Title:  Changing the Rules
Series:  Winner Takes All
Type:  FPS 
Author:  Fimbrethiel
Email:  fimbrethiel@yahoo.com
Rating:  NC-17
Pairing:  Erestor/Glorfindel, Glorfindel/?
Warnings:  explicit depictions of homoerotic acts between consenting
males, masturbation, very mild humor in this chapter
Disclaimer:  Don’t own the Elves, they are owned by Tolkien’s estate.
Master Tolkien, I mean no harm.  No profit has been made.
Beta:  Orchyd Constyne  
Timeline:  Imladris, the year 2951 of the Third Age, two weeks after
Erestor makes his confession in the gardens during Learning the Game.
Feedback:  Yes, please!  
Archive:  Of Elves and Men, Melethryn, Glorfindel of Imladris,
Slashlords,  

http://www.fimbrethiel.com/, http://fimbrethiel.livejournal.com/

Summary:  Erestor dreams.  Glorfindel takes a trip, and comes to a
realization.  The Valar meddle.  

Author’s Notes:  The eventual pairing is no surprise, but you will have
to read in order to find out how they ultimately get there.  My
apologies to anyone who expected a different pairing.  Erestor and
Glorfindel just belong together.  =)  


Part 1 
~*~*~*~*~

Imladris, the year 2951 of the Third Age, two weeks after Erestor makes
his confession in the gardens

Erestor arched sharply on the bed, barely coming awake as he stroked his
rigid shaft fast and hard.  He had awakened abruptly, unbearably
aroused, to find his hand already straying down into in his sleeping
pants and beginning to stroke even as he struggled to loose himself from
the clinging realism of the dream.  

He groaned loudly as thick, white cream spurted in jets, coating his
stomach and spreading wetness over his night garments.  His length
pulsed and twitched in his hand, the last few drops of his essence
seeping out to join the warm, spreading puddle.  Shuddering, he
collapsed against the crisp white sheets and panted harshly, catching
his breath.  The heavy haze of sleep was still weighty upon him, and he
shook his head to clear his mind.

“Dear gods, these dreams will be the death of me,” he muttered darkly in
the emptiness of his room.  Spent, sweaty, and exhausted from being
awakened just at the break of dawn once again by his mystery dream
lover, he was in a foul mood.  His rest was broken, and another pair of
sleeping pants was in need of a surreptitious rinsing so as not to alert
the laundress of anything amiss.  The suspicious presence of a sopping
wet pair of night trousers in the laundry was suspect enough; he could
not bear the humiliation if the house servants were to see the stains of
his seed.  Somehow it seemed far easier to explain a wet pair of pants
than a few spots.

Sighing deeply, he stood and pushed the sleep-mussed hair from his eyes
with the back of his unsoiled hand.  He probably should braid the mess
before retiring for the evening, he knew, but he had never been able to
grow accustomed to sleeping with braids.  They were simply too
uncomfortable, so he resigned himself to dealing with a rat’s nest every
morning.  Of course, if not for the dreams that caused him to toss and
turn and writhe in sensual ecstasy every night, his hair would not be
such an atrocious mess in the morning anyway.  Dealing with his unruly
hair was simply another annoying after-effect of the dreams.

Erestor grimaced at the touch of the rapidly chilling fabric against his
skin.  He walked to the bathroom, gingerly holding the damp, messy
clothing away from him.  He stripped quickly and tossed the soiled
garment into the clothesbasket to rinse later, then wet a cloth and
cleaned the sticky leavings from his skin.

Returning to his bedchamber, he considered donning a clean, dry pair of
trousers before returning to bed, but in the end decided against it.  He
was far too tired to bother.  Nude, he climbed back into the softness of
the bed and lay on his back, arms folded under his head, staring at the
ceiling.  With any luck he would be able to snatch a few more minutes of
much-needed rest before he absolutely had to rise to greet the day.
Ruefully, he glanced outside the window.  The sky was just beginning to
turn pink over the trees rimming the valley, and he knew sleep was not
forthcoming.

Instead, he glared down at the offending piece of flesh between his
legs.

“Well?” he growled.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Not surprisingly, his cock did not respond.  It simply lay there, tucked
snugly against the flat plane of his belly.  It was still slightly plump
and pink and looked rather pleased with itself, all in all.

“What is wrong with you?”  He gave the traitorous organ a nudge with the
tip of his finger, as if to prod it into some sort of response.

The silent flesh still refused to answer.  It looked sleepily back at
him with its lone eye, as if wondering what Erestor’s problem was.  Had
it not performed adequately? It seemed to say.  It certainly could not
be faulted for the ill timing of the dreams.  It did what it was
supposed to, after all.  Erestor should be thankful, if anything.

“You look far too pleased with yourself.”  He gave the rosy flesh one
last poke and huffed in disgust.  Embarrassed to finally realize he was
actually having a conversation with his cock, he rolled his eyes in
dismay.  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he grumbled.  He curled on
his side and pulled the sheets up to his chin, covering his over-warm
body, and buried his face in the pillow.  Allowing his mind to wander,
he closed his eyes and mused about the unusual circumstances of the past
few months.

//What in the name of Manwë is wrong with me?// he wondered.  He was a
full-grown Elf, for Valar’s sake, not some young Elfling on the verge of
puberty whose hormones were growing faster than his body.  He was
thousands of years past those annoying wet dreams.  This situation was
becoming ridiculous.  

For the past few months he had been awakened in the wee hours of the
morning, and even in the dead of night, by dreams.  At first, months
ago, his awakenings had been infrequent, coming once or twice a week.
The past two weeks, though, the visions were a nightly occurrence.

These were not your ordinary garden-variety pleasant dreams, either, or
hazy memories of days spent picnicking in the sun, or even by the
nightmares that had plagued him after the battle on Orodruin.  Those
dreams he could have understood, and accepted, and gone on with his
life, safe in the knowledge that he was normal.

These dreams…  gods, what were these dreams?  Normal?  Aye... for a 30-
year-old Elfling just beginning to experience his body’s awakening.
Certainly not normal for an Elf who had lived two Ages and had seen more
births and deaths than he could count.

Nay, these dreams were erotic, and not the fluffy, romantic, simplistic
erotic dreams of his youth.  The dreams surpassed those youthful fancies
by far, with their horrifying realism.  Not only were they shockingly
vivid, they were arousing.  Intense.  Embarrassing.

Infuriating.

Aye, that was it.  The dreams were infuriating.  More than anything,
they were overwhelmingly infuriating.

Over and over, he dreamed of a phantom lover.  His lover was undoubtedly
male.  Very male.  Exquisitely male.  But his face was always shrouded
in shadow, his features indiscernible.  Hs nighttime specter’s hair
color was veiled, making it impossible to judge whether his seducer had
the fair hair of the Sindar or the dark locks of most of the Noldor.  In
the dreams no words were spoken, so no voice was able to give him a clue
to his identity.  Even the eyes of his mysterious stranger were simply a
piercing bit of light in an otherwise shadowy presence.

Muscular, well-defined thighs tapered to defined calves, ending in well-
formed, highly arched feet.  Broad shoulders flanked a sculpted torso, a
narrow waist tapered to slender hips, perfectly rounded buttocks, and a
magnificent, smooth, perfectly proportioned cock.  The only certainty
Erestor had was that his lover was Elven.  No child of the Edain could
possibly possess such smooth skin, sleek limbs or strength and grace.

If Erestor could just see his blasted face!

What was the purpose of the dreams?  Were they the manifestations of
unacknowledged desire for someone he knew?  Someone from Imladris?  One
of the frequent visitors to the Last Homely House from one of the other
realms?  

Elbereth forbid…  Thranduil?  Erestor shook his head firmly.  Nay, that
was not possible, Thranduil loathed him!  Erestor had been Thranduil’s
lover for a brief period of time, an Age ago when Oropher was King,
Thranduil was Crown Prince, and the far forest was still called Eryn
Galen.  While the physical resemblance was there, it was highly doubtful
that Erestor’s mystery lover was Thranduil.  They had not parted on the
best of terms; Thranduil wanted more than Erestor could give him.  He
had loved Thranduil, but not in the timeless way Thranduil wanted him
to.  The stunning Sinda prince was not the one his faer called out to as
the other half of his own, and with much regret, Erestor broke off with
him.  He owed it to both of them to set them free to find their soul
mates.  Thranduil had found his, eventually, and went on to father
numerous daughters and young Legolas, but there was still a part of him
that had never quite forgiven Erestor for breaking his heart.  This made
relations between Taur-e-Ndaedelos and Imladris a bit strained, even
now.

Perhaps his fantasy lover was a ghostly memory of someone long ago, who
was now in the keeping of Mandos.  That was not likely, either.  Erestor
did not take lovers lightly, but while he had cared deeply for those he
chose to share his body with, none had captured his heart for all time.

Were the dreams simply a figment of his imagination – a product of
wishful thinking for one who had been alone and lonely for too long?  He
knew not.

The most disturbing part of the visions was that he had fallen
hopelessly in love with his shadowy nighttime specter.  The nightly
dreams were more a curse than a blessing, for although his body
obviously enjoyed the release, which invariably came on the heels of the
fantasies, they only served to remind him of his solitary existence.

Finally, he rolled over and cracked an eye open to peer blearily out the
window.  Birds chirped merrily and the pink blush of dawn had given way
to blue, cloudless expanses of sky.  The faint sounds of voices could be
heard across the yard as the residents of Imladris began their day.  At
last his ingrained sense of duty warred with his deep longing to simply
go back to sleep.  Unfortunately, the memories of the dreams had caused
him to stiffen again.  Torn between arousal and annoyance, he debated
whether to give in to his body’s urge and give himself relief.

It was going to be a long day.  He just knew it.

