night and an entire barrel of wine.  
"Clever as you are, I bet you know exactly where every book 
is stored without having to consult those tedious indexes.  
Will you not gratify a poor Galadhel's thirst for knowledge 
by taking him on a tour of the archives tonight?  You 
know..."  He slid his leg flush with Melpomaen's thigh.  
Even through the fabric, the skin felt hot and yielding.  
"I have it on good authority that the libraries here have 
an extensive collection of books of a... sensual nature.  
Some with illustrations."

Melpomaen's eyes flitted up briefly.  His cheeks had turned 
a darker shade of pink, which only accentuated the silver 
gleam on the points of his ears.  Haldir felt his lust rise 
and swell until he could barely sit still.  The young one 
had better start responding to his advances soon; he could 
not wait much longer.  

"You might be interested to hear," he continued, handing 
another cup of wine in Melpomaen's direction, "that the 
artist who illuminated one of those erotic volumes did so 
while in the Golden Wood."  He dropped his voice and leaned 
closer.  "I was one of his models.  He said that my form 
was impressive and my ability to pose for extended 
periods... enviable.  If you like, we might find the book 
together, and I could show you--"

"That won't be necessary, Haldir."  Melpomaen shifted a 
full foot away on the bench.  "I have seen the books you 
speak of, and am familiar with their contents."

"Oh?"  This certainly was an interesting development.  
Haldir closed the gap between them once more, this time 
lifting a hand to play with the hem of Melpomaen's tunic.  
"Which pictures did you enjoy the most?  And did they 
inspire you to--"

"Haldir, really, I do not see why my reading habits should 
suddenly interest you so much."

If Melpomaen slid away any farther down the bench, he would 
soon wind up on the ground.  As tempting a visual as that 
presented, Haldir forced himself to stay still and try a 
different approach.  "It is only because I am concerned 
about your well-being."

"My well-being?"  Melpomaen looked thrown off balance.  

"Yes.  For one so young and tantalizingly beautiful -- 
don't disagree with me here; you are a charming creature," 
he added in response to a sceptical glance from Melpomaen.  
"For one so obviously at the height of his sensual powers, 
you seem to be leading an exceedingly lonely existence.  It 
cannot but do you harm."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Haldir--"

"No, really!  You work with healers, so you are no doubt 
aware that the body's needs must be fulfilled regularly, 
and the consequences of suppressing such natural impulses 
for an extended period are dire."  He leaned in closer.  
"You should do something to remedy that, my friend.  And 
what better night to give the body what it wants than 
tonight, hm?"  

Melpomaen's face had flushed a bit more, but he did not 
move away -- something Haldir took as an encouraging sign.  
Maybe it was time to steer the conversation onto a more 
direct course.  The night, after all, was not infinite.

"Look around you, meldir," he said.  "Look at all the 
couples embracing, claiming kisses, slipping away into the 
woods.  Should we not take their example?"

As if to illustrate his point, Glorfindel and Erestor 
walked by just at that moment, mere yards away from the 
bench on which Haldir and Melpomaen sat.  So absorbed were 
they in each other that they did not notice Melpomaen's 
eyes following their progress.  Hand-in-hand they strode, 
heading in the direction of the trees.  

Haldir allowed himself a small smirk, his thoughts turning 
to the matter of Lord Glorfindel and all those missing 
riding crops.  Would Melpomaen...  But no, the young one 
would likely not be amenable to *that* sort of play.  
Although, if he had a bit more wine...

Haldir poured Melpomaen another cup.

"You're wrong, Haldir.  That is... you're not entirely 
right."  The look in Melpomaen's eyes was earnest, and, 
though he had taken the wine cup handed to him, he was not 
drinking from it.  "Carnal pleasures are wonderful and very 
important, of course, but they should not be shared with 
just anyone."  His mouth trembled.  "They are best saved 
for someone, well... special.  Casual acquaintances can do 
more harm than good."

"Oh, come now." Haldir quickly gauged the feelings apparent 
on Melpomaen's face and decided to tread carefully.  A 
touchy topic called for expert handling.  "You say that 
because you are young and your experience is limited.  I 
assure you that one-time encounters can be just as, if not 
more, gratifying than long-term relations.  Certainly more 
exciting."  He raised both eyebrows, his look openly 
suggestive.  "And what about those poor souls who, for 
whatever reason, have been... jilted?"

The stricken expression in Melpomaen's eyes held just the 
kind of vulnerability Haldir had been hoping for.  Gently 
he placed his hand on the young scribe's knee.  "Should 
those who have been abandoned through no fault of their own 
remain alone, in their cold beds, with no hope of 
companionship?  Certainly not."  His hand squeezed.  "It 
wouldn't be fair.  They, too, deserve..." Here he dropped 
his voice to a husky whisper.  "The touch of warm hands and 
a skilled mouth.  The weight of a muscled chest pressing 
them into the bed sheets.  The sweet, incomparable feeling 
of having another's body enter their own..."

Melpomaen's mouth opened slightly and his hand clenched 
around his wine glass.  Haldir felt joy at such clear 
evidence of a seduction properly under way.  The young one 
was falling into his trap!  Another few minutes, and *he* 
would be dragging Haldir off into the forest.

"My dear Melpomaen.  Acts which are so natural -- and so 
deliciously pleasurable -- are everyone's Valar-given 
right.  And tonight is the perfect time to take advantage!  
Why, just think..."

He was going to bring up the fact that chances of finding a 
pleasure partner were greatly diminished on nights other 
than midsummer night's eve, and that the year was long and 
lonely.  But, in an instant, Haldir found his time running 
out.  Elrond had re-emerged from the woods -- without 
Celebrían -- and was looking around, seeking someone: no 
doubt Melpomaen.  Haldir had to act.  Now.