“This constant state of arousal is going to kill me,” he groused.
“Between sleep deprivation and self-gratification, I am doomed.  It is
just not right, I say.” Erestor snorted in disgust.  “Lóríen, master of
dreams, teller of what is or what might be… Bah.  Leave it to a Vala to
be so bloody cryptic.”

Sighing deeply, he gave in to his body’s urges and took himself in hand.
Again.  “I hope you appreciate this, you miserable piece of flesh,” he
muttered to the thick shaft in his hand.  His eyes rolled back in his
head and he surrendered to the familiar waves of lust, allowing the
sensuality and raw animalistic power of the dreams to wash over him as
he began to stroke, again dreaming of his mysterious lover.

*~*~* to be continued… *~*~*

Notes:

Eryn Galen = the ancient name for Greenwood the Great (source:
Unfinished Tales)

Taur-e-Ndaedelos = “Forest of the Great Fear”, the Elvish name given to
the renamed Eryn Galen in the Third Age, after Sauron’s return to Dol
Guldur


~*~*~*~*~

Glorfindel growled angrily and slammed the door to his office behind
him, crossing the floor in long strides before throwing himself into his
chair.  It had been two weeks since the incredible night he spent with
the Peredhil twins.  Two weeks, less a day, since he had learned of
Erestor’s confession.  The confession that set his guts on fire and his
blood boiling.

Two rotten, horrible weeks of simmering rage bubbling just below the
surface of a slowly cracking façade of mirth and good humor.

He crossed his legs and glowered at the wall, idly toying with the
lacings on his boot, and wondered, not for the first time, whom it was
he was the angriest with.  His hand strayed to the handle of the small
but deadly knife he kept at the ready, tucked into the calf of his boot,
and withdrew it slowly.  The shaft began a slow dance across his
fingers, rolling from one to the next with fluid grace.  In a fit of
pique, he snatched the handle in his palm and with a snarl that twisted
his handsome face into a grotesque mask, threw the blade viciously at
the door.  It sunk deeply into the scarred wood where it hung,
quivering, from the force of the throw before finally stilling.

In silence he sat as the shadows of evening fell around him, shrouding
the office in darkness.  He sat in the gloom, motionless, for a very
long time, alone with his thoughts.  When the solitary darkness became
oppressive and the rumbling of his empty stomach spurred him to motion,
he finally stood and wrenched his knife from the door, tucked it back in
his boot, and closed the door behind him, before heading toward the Last
Homely House.

Glorfindel ordered a tray of cold meats and fruit to be sent to his
chambers.  By the time he had washed and left his bathing chamber,
clean, bare-chested and dressed in loose trousers that hung precariously
on his lean hips, he found his meal had been laid, candles lit, and his
bed turned down.  He ate quickly, ravenously, then blew out the tapers
and sunk tiredly into his bed to think.

Since the night Erestor had made his confession, Glorfindel had felt
unrest.  That night he had nearly blown up at his best friend, lashing
out with uncustomary venom and sarcasm, and his behavior had shocked him
as well as Erestor.  At the time he was able to pass off his anger as
fatigue, but he knew the Counselor did not quite believe his falsehood.
He went to his rest that night, but reverie escaped him; he lay
sleepless, his mind in turmoil, much as it had been since.

The night he had spent with Elladan and Elrohir was, in a word,
blissful.  The Peredhil had worked his body so thoroughly it had taken
two days for the ache in his backside to fully wear off.  It was not
just the incredible sex… it had been incredible, absolutely.  It was
also the sense of contentment among them; the way they embraced, the
easy flow of loving words uttered in the aftermath of their passion.
The three of them had spent the rest of the night together, Elrohir
sandwiched tightly between the dark beauty of Elladan and the pale
fairness of Glorfindel.  In the morning, they had awakened together and
shared tender kisses before he retrieved his clothing and returned to
his quarters unseen.  The brethren had since begged leave from their
Adar and departed on yet another journey into the wilds, not expected to
return for another few months at the least.  Then the very next night,
Erestor had confessed to sleeping with them years before.

The next few days passed, and Glorfindel buried himself in his work.
The strain of keeping up a false face of good cheer was beginning to
wear on him.  He was tired, confused, and cranky.  He was not sleeping
well, and his short temper was beginning to be noticeable.  In order to
spare others from his increasingly foul temper, he spent every moment
either training or on patrol, and took to avoiding everyone as much as
possible when his presence was not required by duty.  Elrond noticed his
Seneschal’s preoccupation, as did Erestor and the rest of the household,
but they were not given the opportunity to question him, as he spent his
off-duty time sequestered in his rooms, where he alternated between
despondency and irritation.

Glorfindel was not naïve; he knew he was running from his feelings.  The
trouble was, the feelings denied labeling, which was precisely the
problem.  Damn Erestor and his secret.  How could Erestor have kept
something like that from him, his best friend, for so long?  And then to
tell him – the very next day – after *he* spent the night in the twins’
bed?  

For the first time in his long life, he thought he might be jealous.  

Jealousy was a foreign emotion for the Elda.  Never, since his rebirth,
had he ever felt envious of another, for what was there he could be
resentful of?  The Valar had granted him an incredible second chance,
and he knew how blessed he was.  Not a single moment of regret had
passed his mind since his return from Mandos.  Námo had pardoned him for
his transgressions in his first life, even going so far as to blunt the
most horrific memories of his final terrible struggle with the Balrog on
the pass of Cirith Thoronath.  Furthermore, he had the assurance that
someday he would find the one whose soul beckoned to his.


// flashback //


At the time of his release from Mandos, once again embodied in the form
he wore at the time of his death, Vairë led him through the vast House
of the Dead, and had shown him her endless, ever-growing tapestries that
lined the corridors.  What he saw writ upon the heavy cloth had plainly
been scenes of what would, or *could*, happen in the future.

He saw a great battle-plain teeming with Men and Elves and fell
creatures… a Ring of fiery gold…  a flaming mountain… a small creature
riding a horse across a river at break-neck speed…  a dark, forbidding
tower…  a terrible, tall dark shape crumpling to the ground before a
glowing silver form…  the sparkling sea…  a majestic white city built
against a mountainside.  Many visions he did not understand.

One of the last scenes Vairë showed him was that of a dark-haired ellon
holding hands with a heavily pregnant silver-haired elleth, while two
identical younger Elves sat nearby.  “They, Glorfindel, are the reasons
you are to be sent back,” the Weaver explained.  “That family,” she
pointed to the drapery, “holds the fate of Arda in their keeping; their
destiny and yours are inextricably entwined.  They are the reason Manwë
is sending you back.”  (male Elf, Elf-maid)

Glorfindel peered intently at the scene embroidered on the richly woven
cloth.  It seemed to him that the ellon looked familiar somehow, and the
beautiful elleth reminded him of someone, but before he could give the
matter further thought, Vairë took his hand in hers and led him on
again.  She halted directly in front of another panel and turned to face
him.  She gestured to the tapestry and bade him look.

“This, brave one, is the final scene I will reveal to you.  Look
closely, for in it is depicted that which will be your heart’s greatest
desire.”

Uneasily, Glorfindel turned his eyes upon the final vision.

The scene in the last of the Valië’s tapestries was incongruous with the
rest.  The tapestry showed two Elves, gloriously naked – a dark-haired
Elf making love to one with shimmering golden locks and sparkling blue
eyes the color of a summer’s day.  

More than a little discomfited to be looking upon such an erotic scene
in front of a Vala, and one in female form at that, he averted his eyes
and looked, puzzled, at the radiant Queen.  “Look closely, Glorfindel,”
she urged, giving him a gentle push forward.  “Do not be embarrassed.”

He turned back to the tapestry and took a step closer.  He gasped.  The
blond Elf in the tapestry was him!

His face was clearly visible over the dark-haired one’s shoulder; he
smiled radiantly up at his lover, their eyes locked together, his long
legs wrapped firmly about the other’s waist.  In shock, he glanced at
the Valië questioningly.

Vairë smiled fondly at him and responded to his unasked question with a
twinkle in her eye.  “Aye, Glorfindel, that is you.  You have an
important role to play in the future of Arda.  Did you not think you
would be rewarded?” she responded kindly.

Glorfindel shook his head in wonder and looked back at the tapestry
again, determined to absorb every detail.  This darkling Elf’s love was
to be his reward?  But how would he know who the ellon was?  The sleek,
lean body was characteristic of their race, and silky dark hair that
flowed like spilled ink across his back.  The sensual being who so
ardently made love to him bore no other discerning marks that could
suggest his identity.  The only thing he was certain of was that his
lover was of the Noldor; they were the only race of the Eldalië with
such coloring.  (male Elf)

“But who-–" he began.

Vairë silenced him with the touch of a finger laid upon his lips and
shook her head gently.  “Nay, valiant one.  Who he is will be revealed
to you in time; it is not for me to say.  You must look deep within your
heart to find that answer.”  Taking his hand again, she said, “Now come,
Manwë awaits,” and led him back down the winding corridors of Mandos.


// end flashback //


Thousands of years later he lay in bed, remembering the scenes from the
tapestries.  Some of the visions now made sense:  the forging of the One
Ring and the hiding of the Rings of Power, the waste of Eregion, the
white, tiered city of Minas Tirith with its soaring spires.  

The moment he first laid eyes on Elrond Half-elven, he recognized him
from the tapestry as the son of Bright Ëarendil, the child for whom he
had sacrificed his life.  Years later, he stood by Erestor’s side and
celebrated his Lord’s marriage to Celebrían.  The birth of the Lord and
Lady’s twins, and later, Arwen Undómiel, completed the prophecy which
Vairë had foretold.  Some visions still did not make sense, but he had
faith in the Weaver that they would in time become clear to him.

Still, he pondered the identity of the darkling Elf in the tapestry.
Virtually all the ellyn in Imladris were dark-haired, being primarily of
Noldorin descendancy.  The number of possibilities was overwhelming.  

Mentally he ticked off the list of Noldor who still remained on the
shores of Middle-earth.  He was absolutely certain the one destined to
be his mate was not Elrond; the Peredhel’s heart was Celebrían’s alone,
and the Elf-lord patiently bided his time in Arda until the day he could
be reunited with his beloved on the white shores of Valinor.  Their
friendship was deep, but platonic.

Gildor Inglorion?  Nay.  They were fast friends, nothing more, never
having been compelled to share the pleasures of the flesh with one
another.  

Lothvaen?  Glorfindel chuckled softly to himself at that thought.
Gangling young Lothvaen was certainly comely enough, but he was
definitely not Glorfindel’s type.  He looked to the junior counselor as
a younger brother, and knew instinctively that the young Noldo did not
harbor romantic feelings toward him either.

Lindir… that was a possibility.  The ethereal, graceful minstrel had
taken the returned Elda under his wing all those many years ago, helping
him to become reacquainted with living amongst flesh and blood, rather
than incorporeal beings.  Theirs was a deep and abiding friendship, and
once upon a time they had discussed a possible long-term relationship,
even becoming lovers for a while, but ultimately realized they were
better off as friends.  They had parted on the best of terms, and still
remained close.  Nay, not Lindir, then.

Could the figure have been either Elladan or Elrohir?  If his intended
was indeed one of the gwanûn, though, more questions arose.  How was he
to decide:  Elladan or Elrohir?  But there was something that just did
not sit right with that entire line of reasoning.  It was well known
throughout the Elven realms that the bond of twins transcended all
others, and that the Peredhil brethren had claimed each other as their
own.  Was he intended to be the third in a triad?  But if that were so,
would not Vairë have shown all three of them?  Despite the glorious
night he spent in their bed, and the loving words that had passed
between them, the pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit.  (twins)

Next came Erestor.  True, they loved and took comfort with each other on
occasion, but their love was that of lifelong friends – shield brothers.
The sex was nothing short of amazing, for Erestor was a responsive and
sensual lover who gave back in return every bit as much as he took, plus
some.  He was beautiful and exotic, and wise, learned in lore and
skillful in diplomacy, and a fierce warrior when need arose.  But they
were friends above all.

Frustrated, he punched his pillow and drew the sheets up over his head.
These thoughts were futile.  He needed to focus, if he was ever to make
any sense of things.

Turning back over, Glorfindel lay back and crossed his hands, resting
them on his stomach.  He breathed deeply and slowly for a few moments,
then cleared his mind and brought forth the image of Vairë’s tapestry.
There must have been something he missed, some clue that would reveal
his lover’s identity.

He remembered the warmth of the House of the Dead, the peace he felt.
The delicate scents, the beauty and serenity of Vairë the Weaver as she
stood beside him.  The sensual vision of two Elves obviously so deeply
in love.  He imagined himself walking forward slowly, taking in the
vision she had shown to him.  

Suddenly he gasped.  There, what was that?  Right there, in the corner.
Closing his eyes tightly, he forced his focus on that particular spot.
What he saw sent his mind reeling.

“Oh, no… it cannot be!” he whispered, stunned.  He shook his head in
denial.  The detail, which had escaped him until now, was a small but
telling one, at the very corner of the tapestry almost hidden from view.
On a table near the bed, close to the feet of the entangled lovers, sat
a box.  A box approximately the size of a large, thick book, made of
dark wood inlaid with bits of polished semi-precious gems, and
exquisitely carved with vines and flora.  Erestor’s box, the gift from
the gwanûn.  (twins)

Erestor was the Elf in the tapestry, the one who made love to him.

A string of profanities left his lips in every language he knew:
Elvish, Westron, the ancient Quenya tongue and even the Black Speech.
How had things gotten so complicated?  

Erestor was his soul mate?  

No, it was not possible.  They had been friends for thousands of years,
surely he would have realized before now?  They had lived and worked
side-by-side for millennia - he would have *known* if Erestor was meant
to be his.  The Counselor would never feel that way toward him; he had
never shown any interest whatsoever in him, other than the mutual
pleasure they shared on occasion, when the nights were cold, or the
loneliness became unbearable.

He lay awake the rest of the night.

~*~*~*~*~

Early the next morning Glorfindel washed and dressed quickly, ran a
brush hastily through his hair and plaited it in a long, single
shimmering braid.  A thin leather strap was used to secure the end.  He
buckled on his sword, strapped on his bow and quiver, and checked that
his throwing knife was seated securely in his boot.  For long minutes he
paced to and fro in his chambers, until he could take no more.

He threw open the door to his chambers and stalked into the hallway.
His eyes flashed blue flames as he thundered down the corridor and
bounded up the stairs to the upper level, taking the steps three at a
time.  His pace only slowed as he neared Elrond’s private office.  He
paused in the open doorway, seeing with relief that Elrond was already
at his desk and working.

The Lord of Imladris sat in a plushly upholstered chair behind a massive
desk, deep in concentration, his dark head bent over a parchment spread
in front of him.  A steaming cup of tea sat nearby, its spicy scent
mingling with the rich, earthy smell of books.  Every available
horizontal surface of the desk was littered with stacks of papers and
scrolls heaped in precariously balanced piles.  Heavy shelves mounted to
the walls were laden with thick tomes, scrolls, and odd gadgets.  A
large basket in the corner was stuffed to overflowing with rolled maps.
It really was a marvel Elrond could find anything at all, Glorfindel
thought wryly.  The Lord’s private office was a positive health hazard
in comparison to the almost compulsive neatness Erestor kept their
public offices and library in.

Damn, there was Erestor again.  Could he have no peace from the raven-
haired Counselor?

Glorfindel signaled his presence with a light rap upon the open door and
waited for Elrond to look up.  At the knock, Elrond jumped in surprise
and looked up from the pile of papers he had been engrossed in.
Carefully setting the document on the desk aside, he smiled warmly at
his fair Captain and motioned for Glorfindel to enter.  “Maer aur,
Seneschal, how fare you?”  (good morning)

Glorfindel crossed the room and dropped heavily into one of the matching
high-backed wooden chair that flanked the opposite side of Elrond’s
desk.  With a heavy sigh, he buried his golden head in his hands.

Elrond’s welcoming smile disappeared and he looked at the top of his
friend’s head with concern.  Dropping the formalities he queried,  “Are
you well?  What is the trouble, pen veleg?”  (mighty one)

“Elrond, I have to go away,” Glorfindel’s voice was quiet and muffled
behind his hands.

The Elf-lord stood in alarm and shoved the heavy chair out of the way.
Quickly he rounded the massive desk and sat in the wooden chair next to
Glorfindel.  Leaning forward, his touch was gentle on Glorfindel’s
shoulder.  The Seneschal lifted his head from his hands and met Elrond’s
confused silver gaze with his own tormented one.    “What has happened,
my friend?  Go away?  Leave Imladris?”

“Aye… nay, Elrond.  Aiya, I do not know what I mean.”  He exhaled
noisily and slumped forward in his chair, defeated.  “I do not mean
permanently, meldir.  Imladris is my home; I could live nowhere else,
and it is my sworn duty to serve you.  That is not what I meant at all.”  

Glorfindel rubbed his temples wearily.  It was early in the morning, and
already he was exhausted.  His head ached dreadfully, and he made a
mental note to ask Elrond for a headache elixir before he left.

Elrond sat back and crossed his legs, waiting in expectant silence for
Glorfindel to continue.  In truth, he was a bit apprehensive; such
misgiving was completely uncharacteristic of his fearless, fearsome
Seneschal.

“I am confused, Elrond.  I need to clear my mind.”

“Go on…” Elrond looked curiously at him.

Glorfindel stood abruptly and paced about the spacious office.  He
loathed this weakness within himself.  Never in his life had he run, not
from *anything* - not war, nor hardship, nor even a Balrog.  And now he
was running from an exotic, infuriating, sharp-tongued Counselor.  Who,
if Vairë’s tapestry was to be believed, was destined to become his lover
and mate.  

Elrond sat tolerantly, watching his Seneschal stalk about the room like
a caged beast.  Glorfindel paused in front of the window and turned,
leaning back against the window frame.  Defiantly he crossed his arms
over his chest and peered suspiciously at his Lord.  “You will not make
this easy for me, will you?”

“Nay, I will not.”  He looked disapprovingly at the blond and arched an
eyebrow.  “You know me better than that, Glorfindel.  You came to my
office unlooked-for and stated in no uncertain terms that you must go
away.  Now you are reluctant to tell me why, and seem to expect me to
grant permission without knowing more.  I believe some sort of
explanation is in order.”

“You are tenacious, Peredhel.”

“Aye.”

“Infuriating.”

“So I have been told.”

“Resolute.”

“Agreed; it is why I am Lord of this valley and you are not.  Continue.”

Overpowered and exasperated, Glorfindel said, “Elrond, my friend,
something has happened recently, and I need some time to think about it.
I cannot be more specific, but things have come to light recently that
causes me to question myself, to challenge my beliefs.  I find my mind
in turmoil.  I am unable to sleep, unable to concentrate.  I need to put
some space between me and hi - this situation,” he quickly corrected his
near slip, and hoped Elrond did not notice, “in order to be able to see
things clearly.”

“I see.”  Elrond sat pensively, his elbows resting on the arms of the
chair, his fingers steepled together.  “Is this so important to you,
then?  Perhaps a break from your duties would help?”

“Nay, I do not think so.  I believe I need the distance in order to
achieve clarity.  Please, Elrond, do not ask more,” Glorfindel implored.
“I have told you all I am able.  When I return, I hope to be able to
explain everything to you, but right now, I cannot.  I just do not know,
myself.”