Well, desperate times called for desperate measures.  He 
turned to Melpomaen and doubled over, as if in pain.  
"Oooh," he moaned, gripping the edge of the bench.

"Haldir?"

"I... I don't feel well all of a sudden."

"But you were fine just a moment ago!" Melpomaen had moved 
closer and placed a comforting hand on Haldir's back.

"My head is spinning, and I feel cold. I think I need to 
lie down."  Haldir straightened up slowly, noting with 
satisfaction that Melpomaen did not take his hand away.  
"Will you help me to my room?  I fear I might fall."

The bench they sat on was well away from the crowds and 
close to the path that led back to the Last Homely House.  
Melpomaen, solicitously helping Haldir stand, did not have 
cause to turn around and face the bonfires.  He did not see 
Elrond anxiously scanning the clearing; he was far too 
focused on Haldir's supposed pain.  

As they walked toward the path, Haldir leaned heavily on 
Melpomaen, taking full advantage of their bodies' 
proximity.  He was bent forward, feigning weakness, and it 
wasn't until they had nearly disappeared into the forest 
that he looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the 
clearing.  He caught Elrond's eye then.  Tightening his 
hold on Melpomaen's waist, he gave a boastful, leering 
grin.



****


Notes:

meldir - friend (male)

Again, for the significance of the silver/gold ribbon 
signalling system (the simplified Imladris version of the 
handkerchief in back pocket code) see "Sweetness and Gall."

The annoying librarian first made his appearance in Chapter 
Eight of "Sweetness and Gall."  He was sober then.

The wine drunk in such copious quantities in this chapter 
is the Dorwinion vintage (the wine they drink in "The 
Hobbit").  The Greenwood Elves imported it and, for the 
purposes of this story, brought it with them as a gift to 
Elrond.  If anyone knows of a good red wine that sounds 
similar in flavour to this one, I'll gladly take 
recommendations.  Mmm, red wine.



TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 13/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  Haldir puts his nefarious plan into action.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



Melpomaen had not previously realized just how high the 
Last Homely House's main staircase was, probably because he 
had never before ascended its interminable steps with a 
half-conscious Galadhel draped across his shoulders.  
Haldir may have been lean, but he was all muscle:  not a 
light burden to bear.  By the time they reached the door to 
Haldir's room Melpomaen's arms were cramped and his back 
sore.

It seemed the effort had been worth it, however, for Haldir 
appeared to visibly improve the instant they were inside.  
He sat down on the bed, belched, and said he wanted to 
splash water on his face.  Melpomaen helped him to the door 
of the bath, relieved that the drunken guardian no longer 
clung to him like a vine.  When the door closed, he 
wandered over to the window, determined not to leave until 
he had made sure Haldir was feeling better.

He spent some time pondering the evils of excessive drink -
- what but the wine had made a warrior like Haldir so 
unsteady on his feet? -- and a few further minutes watching 
a party of Greenwood Elves revelling among the trees below.  
When the inebriated group broke into its third consecutive 
Silvan drinking song and Haldir still had not emerged from 
the bath, Melpomaen walked up to the door and knocked 
softly.

"Haldir? Are you all right?" 
 
There was no answer, and so Melpomaen put his ear to the 
door.  He heard shuffling sounds; presumably Haldir was 
moving around inside.  Then he jumped at the sudden clang 
of metal against stone.
 
"Haldir?"  Melpomaen pressed down on the door latch, and 
found it locked.  "Haldir, please answer me."  
 
The metallic noise was replaced by the sound of water being 
poured.  Melpomaen was growing more concerned by the 
second.  Was Haldir trying to take a bath?  In his current 
state such an action was highly inadvisable; he could 
stumble, hit his head and drown!  Death by water not while 
fording an angry river in the service of the Lady of the 
Golden Wood but while drunkenly bathing...  It was highly 
embarrassing.  Melpomaen was determined not to let such an 
awful thing happen while the guardian was in his care. 
 
He pounded on the door. "Haldir, let me in!  I demand that 
you let me in this instant!" 
 
"Uh..." 
 
Courage filled Melpomaen's chest. He had always preferred 
sober counsel to rash action, but this was no time for 
thinking.  "Haldir! Open this door or I shall break it 
down!"  
 
Haldir said nothing.  Melpomaen took a deep breath and 
launched himself against the door, shoulder first.  Pain 
spread all down his side, but the heavy wood did not budge.  
He drew back and kicked with all his might, still with 
little success.  He was about to kick the hard surface a 
second time when he heard the lock being turned at last.  

The door opened.  Haldir emerged from the room.

Melpomaen took one look, and felt his relief turn to dread.  
He had expected to see Haldir leaning heavily on the 
doorframe, swaying from lack of balance, pale, nauseous and 
weak.  He had not expected... this.  
 
Haldir was nude.  Water droplets glistened on his chest and 
stomach, reflecting the moonlight and adorning his skin 
like jewels.  He stood straight and proud, head cocked to 
the side in a familiar challenge.  Though no candles were 
lit in the room and most of Haldir's face remained 
shadowed, Melpomaen did not need light to discern the ever-
present smirk that graced the guardian's features. 
 