Elrond sat for a moment while Glorfindel leaned in against the window.
Neither spoke for a long while.  Finally the Lord stood and crossed the
floor toward the tense blond, and nodded.  “Go, pen iaur, with my
blessing.  I was about to send a messenger to Celeborn’s wood, and I see
no reason you cannot go instead.  But,” he cautioned, ”I will expect
your return in a fortnight.  And take a companion with you.  I do not
wish to lose my Seneschal in the wilds,” he teased gently, and
Glorfindel gave a small, reluctant smile in return.  (ancient one)

Elrond raised a hand and gently cupped Glorfindel’s face, caressing the
smooth cheek fondly.  At the moment of contact, though, a look of
surprise registered on his face, and he stared, dumbfound, into the
piercing blue eyes of his friend.

Glorfindel pulled back and squirmed uncomfortably; something about that
dazed yet knowing look told him somehow Elrond had scryed knowledge of
his dalliance with his sons.  Another second later, a look of
understanding dawned on the ageless face.  Elrond smiled slightly, as if
the answers to an Ages-old question finally came to him.
  
“Peace, Glorfindel.  You will find the answers you seek.  Now go, before
the day gets older.”

Glorfindel nodded curtly, then turned toward the door.  As he crossed
the threshold, he turned and looked back at his Ages-old friend and
Lord.  “Thank you, Elrond.”  




Part3
~*~*~*~*~

Another morning arrived and Erestor awoke, once again sticky, his eyes
dry and gritty with fatigue.  With each successive night the dreams
became ever more realistic, ever more graphic.  The assault on his body
became ever more pronounced, as if his lover was trying to wear down his
defenses and *force* him into awareness.  And he grew ever more
exhausted.

He awoke every morn reluctant to move, fully expecting to find the
pleasurable throbbing in his backside that comes from being well used.
Every morn he was dismayed when that sweet ache did not come.  For his
ghostly lover did use him well, leaving him limp and sated, the dream-
touch alone often enough to wring shattering climaxes from his frenzied
body.

And every morn he awoke more enamored of his invisible paramour.

The waking routine he had become accustomed to over the past weeks
followed:  the inevitable rinsing of sleeping trousers, then bathe, dry,
brush hair, dress.  Head fogged with exhaustion, he headed toward the
kitchens before the first rays of dawn blushed the sky.

First on the day’s agenda was a consultation with the head chef over the
supply of foodstuffs for the coming weeks, after which the Counselor
hoped to filch the remnants of the sweetly glazed fruited pastry left
over from last night’s dinner.  A rush of sugar and a cup of strong tea
would wake him nicely, he hoped.

Meeting completed and list of requested supplies committed to memory,
Erestor strode confidently out of the kitchens toward his office,
holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and daintily licking sticky
sweet icing off the slim fingers of the other.  A movement outside the
window caught his eye, and he looked up to see two Elves on horseback,
packs strapped to their mounts’ flanks, riding rapidly down the trail
leading toward the river and toward the outlet of the valley.  His heart
clenched when he recognized one of the riders by the thick, shimmering
golden braid that bounced upon the broad back as the two rode out of
sight.  Alarmed, he hurried down the corridor and headed straight toward
Elrond’s office.  

He skidded to a stop in the open doorway, seeing the slim, willowy
figure of Arwen seated in her father’s chair.  Her legs were propped up
on Elrond’s massive desk, gown tucked primly about her legs for sake of
modesty.  She held a slim volume of poetry in one hand, and twirled a
lock of hair around one finger as she read, deep in concentration.  He
leaned casually against the doorframe and admired the beautiful, relaxed
picture she presented.  As it always happened of late, since the Lady’s
passing to the West, he was struck by Arwen’s resemblance to her naneth;
the luxuriant dark locks and keen grey eyes belonged to her adar, but
otherwise she was Celebrían in duplicate.  Elrond and Celebrían had
indeed made exquisite children.

“You look surprisingly at ease in that chair,” Erestor teased, and she
looked up, smiling widely when she recognized the familiar face of the
raven-haired Counselor.  

“Good morning, my Lord,” Arwen grinned at Erestor, marking her place in
the book with a slender finger.  “It is a rather comfortable chair.  I
see why Ada spends so much time here.”  She dropped her feet from the
edge of the desk, settling them back on the floor and straightening her
gown.

He walked toward her, smiling, and leaned down to kiss her cheek.  “Good
morning, Arwen.  I am surprised to see you here.  Where is your father?”

Arwen tilted her face up to receive Erestor’s kiss, and set the book
down carefully in the center of the desk after tucking a slip of
parchment in the place she had left off.  “Ada was called away for an
urgent meeting, but he should be back shortly.  I was just waiting for
him.  Will you join me?” 
 
He considered a moment, and then seated himself in one of the plush wing
chairs on the opposite side of Elrond’s desk.  After setting his teacup
down on a corner of the desk, he unconsciously reached out and
straightened a few piles of paper, tutting under his breath over the
mess Elrond always created of his paperwork.  “I will join you for a few
moments, my Lady.  We have not seen much of each other since your return
from Lothlórien.”

“I agree; it seems we have barely begun to catch up on the happenings of
the past years.”  Arwen stood and moved around the desk, taking the
chair next to Erestor.  She sat and straightened her gown under her
before turning toward the Counselor.  “There, now we can speak properly
without Ada’s monstrosity between us.”

Erestor chuckled.  “I have often thought the only reason he feels it
necessary to have such a large desk is simply to have more available
space to clutter.”

They spoke idly of mundane matters while awaiting Elrond’s return.
Erestor smiled fondly at the lovely elleth and queried, “I understand
you have an admirer, aewithen.”  (little bird) 

Arwen flushed in embarrassment and wrinkled her nose daintily.  She
turned to Erestor and remarked, “Aye, I suppose I do.  I had heard from
Galadriel of the latest scion of the line of Elendil, and of Arathorn's
passing, but I have been away since Lady Gilraen brought the child here
for fostering.  I was quite surprised at how strongly Estel resembles
his father.”  She smiled mischievously and could not resist teasing her
overprotective Erestor just a tiny bit.  “While he is quite young, I
will admit he is passing fair.”

Erestor turned dour eyes upon her.  “I do not think your father would be
pleased with that pronouncement, Arwen, and I confess I am none too
delighted, either.”  

“Oh Erestor,” she scoffed, “I was teasing!  I simply said he was fair,
not that I was interested in him.  He is naught more than a child.” 

“Your Ada should have kept you safely away in Lórien, pen dithen.  One
stare from Celeborn is enough to frighten any suitors away.  Even those
young Galadhrim who compete with each other for your attentions have
thus far been dissuaded from their pursuit of you, thanks to your
grandparents.”

“Erestor…” she groaned, and playfully swatted the elder Elf on the knee.
“Honestly, you are every bit as impossible as Ada.  With you and Ada,
Glorfindel, and two brothers hovering over me for millennia, it is no
wonder I have never wed, and let us not even speak of grandfather.  The
lot of you has managed to scare away anyone who has dared approach me.” 

“Luckily young Estel will be riding North on the morrow in search of his
kin, a fact for which your father is rather grateful, if it means
keeping you out of his clutches,” Erestor confided.  He was rather
grateful as well; the thought of the sweet child he had raised much as
his own, betrothed and married off was enough to send him into cold
sweats of dread.  

“You are impossible, Erestor.”

“Aye, I suppose I am, but only because I love you as my own daughter,”
he agreed.

Making his tone deliberately dispassionate, he changed the subject,
fighting the sudden flutter of anxiety that welled in his chest.  “Did
your Adar mention Glorfindel going anywhere?”

“I saw Glorfindel myself just this morning as he was preparing to go.
Why?”  Arwen looked at him curiously.

“I thought I saw him riding out from Imladris a few moments ago.”  He
flicked an invisible bit of lint from his sleeve in a studied show of
nonchalance.

“Aye, he said he was on his way to Lothlórien.  He carries a message
from Ada.”

Erestor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  Glorfindel, carrying a message?
There were countless messengers at the ready, available in an instant to
undertake that duty.  “Since when have the Seneschal’s duties extended
to the carrying of correspondence between realms?” he asked archly.

Arwen shrugged.  “I did think it a bit odd.  Glorfindel told Ada he was
feeling a bit overwhelmed by his responsibilities, and asked for a bit
of time off.  He did seem agitated and anxious to be away,” she
confided.  “He has seemed a bit out of sorts lately, very distant and
always storming about.  Have you any thought to what his black mood is
about?”  

His heart sunk, and vainly he tried to keep his face impassive, but knew
he had failed utterly by the concerned look Arwen gave him.  Aye, it was
as he had feared, and Glorfindel’s absence confirmed his earlier
suspicions were correct.  Glorfindel was indeed angry about his
confession in the garden a fortnight past.  One, or both, of the gwanûn,
must now be the recipient of the Elda’s affections, and Glorfindel was
rankled by the knowledge that Erestor had bedded them first.  Literally.

“We had a – discussion – recently and I fear he is angry with me.  He
did not say so, in so many words, but he has been distant and hostile
ever since,” he replied bleakly.  

Suddenly he was overwhelmed with a need to get away.  Crestfallen and
feeling sick to his stomach, Erestor made to stand, but Arwen reached
out and grasped the slick silk of his robe and gently tugged him back to
his seat.

“I am sorry, Erestor.  Is there anything I can do?  Do you want to talk
about it?”  Grasping one of Erestor’s slim hands in her tiny ones, Arwen
searched his tired eyes and continued, “My friend, I will understand if
you do not wish to discuss the matter which stands between you and
Glorfindel, but I ask only out of concern for you.  Are you well?  I
cannot help but note the circles under your eyes and the drawn look upon
your face.”

Erestor closed his eyes tiredly.  They burned and stung with barely
restrained tears of frustration and exhaustion.  Heartily now did he
regret divulging his secret to the Elda, but never did he expect that
his confession would drive a wedge between them.  He should have never
spoken at all.  He thought back dully to the night in the garden and the
lighthearted jests he had made, unwittingly at Glorfindel’s expense,
never imagining Glorfindel had actually fallen for one of the gwanûn.
(twins)

Nothing more would he like at that moment than to pour out his heart to
the kindly elleth, but somehow he knew she would not understand.  How
could he tell this child whom he had practically raised all that had
transpired in the past months?  That his actions millennia ago with her
own brothers had inadvertently caused a rift between Glorfindel and
himself, so many years later?  That he had likely caused irreparable
damage to a friendship that had endured millennia?

Avoiding Arwen’s piercing grey gaze, which so eerily resembled her
father's, the Counselor picked up his mug of tea and took a sip.  He
grimaced at the taste of overly sweet, lukewarm brew and set the cup
back down.  “I have not been sleeping well recently,” he skillfully
avoided a direct answer, a talent honed with many years’ practice at the
tables of diplomats and politicians uncounted.  “My dreams of late have
been… especially vivid.”

“Is there anything you wish to discuss?” Arwen, always solicitous and
full of concern, asked.  “I could ask Ada to prepare you a sleeping
draught, if you wish.”

Aye, a sleeping draught was a possibility, he thought.  Something must
be done, for he could not function much longer in this state.
Conceding, he nodded.  “I would be most appreciative.  If you ask him, I
will pick it up later today.  I could formulate one myself, of course,”
he said grimly, the level of fatigue evident in his voice, “but I fear
given my current state of exhaustion, I would confuse belladonna with
bergamot and only succeed in poisoning myself.”

Arwen nodded, relieved that an argument with the oft-intractable
Counselor did not appear to be forthcoming.  “I will do that, Erestor, I
am concerned about you.”  Compassionately she touched his hand and
asked, “Will you tell me of your dreams?  Sometimes it is helpful to
discuss them, for what Lórien shows us in the imaginings of our reverie
is sometimes veiled, only to become clear in the light of day.”

Erestor tore his gaze from hers, feeling the heat rise upon his cheeks
as memories of lustful dreams came flooding back.  To his horror, he
felt himself harden and shifted in his chair discreetly, praying
fervently that his burgeoning erection would be concealed by his robes.
He flushed crimson right up to his hairline and stared determinedly at a
point just above Arwen’s right shoulder.  

Arwen was quite surprised to witness the stain of embarrassment spread
across Erestor’s features.  Then her eyes widened as slow realization
came over her.  “Oh.”  She queried hesitantly, almost certain of the
answer, “And these dreams would be of an – intimate – nature?” 

His voice was tight and pitched higher than usual when he responded.
“It would not be proper to discuss the nature of my dreams with you,
aewithen.”  Stiffly he stood and shoved the heavy chair back out of his
way, reaching blindly for his teacup, which slid off the desk.  Catching
it one-handed a split second before it hit the floor, he turned and near
bolted for the door, almost colliding with Elrond.  He gave a curt nod
to his Lord, and then fled down the hall to the safety of his own
office.

Elrond stared open-mouthed at his Counselor’s retreating back, and
turned questioningly to his daughter.  “Dare I ask what that was all
about?” he asked, walking toward Arwen, his brow furrowed in bemused
bewilderment. 

A sly smile upon her face, Arwen rose and met him halfway to the door.
Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and fussed with a mussed braid,
tucking it back neatly into place in the ornate hair clip, and kissed
his smooth cheek.  She pulled back, and taking his hand, led him back to
the desk, steering him to the seat Erestor had just vacated.  “You may
want to sit down, Ada, because I can barely believe it myself.”

At his puzzled look, she took his hand and leaned forward toward him.
Briefly she relayed her conversation with the Counselor, beginning with
his anxiety over the Seneschal’s departure and ending with Erestor’s
fleeing of the office in panic.  In a rush of giddy excitement, she
concluded, “If my suspicion is correct, Ada… Erestor is in love!”

Elrond blinked.  “Is that so, pen vain?  Have you foreseen it?”
(beautiful one)

Arwen gave her father a scornful look. “Honestly, Ada, you males are so
blind sometimes.  It was not necessary to foresee it; I just *know*.”

“This is most interesting, then,” he agreed with the barest hint of a
smile, for his daughter’s intuition was never wrong.  “It appears our
bold Seneschal is in love as well.”

“Have *you* foreseen it, Ada?”

He recalled the image of his Seneschal in bed with his sons, a vision
which had astounded him at the time, but which was rapidly replaced by
another, even more astonishing sight.  He shook his head in
consternation. “I have foreseen something, daughter, and I do not know
exactly what to make of it.” 

Eagerly Arwen leaned forward and sought her father’s grey gaze, her eyes
bright with anticipation.  “Tell me about it, Ada…” 

~*~*~*~*~

Later that night….

Erestor grimaced at the stench of the noxious concoction Elrond had
brewed for him.  It smelled revolting.  In his estimation, with all
Elrond’s talents as a healer he could have crafted something a bit less
distasteful, surely.  He considered abandoning his plan for even taking
the sleeping draught, but after an enormous yawn nearly dislocated his
jaw, reconsidered.  Taking a deep breath, the Counselor held his nose
and downed the bitter brew in one swallow, shuddering as it burned a
fiery trail down to his gullet.  

The draught worked quickly; he staggered to his bed and lay back,
sinking into the comfort of his bed even as his eyes glazed over in
reverie.  

~*~*~*~*~

Erestor moaned in his sleep, his slender fingers gripping the sheets
tightly, while soft, slick wetness traced a slow ring around the pink
circle of a nipple, tasting and teasing.  He whimpered pitifully,
unmindful and unknowing of the sounds escaping his mouth, breathless
moans that went unheard in the stillness of night.  Searing heat latched
upon his nipple, sucking wetly, coaxing the flat disk into peaked
hardness.  He bowed sharply, his mouth open, neck bent, silently
entreating his phantom lover for more.

The specter obliged; the hot mouth released the straining bud and
ghosted down his lightly muscled stomach.  Erestor cried out shrilly
when his unearthly seducer engulfed his length in one motion, and his
hips thrust upward, seeking relief from the unremitting, burning ache in
his loins.  A faint ripping sound was heard as the sheets gave way under
his desperate grasp, but he took no notice, only sinking deeper and
deeper into the dream-state.

The heat surrounding his arousal disappeared, but before Erestor could
utter a reflexive sound of dismay, a phantom shaft penetrated him
powerfully, and he cried out sharply in pained relief.  Unwittingly his
legs rose under the tangle of bedclothes, seeking an invisible waist,
demanding his spirit lover to take him more forcefully.  He writhed and
panted roughly as the thick, silken rod pierced him deeply.  Waves of
orgasm crashed over him, his release coming in hot gushes and soaking
his nightclothes. 

The spasms of release slowly faded, and his dream-self
aftermath of the storm.  The sweetest touch of supple lips pressed
against his, and a calloused hand caressed his face.  A quiet voice
murmured, “’Restor,” then he knew no more until morning.

~*~*~*~*~

Meanwhile in Valinor…

The Valië spoke sharply to her companion.  “Did we or did we not have an
agreement, Irmo?”

Irmo, Vala of dreams, master of what is or what might be, hung his head
and was abashed.  “Aye, we did.”

“And?”  Vairë tapped her foot impatiently.

“Well…” he stalled for time, hopeful she would change the subject.

Alas, it was not to be, for the Weaver pressed on.  “I am waiting,
Irmo.”

The Vala sighed deeply.  “I was hoping he would figure it out himself.”

“You.  WHAT?”

Irmo shrugged helplessly and pleaded with her.  “If the dreams were too
obvious, he would be suspect.  He will find out himself, in time.  Be
patient, Lady.”

“Have I not been patient enough already?  Glorfindel has waited four and
a half millennia for him, the least you could do is honor your promise
to me and help them along,” she accused.

“I am helping them along.  Yet how is it my problem your Edhil cannot
see the forest for the trees?  Glorfindel sees the truth, yet he runs!”
Irmo argued.

Glaring, the Valië turned to him.  “Oh, so he is *my* Edhel?  And what
does that have to do with anything?”

“Aye, he is.  You were the one who showed him your tapestries, you are
the Weaver; therefore he is *your* Edhel,” he insisted.

“Your brother – my *spouse* - released his faer from his halls, and
Manwë arranged for his return to Arda.  I am but a pawn in their plans,”
Vairë said flippantly, with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “This –
machination - was not my idea to begin with, so I suggest if you take
issue with that, you address your concerns with our King.”
 
“Let us not argue, Lady, for we have the same goal in mind.  We did have
an agreement, and I intend to honor it.  I simply do not wish to make it
so effortless for him.  It would seem suspect, do you not think, in
light of Glorfindel’s realization?  If he sees it on his own, he will
never realize we have played a part.  Erestor must come to the
realization on his own, much as Glorfindel did.”  He took her hand in a
gesture of pardon.

Vairë sighed.  “You are right, friend.  I simply grow impatient.
Glorfindel has served us so faithfully, I am anxious for him to
recognize his love and claim his reward.  I never imagined it would take
him so long to realize his heart.”

Irmo spoke gently.  “Nor did I, Vairë, which is why I agreed to lend my
assistance.  He has been valiant in his fight against the nameless one,
and his single-mindedness serves him well.  It is most unfortunate that
the same steadfast resolve has made him blind to that which has been
before him all along.”

Vairë nodded slowly.  “Aye, you are right.  And that same resolve runs
true in Erestor.”