But it was not Haldir's naked torso that made Melpomaen's 
stomach lurch in a helpless jumble of fear and desire.  The 
threat -- the trap -- lay lower still, and though Melpomaen 
tried valiantly to keep his eyes from straying, their 
downward course was inevitable.  Lured by the hint of 
something dark just beyond the edge of his vision, 
Melpomaen glanced down, and found that Haldir was not fully 
nude after all.  For the guardian's thigh-high boots -- the 
same boots that had taunted and tempted Melpomaen for 
months -- were still very much in place.  
 
Melpomaen made a half-hearted attempt to move back.  The 
boots advanced. 
 
"I am impressed, meldir."  All traces of intoxication were 
gone from Haldir's voice. "To think you wanted me so badly 
that you were ready to break down the door... Such ardour 
is rare.  It deserves to be rewarded."
 
"I was only concerned--"
 
"You were concerned I was not well.  I assure you, I have 
never been in finer condition."  He stepped closer, moving 
out of the shadows and into a beam of moonlight.  "Why not 
look and see for yourself?"
 
As if hypnotized, Melpomaen did as he was bid.  Haldir's 
broad chest and naked thighs were luminous, almost shining 
with an inner light.  Strangely, the boots he wore made him 
seem more exposed, turning his nudity from a pure, natural 
thing into a lewd provocation.  The sleek line of the black 
leather drew Melpomaen's eyes to Haldir's erection, which 
stood hard and unabashed, as if delighting in being on 
display.  It was clear Haldir wanted to be observed and 
admired.  To his shame, Melpomaen could not tear his eyes 
away.
 
"Do I please you?" Haldir's smirk was evident now.  "If you 
come closer, I shall please you better still."
 
Melpomaen took two more steps back and felt his shoulders 
came in contact with the wall.  Through an effort of pure 
will, he forced his eyes to focus on Haldir's face.  "I 
think I'd better leave."

"Why?  You just got here."

"Haldir, there are plenty of Elves down in the clearing--"

"So what?"

"Well, many of them are actively looking for an encounter 
tonight.  I'm not--"

"Aren't you?"  Haldir's eyebrows arched.  "What would you 
call the clothes you are wearing if not an invitation?  And 
the way you moved among the bonfires, with all those eyes 
upon you?  Don't tell me you didn't love every second of 
it: you did, I watched you.  You couldn't have been more 
provocative had you been stark naked."  He took another 
step forward.  

"But, Haldir, I didn't mean it that way."  Melpomaen shook 
his head in denial.  "I didn't mean--"

Haldir's eyes flashed with a predatory light.  "Oh, I think 
you did."

With the instinct of a stalked animal, Melpomaen felt the 
trap click shut.  In moments, Haldir was upon him, pressing 
up against him, hands pulling at clothing.
 
"Haldir, no--"

"Hush, now, don't fight me...  There, doesn't that feel 
good?"

"No, Haldir.  Stop!"  Melpomaen pushed Haldir away, yet 
could not help noticing that the muscles under his hands 
were firm, the skin hot and supple.
 
"Stop?  Come now, pretty one, you and I both know you do 
not mean that.  Your mouth may say the words..." Haldir 
traced the curve of Melpomaen's bottom lip with his 
tongue.  "But your body doesn't lie.  See how it betrays 
you?"  He slipped a hand between Melpomaen's legs.
 
Melpomaen closed his eyes.  He wanted to die.  He wanted 
the floor in the chamber to open up and swallow him whole.  
How could this be?  He had just spent the whole evening 
wooing the one person in the world he would never wish to 
betray -- and yet here he was, with Haldir's hands on him, 
and all he could feel was overwhelming need.  Valar, it had 
been so long!  
 
Haldir moved his hand in slow, languid strokes.  "Your 
lover has been neglecting you, I know.  If I were he, I 
would not be so cruel."  His tongue licked a trail up 
Melpomaen's ear.  "I will not be so cruel."
 
"Haldir, wait--"
 
"I have waited long enough."  With that, Haldir brought his 
mouth down upon Melpomaen's, hard.  His hands ceased their 
gentle touching and tugged at the ties of Melpomaen's 
leggings, then pushed their way inside.   
 
"Haldir, stop!"

Instead of stopping, Haldir gripped Melpomaen's hip tighter 
with one hand as the other worked his shaft in forceful 
strokes.  He kissed sloppily, forcing his tongue into 
Melpomaen's mouth.

Melpomaen twisted aside.  "Take your hands off me!  I do 
not wish this!"
 
"Yes you do--"
 
"No!"  Melpomaen shoved the hands away, only to be rewarded 
with a hard slap across the face.  Cheek stinging, he 
looked up and saw Haldir's lips twist in an angry line.  

Through the fog of lust clouding his head, a chilling 
realization began to dawn on Melpomaen.  Haldir was strong:  
much stronger than he.  If the guardian wished to have him, 
then have him he would, whether Melpomaen were willing or 
no.  

Fear snaked its way up Melpomaen's spine.  

"I had thought we would do this amicably, both taking 
pleasure from each other."  Haldir's voice was menacing.  
"But I see now that you prefer a firmer touch.  Very well, 
if that is your preference..." Powerful hands gripped 
Melpomaen's shoulders and turned him around, slamming his 
chest and face into the wall.  "You asked for this.  Now 
you shall get it."  

Haldir yanked Melpomaen's leggings down, exposing his rear 
and probing his opening.

"Stop!" Melpomaen screamed, desperate to get away.  With 
his hands braced on the wall beside his head, he did the 
only thing he could think of:  he brought his elbow down 
sharply, aiming to hit whatever was behind him.  When he 
heard a gasp of surprise, he twisted about and used his 
knee to deliver a mighty blow to Haldir's groin.  
 