“Soon, my friend, soon,” Irmo reassured her.  “You shall see.  All will
become clear to him, and oh, how Varda’s stars will shine blessedly upon
them on that night!”

Looking upon their unknowing subjects from afar, the Valar watched, and
waited.



Part 4
~*~*~*~*~

Lothlórien, 2951 T.A. – the same day of Erestor’s talk with Arwen in
Imladris

Within an hour of procuring Elrond’s blessing, Glorfindel and his
companion departed for Lothlórien.  After leaving his Lord’s office, the
Seneschal had headed straight to the training grounds to notify his
second of his impending absence and to recruit a traveling partner.
Young Arthadan was, Glorfindel considered, the ideal attendant – he was
a fearsome warrior, had no family remaining in Middle-earth to protest
his unanticipated absence, and was enthusiastic about what would be his
first visit to the Golden Wood.

After briefly returning to his chambers to pack a small rucksack with
necessities for the sojourn, and instructing Arthadan to do the same,
Glorfindel’s final stop was back at Elrond’s office to retrieve the
Lord’s hastily penned memo for Lord Celeborn.  Glorfindel met Arthadan
back at the stables, where they strapped their packs on their horses and
set off rapidly on the trail that led down the valley and across the
river toward the main exit of Imladris.

The journey south was swift; they stopped only to allow their mounts
food and rest.  Arthadan was eager to catch his first glimpse of the
legendary Laurelindórnan, but Glorfindel’s urgent haste was simply to
put as much distance as quickly as possible between himself and the
raven-haired Noldo who plagued his heart.  He forced thoughts of his
predicament from his mind during their travels and concentrated only on
the beauty found in the Misty Mountains and the excited chatter of
Arthadan as they neared their destination.

Sentries hidden high in the mellryn observed their arrival at the
borders of the Golden Wood.  The leader recognized the Seneschal of
Imladris and, after learning he and his companion were carrying a
message for the Lord and Lady of the Wood, allowed the two to pass.

It was with no surprise to Glorfindel that barely had the travelers
entered the Wood when he felt a delicate nudge against his thoughts, and
with a sardonic smile, he opened his mind to allow the connection.

//Mae govannen, my Lady,// he greeted Galadriel formally, then switched
to a more relaxed tone.  //I wondered how long it would be ere you
scryed our coming.//   (Well met)

// My Lord, you are quite aware I learned of your presence even as you
drew near to my lands.//  Tinkling laugher filled his mind and brought a
smile to Glorfindel’s lips.   //It has been many years since you have
graced our Wood with your presence, Glorfindel o Imladris.  To what do
my Lord and I owe this unexpected honor?//

//You are worse than a cat, Galadriel; I can feel your curiosity from
here,// he teased his old friend.  //I come bearing a message for your
husband from Lord Elrond.//

//My law-son’s message was of such dire import that he entrusted it only
to his Seneschal to deliver?//  Galadriel’s tone became clipped,
alarmed.

//Nay, Galadriel, do not trouble yourself.  It is simply a communiqué
regarding the training program,// he hurriedly reassured her.  Trust
Galadriel to assume the worst.  //I volunteered to carry it myself,
feeling the need for a brief respite from my duties.//  

That was stretching the truth a bit.  Well, perhaps more than a bit;
quickly he safeguarded those thoughts from Galadriel, hoping he had been
quick enough before she ascertained the true reason for his travels.

//Very well.  My husband and I would be pleased if you would join us for
dinner this eve, once you have refreshed yourself from your journey.
You and your companion will be met at the gate and shown to the guest
talans.  Be here at dusk.//  At Glorfindel’s acceptance of the
invitation and a word of farewell, Galadriel severed the connection.

Dusk drew nigh by the time the travelers had circled southwest around
the great treed city and arrived at the gate of Caras Galadhon.  True to
her word, Galadriel had sent an escort, who ushered them inside and led
them to plush guest quarters at the center of the city near the royal
talan.  Glorfindel insisted on accompanying Arthadan to the young
warrior’s quarters first, to ensure his companion was settled in
comfortably.  

Arthadan struck up an immediate camaraderie with their Galadhel guide.
The Silvan Elf waiting while the young Noldo refreshed himself, then the
new friends escorted Glorfindel to the talan that would be his own
during his brief stay.  The two younger Elves bade him a good evening
and left for a tour of the city and a night of carousing with the
younger wardens of the Galadhrim not on duty, those yet untied by
spouses and family.

Glorfindel hurriedly unbraided his hair and bathed, then dressed in a
clean, if slightly wrinkled, light tunic and snug breeches.  Leaving his
hair unbraided and flowing loosely around his shoulder, he pulled on his
well-worn boots and set off for the enormous royal talan set in the
center of the city, Elrond’s sealed parchment in hand.

Galadriel and Celeborn, ever the gracious hosts, greeted their old
friend with honor and spread a sumptuous repast for him.  If the Lórien
rulers were suspicious of his reason for having left Imladris, they were
discreet enough not to mention it.  A fine meal and a glass of wine
assisted him in relaxing, and he enjoyed their company, relieved to be
free of his brooding thoughts for a while.

Celeborn received his son-in-law’s message and, after consulting with
Glorfindel and Galadriel on their opinions, excused himself to pen his
response.  In his absence, the Noldu reminisced of bygone days.
Galadriel especially enjoyed recounting the tales of the great ones of
their race, for although she deeply loved her husband and the Silvan
folk she had dwelt among for many years, sometimes she ached to recount
the deeds, both fair and foul, of her own people.  

After a time, Celeborn returned and handed a sealed parchment of his own
to Glorfindel to bring back upon his departure.  For a long while, the
ancient Elves discussed the state of the lands and the harbingers of
dark times ahead.  Finally, Glorfindel bade the Lord and Lady a fond
good night and descended the hundreds of steps leading down from the
royal talan.  At the very foot, he heaved a sigh of relief.  As mystical
and beautiful as the Golden Wood was, living in a tree was something to
which he would never become accustomed.  The Galadhrim were a strange
sort, he mused, but no doubt they thought some of the customs of the
Imladrian peoples odd too.

A short walk later through the broad streets faintly illuminated by the
light of the many lamps hung about the city, and he arrived back at his
talan.  He climbed the ladder and had barely begun putting his few
belongings in order when a musical voice beckoned from below.  “Ho,
Glorfindel!”

Peering out the window and down into the gloom, he saw a head of
luminescent silver hair that glowed brightly in the faint light bobbing
beneath the talan, rapidly ascending the ladder.  He smiled broadly in
recognition and crossed the floor quickly, throwing the open the door.
The diminutive Elf who stepped off the top rung was amazed to find
himself swept off his feet and crushed to a broad chest.  “Suilad,
Rúmil, it is good to see you!” Glorfindel hugged his old friend and
comrade tightly to him in a joyous reunion.  (Greetings)

Rúmil slapped the Seneschal on the back and hugged him tightly in
return, grinning widely.  “So the rumors were true, Glorfindel the
stalwart has indeed journeyed to our fair Wood.” 

Glorfindel laughed and released him, then ushered the Galadhel into his
talan and offered a glass of wine from the supply that was thoughtfully
left for guests.  Rúmil accepted and the two old friends sat down in a
pair of oversized, comfortable chairs and chatted, catching up on news
of each other’s lives since the last time they had seen each other years
in the past.  Much of what Rúmil told him of the lands the Seneschal had
previously heard from his dinner with the rulers of Lórien.  One bottle
of wine was finished off and a second opened as they talked.

“What of your fair valley, mellonen?”  Rúmil questioned, curious to hear
news of the beautiful realm he had only visited a handful of times.
“How is Lord Elrond holding up without his Lady by his side?  Lucky he
was to have found his soul-mate, and to remain true to her through the
years since her departure speaks of love we should all aspire to,” Rúmil
looked a bit wistful.  (my friend)

“He bears up as well as can be expected.  He missed Arwen terribly while
she was here, and it seems his spirits have lightened considerably now
she has returned home.  Imladris needs that feminine touch it has missed
since Celebrían’s exodus.”

“And that cute scribe… Lothvaen?”  Rúmil looked hopeful.  Young Lothvaen
had been the object of intense scrutiny during Rúmil’s last visit to
Imladris.  He had hoped to make the comely young Noldo’s acquaintance,
but the elusive Elf had shown little interest in his advances, a fact
that Rúmil hoped to remedy the next time he journeyed to the valley by
the Misty Mountains.  

“Aye, Lothvaen it is.  He is well.  He has quickly risen in seniority
among the Counsel, and frequently Master Erestor relinquishes the
running of the meetings to him.”

Rúmil’s dark eyebrows wiggled suggestively at the mention of the
Counselor.  “Ah, Master Erestor…  now *there* is a fine male specimen.
I cannot help but wonder what earthly delights are hidden ‘neath those
somber dark robes.”

Unaccountably, Rúmil’s words sliced through his gut in a sharp stab of
jealousy at the mention of Erestor, and again he forced his thoughts
away from the Noldo, determined to enjoy relaxed conversation with his
old friend.

//I will not think of him now, I will not.//

Glorfindel smoothly changed the subject by reaching for the second half-
full bottle of wine and holding it up in an unspoken question.  He
asked, “How fare your brothers?  It has been long since our paths have
crossed.  I trust they are well?”

Rúmil seemed not to notice Glorfindel’s unease.  He chuckled and covered
his glass with his hand, signaling he had drunk enough.  “Haldir has a
new lover, an ellon this time, and is quite taken with him.  It seems
quite serious, and I am halfway expecting them to announce their
betrothal soon.  With the way he discarded elleth after elleth, Orophin
and I figured he had not until now been willing to admit he preferred
the taste of male flesh.”  (male Elf, Elf-maid)

Glorfindel nodded knowingly.  The eldest of the three brothers had
developed quite a reputation for his cavalier attitude toward the fairer
sex, and his inability to settle down with one elleth now made perfect
sense.  It was so typical of Haldir to have set his course, and with the
dedication that made him the Captain of the March Wardens, refuse to
deviate from his set path until confronted with irrefutable evidence.
Which, apparently, was an ellon who had stolen his heart.

“And news of fair Orophin?  How are his children?”

Rúmil beamed proudly.  His younger brother and law-sister were expecting
their third child soon.  “The little ones are fine and growing like
weeds.  Nurael needed a bit of peace last night as the babe’s arrival
nears, so the children stayed with me.  I allowed them to stay up ‘til
dawn, pumped them full of sweets, and sent them home this morning for
their adar to deal with,” he grinned sheepishly.  “My brother is most
displeased with me at the moment, but I can deny them nothing.  I do
adore them so.”  

Glorfindel laughed, well imagining the look on stern Orophin’s face at
the prospect of keeping two hyperactive, sleep-deprived Elflings out of
their expectant naneth’s hair.

“I am looking forward to having another nephew to spoil, but this newest
babe will likely be the last.  Nurael has stated firmly that if Orophin
wishes another child, he will have to carry it himself.”  The mental
image of tall, slender Orophin with a hugely distended abdomen made both
of them chuckle at the absurdity of it.

Rúmil tossed back the last swallows of wine and set his glass down on
the table.  Standing, the silver-haired Elf strolled toward Glorfindel,
provocatively swaying his hips.  Emerald eyes sparked with mirth when he
met Glorfindel’s azure gaze directly.  Seductively he trailed his
fingers over Glorfindel’s broad shoulder.  Gently he tugged on the gold
ring piercing Glorfindel’s left ear, sending shivers through the Elda’s
body and straight to his groin.  Rúmil sauntered over to the bed, and
over his shoulder he tossed the astounded Seneschal a saucy wink and
salacious smile.

“I adore children, so long as they are not mine own.  The impossibility
of pregnancy is yet another reason I prefer males.”

He lay down against the pillows, peering at Glorfindel through dark
lashes lowered seductively over pale, sculpted cheekbones.  “Males who
are big and blond…” he purred, stretching languorously, “…and
beautiful.”  

Glorfindel caught his breath at Rúmil’s forward demonstration of
seduction, watching the lustful display with indecision.  Rúmil’s
enthusiasm for life and love had appealed to Glorfindel from the very
first time they met and taken comfort in one another after the Siege of
Barad-dûr and Gil-galad’s death.  Even in the midst of so much death and
devastation, the Galadhel exuded kindheartedness and vivacity.  In a way
the two were kindred spirits, greeting each day with joy and vigor,
living each day and moment to the fullest.  Rúmil simply chose to show
his zeal for life in a much more physical manner.

He was sorely tempted to throw his usual prudence to the wind and bed
fair Rúmil.  In spite of his own rather uncharacteristic sexual liberty
with the Peredhil twins, the flaxen-haired Noldo was not one to share
his body freely with anyone who crossed his path.  

But perhaps this is what he needed.  Rúmil’s ardor in bed was
contagious; coupling with the Galadhel was akin to taming a spirited
colt – unpredictable, exhilarating, and just a bit perilous.  A night of
unbridled lust with Rúmil, here in the Golden Wood, far away from his
troubles, was certain to purge Erestor’s face from his mind.  If anyone
could erase that solemn one’s dark, ravishing features, it was the pale
beauty of green-eyed, impulsive, fair-haired Rúmil.  The two were as
dissimilar as fish and peas.

//Get out of my head, Erestor.  I do not love you,// he thought
fiercely.  

To Mordor with indecision…  He would rid his mind and heart of the
Counselor once and for all and lose himself in Rúmil’s lusty embrace.
Purposefully he stood and advanced toward the bed with long steps,
stripping off his shirt as he went, revealing the rippling muscles of
his chest.  “You forgot bold.”  

Rúmil pushed himself up and sat, and pulled off his own tunic, meeting
the startling blue of Glorfindel’s eyes with his own heated emerald
stare.  “Aye, definitely bold.”  Glorfindel’s member swelled
appreciatively at the sight; Rúmil’s lithe archer’s frame was finely
muscled, slight and compact, his limbs sleek with tightly coiled,
nervous energy.
  
Leggings followed when Rúmil lay back down and lifted his hips
invitingly to slide the soft fabric down over his legs, revealing a
shaft already swollen and rosy with arousal and glistening wetly at the
tip.  Glorfindel licked his lips in anticipation; the clear drops of
fluid leaking from Rúmil’s cock caused his mouth to water.  “Now who is
bold, friend tree-dweller?”

“My boldness serves me well, for it usually gets me what I want.  And
you?  What is it you want?  Do you want me, ‘Fin?”  The question was
rhetorical, the answer made painfully obvious by the prominent bulge in
the Elda’s leggings, outlined starkly against the close-fitting leather.  

The Elda untied the lacings of his leggings and pushed the snug-fitting
garment down over the swell of his buttocks, dropping the well-worn
leather to the floor.  He stood confidently in his nudity, hands on his
hips, revealing his own hard length, dark with blood and jutting heavy
and proud between his legs.  “What do you think?”

“I think you need to stop talking,” Rúmil replied, and Glorfindel
pounced.

There was no romantic love between them, but a lust fueled of mutual
desire, respect, and long friendship.  Their kisses were harsh and
aggressive, heated and torrid in their intensity.  Glorfindel claimed
Rúmil’s lips roughly, thrusting his tongue into Rúmil’s open mouth.
Warm and willing, Rúmil opened eagerly, suckling the Elda’s slick
muscle, matching him kiss for kiss, his hands tangled in the silken pale
mass of Glorfindel’s mane.

Glorfindel’s larger swordsman’s body blanketed that of Rúmil’s
diminutive form,  their arousals grinding together, slippery with early
fluids.  Wanton and shameless, Rúmil wriggled about under him, thrusting
his hips upward eagerly in an attempt to impale himself upon
Glorfindel’s length.

 “You are impatient, Rúmil,” the Elda chuckled.

“I know what I want, I already told you that.  And what I want is you,
inside me.  Now,” Rúmil panted.

Glorfindel did not bother with preparing his partner, for he knew Rúmil
had always preferred a rough entry, finding enjoyment in the pleasurable
pain of being breeched thoroughly and abruptly.  He rolled over and
brought the smaller Elf to sit astride his hips.  Shaking his head, he
chided,  “I do not think so, my friend.  I am the guest here; you do the
work.”  

Rúmil grinned and gave a lewd wink, stretching to the bedside table and
reaching for the vial of oil Glorfindel had conveniently left there
beside his sword, intending to whet and oil the weapon later.  Licking
his lips, he poured a thick stream of the shimmering, glistening fluid
over Glorfindel’s dusky arousal.  He set the bottle aside and crouched
over the hard shaft, supporting his weight with strong thighs.
Brilliant green eyes never left Glorfindel’s, an unspoken challenge
issuing forth from his piercing gaze.  

Reaching behind him, he grasped Glorfindel’s slippery shaft and smoothed
a bit of the oil over his own puckered opening, then positioned the
blunt, slick tip at the tiny hole.  With a look of fierce determination
upon his face, slowly he worked himself down upon the Elda’s rigid
member.  Eyes closed tightly in concentration, his nostrils flaring,
through gritted teeth Rúmil uttered a pained groan deep in his throat.
Gradually he took the heavy, oiled shaft deep within him, whimpering as
he was spread and breached almost painfully.  “Ai, meldir, I had
forgotten how large you are,” he managed to wheeze.

Glorfindel gasped as delectable heat surrounded his length.  “You could
have stopped and allowed me to prepare you,” he chuckled throatily,
knowing full-well Rúmil would have allowed no such thing.  Rúmil shook
his head slightly and uttered a strangled sound in the negative, unable
to respond further, the searing fire in his passage temporarily robbing
him of his voice.

When at last Rúmil had taken every inch of Glorfindel’s length within
his aching backside and his buttocks rested against the Elda’s hips, he
sat panting and groaning softly, the strong muscles of his passage
straining and quivering.  A few moments passed while his body adjusted
to the invasion.  “Oh yes, gods you feel so good.”  He stroked himself
slowly, his head thrown back, mouth open, his molten silver hair
brushing the top of the Elda’s thighs.

Glorfindel closed his eyes when Rúmil started to move and allowed
sensation to take over, to drive thoughts of silken raven hair and
limpid onyx eyes out of his memory.  Moaning softly, he gripped Rúmil’s
pale hips tightly with his large hands, tight enough to leave bruises,
lifting the Galadhel up and forcing him back down firmly.  On each
upward rise, Rúmil clenched his inner muscles tightly, relaxing them on
each down stroke to take the thick member deeply within him.  Rúmil
wailed each time he descended, taking himself brutally, striking his
sweet spot and stroking his shaft frantically.  “Valar, yes, harder,” he
pleaded.  

Rúmil always had been vocal, Glorfindel remembered belatedly.  He
cracked an eye open and glared at Rúmil.  “Will you keep your voice
down?  I do not wish to announce to the entire city what we are doing,”
he ground out, barely able to draw breath from the force of Rúmil’s
thrusts.  

The Galadhel obediently lowered the volume of his cries a half step, and
Glorfindel resolutely closed his eyes again, intent on recapturing the
intense bliss.  He was leaving in a few days anyway; Rúmil would be the
one to have to bear the gossip, should the cries of passion be
overheard.