Haldir doubled over in pain.  Within seconds, Melpomaen was 
in the hallway, pulling up his leggings and straightening 
his tunic.  Though his legs were unsteady, he wasted no 
time in making his way back to the staircase.  It was 
unlikely that the guardian would come after him -- 
undressed as he was -- but Melpomaen's instinct told him to 
flee. 

When he reached the stairs, he stumbled, and had to stop 
for a moment to steady his knees.  Then, clutching the 
balustrade for balance, he began to make his way down.


****

Elrond rushed through the hallways, the folds of his long 
robes gathered in one hand, hair streaming behind him.  
Where once he would have cared for decorum, he now hurried 
past residents and guests alike, stopping neither to answer 
questions nor to respond to greetings.  Two thoughts rang 
through his mind like a warning bell.  Where was Melpomaen?  
And had he come to any harm?

He had seen Melpomaen and Haldir leave the clearing 
together, and had thought at first that his lover, helpful 
and kind-hearted as always, was merely assisting a guardian 
who had had too much to drink.  But then Haldir had caught 
Elrond's eye and smiled so mockingly that it became clear 
at once his intentions were anything but pure.

The burden of office is heavy and its obligations often ill 
timed:  just at that moment Elrond was intercepted by an 
important Greenwood dignitary who spoke of matters that 
could not easily be dismissed.  Elrond did his diplomatic 
best to end the conversation quickly, but by the time the 
guest had at last moved on, Melpomaen and Haldir were 
nowhere to be seen.

Hastening through the clearing, Elrond paid no mind to the 
conversations going on around him -- until he heard 
Haldir's name mentioned by one of the Galadhrim.

"I'll bet you two gold pieces," the Galadhel was saying, 
"that our Haldir will have that pretty scribe out of his 
garments -- and on his knees -- before Rúmil over there 
empties his glass."  He pointed at another Lórien Elf, 
drinking about twenty paces away.  "And that he'll be down 
here to tell us all about it even before that boar is 
through roasting."

Two gold pieces was no mean sum, especially for a common 
soldier.  What's more, the odds seemed favourable:  Rúmil's 
glass was only half-full, and the boar had been roasting on 
the spit nearly all day; already the cooks were sharpening 
their long knives, getting ready to carve.  And yet none of 
the Galadhrim dared accept the wager.

It was then that Elrond broke into a run.  

The path toward the Last Homely House was neither crowded 
nor long, but Elrond felt he had never traversed a route 
more interminable.  Rounding a tree-sheltered corner, he 
nearly collided with the librarian who had kept him company 
earlier in the evening.  The Elf was now as far from sober 
as it was possible to get while still remaining upright:  
weaving on and off the path, he sang loudly and hiccupped 
at regular intervals.  

Elrond did not stop to assist him.  Instead, he quickened 
his pace, all the while cursing himself for not having paid 
closer attention to the arrangements made for the 
Galadhrim's accommodation.  Where were Haldir's rooms?  
They had to be upstairs, as that was where most of the 
guests were quartered, but which wing?  

He need not have fretted about the precise direction of his 
pursuit.  The instant he reached the large staircase in the 
main building he knew he need seek no further. 

Melpomaen was stumbling down the steps, hand gripping the 
railing.  His face was whiter than the stone under his 
fingers, and on it showed two deep scratches and a 
burgeoning bruise.  His hair was half-undone, his tunic 
torn at the shoulder.  He was shivering.

For a moment, Elrond thought he would be ill, so deep was 
his horror at the thought of what had likely just happened.  
Then he recovered his composure and rushed up the stairs.  
He was just in time to gather a tottering Melpomaen into 
his arms and keep him from falling.

"Mel!"

"Elrond..."

"Oh, Mel."  Elrond's voice was hoarse; his throat seemed to 
have constricted.  Melpomaen's body in his arms seemed a 
fragile, priceless thing.  "Are you hurt?  Did that 
Galadhel hurt you?"  

Melpomaen shook his head.  

Elrond stroked the dark hair, not long ago resplendent amid 
intricate braids, now in disarray.  He tightened his 
embrace, silently bartering whole kingdoms and riches 
innumerable for the power to make things all right.  
"Because if he did...  Elbereth, I'll rip out his heart!  I 
swear I'll--"

Melpomaen's hand, cold and far from steady, closed over 
Elrond's mouth.  "Don't you dare.  If that isn't conduct 
unbecoming the Lord of Imladris, I don't know what is.  And 
besides, it isn't necessary.  He didn't..."

"Didn't..."  

Melpomaen's ghostly complexion regained some colour.  He 
clenched his jaw to control the shivering, body taut with 
the effort to convey strength.  "He tried.  Haldir can be 
very forceful, as I just found out.  But so can I.  And I 
think it'll be a while before he is able to walk without 
pain."

With the terror of the moment quickly being replaced by 
relief, it dawned on Elrond that the body he held in his 
arms was not that of a victim, disoriented after some 
ordeal, but that of a fighter after his first major bout:  
shaken up, yet triumphant.

He drew back to get a better look at Melpomaen's face.  The 
deathly whiteness was already giving way to an unnatural 
blush, borne of too much excitement.  "Thank Elbereth 
you're well!"  He crushed the slim frame to his chest once 
more.  

Melpomaen relaxed against him.  "I'm fine.  Though no doubt 
I look like I just survived a hurricane or flood, and my 
legs feel unfit for standing."

Elrond immediately remembered his duty as healer.  "Are you 
in any pain?"

"No."  

"Let me help you to my rooms, they're not far..."  He cut 
off abruptly, recalling that Melpomaen knew very well where 
his rooms were located.  Out of the corner of his eye, he 
caught sight of an amused smile.  Softly he kissed the 
bruised cheek.  "You need to have those scratches tended, 
and a cup of something calming would do you no harm.  
Come."  

They descended the stairs slowly.  Now that the danger was 
past, Elrond's imagination seemed more than willing to 
supply graphic images of what had nearly befallen 
Melpomaen.  In horrific detail, he saw the humiliation and 
the pain, the shock and the random unfairness of what would 
surely have taken place if only Melpomaen were less strong, 
or less sober, or simply had worse luck.

With every step, Elrond's fury grew.  He wanted Haldir 
hanged, or drawn and quartered, whipped until he lost 
consciousness or, better yet...

"Elrond."  Melpomaen's dark eyes were looking at him with 
understanding.  "I'm all right, really."

"I know.  But that Galadhel needs to be stopped before he 
does any more harm."  

Elrond looked around.  Just outside the main doors, 
slightly in the shadows, stood a figure in the uniform of 
the Imladris border guard.  The blond hair was common 
enough, but the face looked familiar.

"Wait here for me.  I'll only be a moment," he told 
Melpomaen, then walked through the open doorway.  He faced 
the guard, who saluted as if on parade.  

"Caegaran?  Is that your name?"

"Yes, my Lord."  

"Listen, Caegaran.  I have an urgent command for you.  
Gather a few more of your fellows and find Haldir of the 
Galadhrim.  Restrain him, by force if need be, and confine 
him to his chambers.  He has just tried to commit a serious 
crime, and will answer for it as is fitting.  Do not 
delay."

A strange expression crossed the guard's face:  something 
that looked like shock, and maybe even grief.  No doubt he 
had been unprepared to hear such disturbing news on a night 
that was supposed to be naught but pleasure and joy.

"Do you understand?"  Elrond asked.

The guard stood at attention.  His eyes, locked with 
Elrond's, blazed with intensity.

"Yes, my Lord."


****


Notes:

meldir - friend (male)

A note about Elves and rape - In "Laws and Customs among 
the Eldar" (revised typescript B), Tolkien wrote:  "Even 
when in after days, as the histories reveal, many of the 
Eldar in Middle-earth became corrupted, and their hearts 
darkened by the shadow that lies upon Arda, seldom is any 
tale told of deeds of lust among them."  The original 
manuscript A has:  "...there is no record of any among the 
Elves that took another's spouse by force; for this was 
wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have 
rejected bodily life and passed to Mandos.  Guile or 
trickery in this matter was scarcely possible (even if it 
could be thought that any Elf would purpose to use it); for 
the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another 
whether they be wed or unwed."  ("Laws and Customs among 
the Eldar" in Morgoth's Ring, Volume 10 of The History of 
Middle Earth).

In my view, the word "seldom" leaves scope for speculation 
that sometimes deeds of lust did indeed take place.  (Enter 
eeevil Haldir).  As for the taking of another by force, 
even though Tolkien refers specifically to the crime of 
rape perpetrated against married Elves, I preferred to 
sidestep the question of whether or not Melpomaen would 
"reject bodily life" by having him successfully fight off 
his attacker.  Which fitted in nicely with my intended plot 
anyway.


TBC


Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 14/?)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make 
any profit from them. Any writing I do is done with a deep 
respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding love for his 
Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism is 
always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  Glorfindel and Erestor's midsummer night's eve 
plans are interrupted.  Caegaran gets angry.
Notes: Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



Erestor tasted of honey.  The wine he had drunk earlier 
must have had honey as its base, for his mouth was even 
sweeter than usual.  There was a rich golden flavour on his 
tongue, sharper than that of fruit and tantalizingly 
delicious.

Glorfindel leaned closer to sample the sweetness again.  
Yes, definitely honey.  He let his hands wander over 
Erestor's body, feeling the hard muscles under the soft 
silk robes.  His fingers undid the fastenings and slipped 
inside.

"Glorfindel."

"Mmm?"

"Not here..."

"Why not?"

"It's too exposed, too many people around."

"I don't see anyone."  

Glorfindel had not just spent the past half-hour 
manoeuvring his lover through the crowded clearing, toward 
a hidden spot between the trees, only to have his plans 
foiled now.  Especially as the throbbing between his legs 
had not abated since his first glimpse of Erestor in his 
dark-green fitted robes -- no less than a full hour and a 
half before.

He deepened the kiss, hands parting fabric.  Erestor's 
undertunic gave way, the ties of his leggings presenting 
only a minor obstacle.

"Glorfindel, we are hardly in private..."

"So?  It is hardly uncommon for two lovers to slip off into 
the woods on midsummer's night; why shouldn't we--"

"But someone might see!"

Glorfindel's fingers, poised to slip into Erestor's 
leggings, were in a perfect position to feel a distinct 
twitch under the tight-fitting fabric.  Encouraged, 
Glorfindel looked into his lover's eyes and smiled.  "And 
what if they do?"  His hand settled firmly over Erestor's 
groin.  "Shall we give them a show?"

The combination of a second, more pronounced twitch and 
Erestor's eyes growing dark with desire was all the 
encouragement Glorfindel needed.  He parted the wine-
sweetened lips in a deep kiss, pressing the dark head back 
against the tree under which they stood.  He tugged 
Erestor's leggings down over his hips.

"Wait..."  Erestor's eyes were half-closed, his mouth, 
half-open.  His chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm.  
"You know every noise will cause me to jump in alarm.  And 
with so many Elves tramping through the woods tonight... 
how can we enjoy ourselves fully if my instincts tell me to 
run?"
 
"Hmm."  Glorfindel's tongue teased the tip of Erestor's 
ear.  "There is one thing I could do that might help."

"What's that?"

"Ensure that you cannot get away."

For an instant, Erestor stopped breathing.  "What do you 
mean?"  

"Only this."  

Glorfindel pressed Erestor's arms against the sides of the 
tree.  He unwound the sash from his lover's waist and 
secured it around the width of the trunk.  The sash was 
long and the tree slim; soon Erestor could not easily 
disentangle himself from the soft silken bonds even if he 
struggled.

"Better now?"  Glorfindel asked.

"You scheming, manipulative knave..."

Glorfindel leaned heavily against Erestor, sliding a leg 
between his thighs.  "Shall I untie you?"

"Elbereth, no."

Erestor's eyes had fallen closed.  His head was thrown back 
against the white bark of the birch tree.  Glorfindel 
smiled and ran a teasing finger along his lover's exposed 
neck.  "I thought you might appreciate that.  I do like 
those sashes you wear with your robes.  So many practical 
uses for--"

"Oh, shut your mouth.  Shut it, and..."

"And what?"  

"Finish what you started." 

"And if others see us?"

"Let them."  Erestor's lips were trembling by this time, 
his body straining against its bonds in an attempt to 
maximize physical contact.

Glorfindel brushed against him once more.  "As my Lord 
wishes."  He dropped to his knees.  

Erestor's hips were difficult to still, and Glorfindel had 
to grip hard, digging his fingers into the delicate skin.  
Though his grasp was likely painful, it only increased 
Erestor's ardour:  its evidence rose right before 
Glorfindel's eyes, straight, hard and fragrant -- 
beautiful, and begging to be touched.  He opened his mouth 
and took in his lover's length.

"Valar!"  The loud gasp that escaped Erestor's mouth was 
hardly a display of discretion.

Glorfindel bit down lightly, as if in warning.  Then he 
pulled away.  "If you yell like that, we are almost 
guaranteed to have company.  Of course, if that is what you 
wish..."

Erestor suppressed another groan, and clenched his jaw.  
Glorfindel bent to his task again.  He knew it would not 
take long, nor did he wish to delay gratification with too 
much teasing.  They had both been sufficiently inflamed by 
the wine and the openly licentious atmosphere of the 
evening to crave satisfaction that was deep, thorough and, 
above all, quick.  What's more, the ache between 
Glorfindel's own thighs served as a palpable reminder that 
the sooner he had given Erestor pleasure, the sooner he 
could take his own.

Erestor didn't object to Glorfindel's rapid pace:  he 
shuddered and thrust, all the while choking back sounds 
that would no doubt have resonated through the forest had 
he felt free to give them voice.  Glorfindel delighted to 
feel his lover's muscles tightening under his hands, 
relished the uneven sound of his breathing.  Judging by its 
quickening pace, it wouldn't be long now.  Any moment, 
Erestor would tense and spend -- and then Glorfindel would 
untie him, turn him about and...

"Glorfindel."

"Mmm..."  Glorfindel anchored his hands firmly on Erestor's 
hips, prepared to feel him buck any second.

"Someone's coming."

«Indeed,» Glorfindel thought with satisfaction.  He suckled 
more forcefully.

"Glorfindel!"

Erestor's body jerked, and it was only then that Glorfindel 
noticed the sound of footsteps behind him.  For a few 
seconds, his warrior's instincts battled with desire, one 
urging him to face the potential threat, the other 
compelling him to continue as before.  With Erestor so 
close to his peak, surely it would be cruel to stop now...

His dilemma was short-lived.  Erestor, who had found the 
idea of being watched appealing, apparently found the 
reality even more so.  His entire body went rigid, his 
hands clenched around their silken bonds, and he came with 
a full-throated moan that bordered on a scream.

As soon as Erestor's tremors had subsided, Glorfindel 
straightened up and untied him, putting a steadying arm 
around his waist as he rearranged his clothes. Then, with 
as much dignity as he could muster, he turned to face the 
intruder.

Whatever he might have expected to see, it certainly wasn't 
this.

The indiscreet spectator reclined against a tree, not 
because he wanted to appear nonchalant, but because he 
would otherwise have fallen down.  His long hair was 
dishevelled, one silver ribbon drooping over his eyes.  His 
breath, even from a distance, was so steeped in wine that 
Glorfindel found himself thankful there were no candles 
about -- otherwise the cloud of air puffed out of the Elf's 
lungs would have been in serious danger of bursting into 
flames.

The drunken Elf stepped forward, then promptly slumped back 
again.  He struggled to focus.  "In truth," he said, "I 
think I have just seen my Lord Erestor in a whole new 
light.  Pity he isn't so spirited in the archives.  The 
place would certainly be more lively if he were."  He 
frowned, as if in thought, then added, "In truth."

Glorfindel didn't know quite what to say to that. 
Evidently, neither did Erestor.  But the Elf, whom 
Glorfindel had by now recognized as one of the archivists, 
seemed undeterred by their silence.

"I am much ob--" He hiccupped.  "Much obliged to you for 
your demonstration.  I never knew silk sashes could be so 
useful, in truth.  I don't think I've ever seen..."  He 
scratched his head.  "No, I never did see anything of the 
kind in the erotic manuals in the library."

"Yes, it is unfortunate the illustrators neglected to 
record that particular trick for posterity," Glorfindel 
said, and immediately wished he hadn't, for the archivist 
drew himself up, eyes shining with purpose.  

"A glaring oversight that shall have to be remedied at 
once!" he said, taking a step forward and nearly tripping 
over his feet.

Alarmed, Glorfindel wondered whether the Elf planned to 
drag one of Imladris' artists away from the bonfires in 
order to carry out this pressing task or intended to put 
his own artistic skill to immediate use.  Either way, given 
his condition, such action was hardly advisable.  

Fortunately, Erestor was by now in full possession of his 
faculties and ready to set things right.  He took the 
archivist by the elbow.  "I think that can wait, my 
friend," he said.  "Why waste the evening in the pursuit of 
theory when practice is so much sweeter, hm?"

The drunken Elf smiled lecherously and nodded, silver 
ribbon flapping over his nose.

"Now, why don't you go up to your chambers and change out 
of these robes -- they are covered in wine stains, after 
all -- and then come back and see if you can find a 
companion by the bonfires?"  

Erestor's tone sounded familiar; it was the one he had used 
long ago when trying to persuade Elladan and Elrohir to eat 
their porridge. 

"But... why bother changing garments?"  The archivist's 
whine was reminiscent of the complaining done by the young 
sons of Elrond.  "The bonfires are so close, and I have 
wasted enough time already, in truth!  I should make haste, 
I should--"

Erestor gripped his elbow with both hands.  "No Imladris 
beauty will be impressed by soiled robes, you know that.  
And the Greenwood Elves are even fussier.  Now," he said, 
putting an arm around the Elf's shoulder, "come with me, it 
won't take long."

The archivist grunted something that could be interpreted 
as agreement, and ceased resisting.  Carefully, Erestor 
directed their steps toward the path to the Last Homely 
House, looking over his shoulder to mouth a quick, "I'm 
sorry." 

Glorfindel had always admired Erestor's sense of 
responsibility.  Unfortunately, at this moment no amount of 
admiration could compensate for the frustration of having 
had his amorous activities interrupted.  Drunk or no, some 
people simply had no tact!  He thought briefly of smearing 
honey over the archivist's books, or sawing through the 
rungs of his ladder in the library, but dismissed both 
ideas as childish and beneath him.  Erestor would put the 
fool to bed and make his way back in no time -- and then 
they could resume their tryst.

The two figures had long disappeared among the trees, but 
their progress could still be traced by the archivist's 
heavy step.  It was hard to believe that anyone but an Orc 
could trample so many twigs as he walked, and so loudly.  
Beside him, Erestor was graceful beyond measure.  
Glorfindel could picture it now:  his lover's green silk 
robes fitting tightly over his back, shoulders and hips, 
and swinging around his thighs as he stepped soundlessly 
over the forest floor.  His hair would look as black as 
midnight against his pale skin, a strand of it curling at 
his temple where it had slipped from its gold ribbon.  

The image was so enticing that Glorfindel found his feet 
following the trail Erestor and the archivist had taken.  
Soon he had reached the path to the Last Homely House and 
espied Erestor -- and would have been content to simply 
stand and watch if another figure had not caught his eye.

Gildor was making his way down the path, a fair distance 
behind Erestor and his drunken companion.  Though he moved 
carefully, timing his steps to match the pair's measured 
pace, his stride was less a walk than a swagger, as if he 
could already foresee the success of his pursuit.

Glorfindel had never felt kindly toward Gildor, but the 
pure hatred that now filled his chest surprised him.  His 
initial impulse was to seek a confrontation, but then he 
realized that if he did so now -- before Gildor had done 
anything malicious -- he would have to be civil, no matter 
how badly he wanted to throttle his self-styled rival.  

He stepped back into the cover of the forest and followed 
the edge of the path, keeping Gildor in sight.  Let events 
unfold as they would.  The moment that spawn of Mordor 
tried to hurt Erestor, Glorfindel would show him there was 
a price to be paid.


****


The east wing of the Last Homely House was deserted, its 
occupants likely drinking their fill in the clearing or 
giving into the urges of the flesh with a willing partner 
in a private corner of the forest.  And so no one was there 
to witness the strange sight of an Imladris guard running 
down the hall -- not composed and in control, as might have 
been expected of a well-trained soldier, but shaking with 
rage.

The guard, though overwrought, seemed to know where he was 
going, for he headed straight for an unmarked door and 
opened it without knocking.  Once inside, he slammed the 
door behind him and faced the occupant of the room.

"You useless piece of dirt!" he said, without preamble.  
"You incompetent son of a Dwarf!  Where did you learn the 
arts of love, a flea-infested village of Men?  You are 
reputed to be a great seducer -- just what have you seduced 
in that Golden Wood of yours, deer?  Rabbits?  Mushrooms?  
I can't believe I trusted you with this task!  I can't 
believe--"

"Caegaran."  Haldir lifted his head from the bed where he 
lay curled up, a damp compress on his groin.  "For Valar's 
sake, shut your mouth.  Can you not see I am in pain?"

"Elbereth be praised!"  Caegaran lifted his face and hands 
to the ceiling in mock worship.  "I do hope your suffering 
is intense; you deserve nothing less."

"Damn you!  Is this what I get for all my trouble?  
Physical hurt instead of satisfaction, and insults rather 
than gratitude?"

Caegaran walked closer.  He rested his hands on his hips 
and regarded Haldir with disdain.  "And what exactly should 
I be grateful for, the fact that the little runt of an 
advisor was unharmed?  Or the near certainty that your 
pathetic efforts at debauchery have driven him right back 
to Elrond's bed?  Thank you, Haldir, thank you indeed."

Haldir sighed and closed his eyes, gingerly shifting on the 
sheets.  "I underestimated him, I must admit.  Skinny he 
may be, and untrained in the arts of war, but he has a 
spirit many fighting men would envy.  That, and good aim."  
He rearranged his compress, cringing as he did so.  "Ah, 
that it should come to this!  The famed Imladris midsummer 
night's eve festival:  the very epitome of sensual delights 
-- and me not between the thighs of a beautiful youth, but 
nursing an injured--"

"Do not tell me you expect sympathy!"  Fury lit up 
Caegaran's face.  "You won't get any from me.  In fact..."  
He drew himself up, a cruel smile on his lips.  "I have 
just received an order from the Lord of this realm to hold 
you prisoner until you can be dealt with.  And I intend to 
carry out my orders to the letter.  You will pay for your 
incompetence, mark my words."

"Really."  Haldir met Caegaran's challenging stare with one 
of his own.  "Will I?"

"Yes, you--"

"Oh, my dear Caegaran, I think you are mistaken."

Haldir sat up slowly, still holding onto the compress but 
making no other concessions to his injury.  If his 
condition had temporarily made him appear vulnerable, that 
impression was quickly erased.  As he planted his feet 
squarely on the floor and tilted his head proudly, the 
farcical rejected lover disappeared, replaced by a fierce 
leader of the Galadhrim.

"Tell me, Caegaran," Haldir said, pronouncing his words 
with care.  "How did the idea of seducing Elrond's lover 
first enter my mind?  Did I spot him upon coming to 
Imladris and, pining with lust, say, 'Why, I must have 
him'?"

"You dwell on insignificant details--"

"Not insignificant at all!"  Haldir smiled.  "For intent is 
at least half the crime, is it not?  And, in this sordid 
affair, the intent was wholly yours; I merely went along 
with your plan."

"You wanted to bed that little mouse of a scribe!  Don't 
deny it!"

"I deny nothing."  Haldir put his damp compress aside and 
stood up, facing Caegaran.  "Whether or not I wanted to is 
beside the point.  What matters is that you practically 
begged me to do it.  What do you think Elrond will have to 
say about that when I tell him?"

Caegaran blanched.  "You wouldn't."

"Oh, Caegaran."  Haldir shook his head.  "Are you really 
that naïve?"

The room fell silent.  Caegaran stood still, hands shaking, 
breath coming quickly.  His lips moved a few times in an 
attempt to speak, but no sound came out.  Finally, he said, 
"You cannot save yourself, you know.  It is too late for 
that."

"I know," Haldir replied.  "But I am not about to suffer 
punishment alone."




TBC



Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 15/16)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor, 
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17 
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of 
noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do 
I make any profit from them. Any writing I do is 
done with a deep respect for Tolkien and out of 
an abiding love for his Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive 
criticism is always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net, Peredhil.com, 
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to archive it, 
just ask.
Summary:  Elrond and Melpomaen find their way back to each 
other's arms at last.  Gildor and Caegaran do not fare as 
well.
Notes:  Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."  Also:  
Additional notes:  Yes, I realize that this 
chapter has taken forever, and I do apologize.  
The Christmas season was a bit nuts, RL-wise.  
I'll do my best to get the last chapter out 
within a reasonable timeframe, RL permitting.  
Thank you for your patience and interest.
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job, and 
to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and re-
writing) process were invaluable.




Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve



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

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

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

"Yes, I remember."

Melpomaen gave a lopsided smile.  "You do?"

"Of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Elrond--"

"Mel, I think--"

They had both spoken at once.

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

"You first."

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

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

"Why, what were you going to say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melpomaen cleared his throat.  "Much more 
comfortable."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Unsightly?"  

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

"Mel."

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

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

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

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

"I did?"

"Oh, yes."

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

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

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

"Do not say such things."

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

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

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

"Quite the contrary!  She was uncommonly 
understanding."

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

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

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

"You've had a trying night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


****


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

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

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

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

"Bastard."

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

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

"I curse the day I was born."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caegaran bristled, but followed.



****


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

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

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

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

"No?"

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

"Elbereth, yes!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You've grown thinner," he said.  

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

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

Melpomaen shrugged dismissively.  

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

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

"Because of me."

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

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

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

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

"You haven't."

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

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

"Because I hurt you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




TBC

Title: Secondhand Happiness (Chapter 16/16)
Author: Maggie Honeybite
E-mail: mhoneybite@yahoo.ca
Web page: www.ithilas.com/maggie/maggie.html
Pairings: Elrond/Melpomaen, Glorfindel/Erestor,
Erestor/Gildor
Rating: NC-17
Warning: m/m slash, mild BDSM, angst, hint of noncon
Betas: Tehta, Manon
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I
make any profit from them. Any writing I do is done
with a deep respect for Tolkien and out of an abiding
love for his Elves.
Feedback: Would make my day.  Constructive criticism
is always welcome.
Archiving: Library of Moria, Galadhrim.net,
Peredhil.com,
Melethryn.net, OEAM, Elf Fetish; if you want to
archive it, just ask.
Summary:  Gildor finally gets what he deserves.
Notes:  Sequel to "Sweetness and Gall."
Acknowledgments: Thank you to Manon, for the beta job,
and to Tehta, whose comments during the writing (and
re-writing) process were invaluable.

Imladris, TA 1004, Midsummer night's eve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not every guest deserves courtesy."

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

"I am a warrior, not a politician."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glorfindel's answer was to throw another punch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glorfindel exhaled with relief.  Erestor had come.

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

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

There was a silence, and then...

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last he could see.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gildor shut his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Erestor," he said.  "Wait."

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Relieved?" Glorfindel asked.

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

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

"That night on the balcony, you mean."

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

"Yes.  Why?"

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

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

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

****

Notes:

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

END