He was close, so close to coming… only a few more moments and he could
forget, overcome by the sweet oblivion release would bring, if for a
short while.  The familiar tingle in his loins that signaled his
impending release spread outward through his limbs.  Focused only on the
rising heat between his legs, he shut out all sounds of Rúmil’s
caterwauling.  A particularly ferocious movement of his lover’s caused
the first tendrils of release to sweep over him.  

Glorfindel opened his eyes the moment his orgasm tore through him.  The
eyes that bored into him from a flushed and sweating face were a
piercing green, and not smoky, gleaming obsidian.  He spent explosively,
spilling his seed in the depths of Rúmil’s body, a gripping pain in his
heart and a name unwittingly falling from his lips.  A moment later,
Rúmil gave a hoarse shout and spilled hotly upon his stomach.

~*~*~*~*~

“How long have you loved him, Glorfindel?”  Rúmil asked idly, toying
with a lock of the Seneschal’s tawny hair.  He sprawled inelegantly
beside the larger warrior, his head resting upon one of his lover’s
broad shoulders, one leg thrown possessively over Glorfindel’s longer
ones.  A satisfied throbbing pulsed through his backside.  

“Mmph?  How long what?”  Glorfindel replied groggily, jolted out of near
reverie.  Rúmil’s words broke through the lethargic fog that had
overcome him after their frantic coupling.  His lust sated, he was
exhausted, weary to the bone.

Rúmil propped his head up on one hand and looked down at the blond Elda.
“How long have you loved him?” 

“Loved whom, Rúmil?  Do not speak in riddles, I am too tired to play
word games tonight,” Glorfindel glowered up at the slighter Elf,
cantankerous now that his drowse had been disturbed, an uncomfortable
suspicion gnawing at his conscious.

Piercing green eyes stared intently down into a tempestuous sea of
stormy blue.  “It is bad form, gwador, to cry out the name of another
during the heat of passion.”  (sworn brother)

//Damn.//  

It was not necessary to ask whose name had spilled from his lips.
Glorfindel closed his eyes in shame, unable to continue to meet Rúmil’s
knowing gaze.  “I am sorry, Rúmil,” he said quietly.

“Erestor is the reason you ran away.”  Rúmil spoke frankly; it was not a
question but a statement of fact, in his opinion.

“I did not run away, Rúmil” Glorfindel denied emphatically.  He narrowed
his eyes and glared at the Galadhel.  “I told you, I needed a break from
my duties.  And I do not love Erestor.  We are friends.  That is all.”

Rúmil snorted in disbelief.  Glorfindel could be amazingly thick at
times - could he truly not see it?  It was plain as unsalted lembas.
“Come now.  Do you make a habit of calling out the name of your
‘friends’ when coupling with another?”

Glorfindel rolled his eyes and huffed.  “By Manwë’s balls, I cannot
believe this.  You are conspiring against me.”

“I am not conspiring against you, I speak only the truth.  I have many
faults, meldir, but subterfuge is not one of them.  You are
spectacularly dense, ‘Fin, if you cannot see you are hopelessly in love
with your enchanting Noldo.”  (male friend)

“You know not what you are talking about.”  Good gods, would Rúmil not
leave it alone?

“You can run from him, Glorfindel, but you cannot run from the truth.
*Do* you love him?”

Glorfindel refused to answer, but lay silently, staring at the ceiling.

Rúmil reached down and gently grasped the Elda’s chin, turning his head
and forcing the blond to look at him.  He repeated more softly this
time, “Do you love him, Glorfindel?”

He was beaten, and he knew it.  It was fruitless to pretend any longer,
and in that moment resolved to acknowledge what he had known intuitively
for weeks but been too stubborn and cowardly to see.  He drew a deep,
shuddering breath and finally admitted the truth. 

“Aye, I do.”

Rúmil wrapped his arms around the shaken warrior and stroked the golden
head tenderly.  “How did this come to be?”

Glorfindel’s voice was muffled against Rúmil’s chest.  “It is not
important,” he muttered, “except that the outcome of a talk we had was
that I realized I was in love with him, and have categorically denied it
ever since.”  He had sworn to keep Erestor’s confession about the twins
in the utmost secrecy.  And to divulge his own liaison with the brethren
a fortnight gone was unseemly, in light of his recent activities with
Rúmil.

“Then go home, Glorfindel.  Confess to Erestor of your love for him.”

“I cannot, Rúmil.”  The Seneschal’s voice was small and broken.

“Why can you not tell him?” the Galadhel persisted.

Angrily Glorfindel lifted his head to glare at Rúmil and snapped, “I
cannot tell him because I am a fool.  Do my words satisfy you, Rúmil?  I
am ten thousand times a fool.  I cannot go home and tell one I have
lived and worked beside for thousands of years that suddenly I am in
love with him,” he spat bitterly.  “He would laugh in my face.”

Rúmil, ever tenacious, refused to back down and glared back at the
Seneschal, his eyes steely with resolve.  “You know perfectly well
Erestor would not laugh at you.  He is neither cruel nor heartless.”

The Elda sighed and slumped back down on the bed.  “Nay, you are right,
he is neither.  But neither would he ever return my love, this I know.”

Rúmil again cradled the blond in his arms, considering Glorfindel’s
predicament.  When he spoke next, his words were careful and measured.
“Glorfindel, I am trying very hard to understand your reticence, but I
confess you are making it difficult.  Why say you with such certainty
that he would deny you?”

“Rúmil, in our thousands of years of friendship Erestor has never shown
a bit of interest in pursuing a romantic liaison.  We have lain
together, it is true, but even then he only craved companionship and
comfort, seeking assuagement for his loneliness.”  

“I see.  Yet how do you know he would not be amenable to exploring a
relationship?  It seems to me that he is of the sort who takes the
joining of the flesh very seriously.”

Glorfindel opened his mouth to protest, then snapped his jaws together
suddenly with a click of his teeth.

“You will know nothing, Glorfindel, unless you go home and find out.”

Eyes blue as the summer skies widened with uncertainty and the
beginnings of acceptance of his fate.  “But what if he rejects me?”

Rúmil smiled tenderly and affectionately kissed the Elda’s forehead.
“Then he denies his love, and you make a fool of yourself after all.”
Sensing Glorfindel’s ultimate acceptance and resolve, he teased gently,
“It would not be the first time, mellonen.  What could be more
humiliating than being dragged by your hair off a cliff?”  (my friend)

Glorfindel pulled away from Rúmil’s embrace and rolled to his side,
rising on his elbow and bringing him face-to-face with the smaller Elf.
At last his mind was clear; he knew what he must do.  Even if Erestor
rejected his offer of love, at least he would know and be through with
this uncertainty and denial.

”You are astonishingly perceptive, for a tree-dweller,” Glorfindel’s
smile of gratitude was blinding.  “You have unraveled in a matter of
minutes the riddle it has taken me millennia to figure out.” 

Rúmil looked puzzled, but did not question Glorfindel; he had a
suspicion he would not understand anyway.  Fingers roughened by Ages of
drawing a bow stroked the Elda’s smooth cheek.  “Go home, Glorfindel,”
Rúmil said earnestly.

Drawing back, he rose from the bed with a wince and began to gather his
clothing.  Reluctantly Glorfindel stood and assisted Rúmil in finding
his clothing, unconcerned with his own nudity.  When Rúmil was finally
dressed, having searched high and low for a boot that was finally found
wedged between the wall and one of the legs of the bed, he embraced the
Seneschal again.  “Maer galu, Glorfindel.”  (Good fortune)

Together they walked to the door, where Glorfindel returned the warm
embrace, pressing a loving kiss to the crown of Rúmil’s silver-crowned
pate.  “Hannon chen, Rúmil.  You are a good friend.”  (Thank you)

Grasping Rúmil’s arm a moment before he descended the first step,
Glorfindel stayed him.  “Would you send word to my companion that we
will depart at first light?  He will likely protest, but also tell him
that as recompense, he will be awarded the first training exchange.
That should go far in consoling him.”

Rúmil nodded and turned to go.  He froze on the top step and turned his
head halfway.  Over his shoulder, barely audibly he said, “And if
Erestor denies you, meldir, I will be here.”  And he was gone into the
night.

Glorfindel looked down from the talan into the sparkling twilight below,
following Rúmil’s glowing hair fade out of sight.  It was a risk,
confessing to Erestor, but Glorfindel had taken many risks in his two
lifetimes.  Rúmil had spoken truly; he must go home immediately.  To not
speak and never know if Erestor could someday return his feelings was
too awful to contemplate.  This great unknowing was the worst – if
Erestor denied him, at least he would know.  He would go on, somehow,
but at least the uncertainty would be over.

Confident in his new resolve, he quickly packed his bag in preparation
of an early departure in the morn.  Parchment, a quill and a small jar
of ink were found in one of the table drawers, and he jotted a quick
note to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, begging their pardon at his
sudden departure.  The stable master could send a messenger to deliver
it when he retrieved his horse from the stables.  Then washing quickly
and brushing the snarls from his hair, he climbed into bed.

For the first time in weeks, Glorfindel slept peacefully.



Part 5
~*~*~*~*~*~

Touch me 

  Take me to that other place 

Reach me 

  I know I'm not a hopeless case
	- U2, Beautiful Day

~*~*~*~*~*~

Imladris, 2951 T.A.

After the first night of choking down Elrond’s vile sleeping draught,
Erestor resolved it would also be his last.  While he did indeed succeed
in getting some desperately needed rest, restoring his equilibrium
somewhat, he woke the next morning with a sour taste in his mouth,
feeling groggy and out of sorts.  He also woke feeling incredibly
frustrated, even more so than before.  The dream was still there, even
more intense than ever.

That voice.

That quiet, lyrical voice that caressed his mind, with its ever-so-
slightly exotic pronunciation and slightly rolled ‘r’.  He knew that
voice.  Somehow, some way.  He knew that voice, had heard it before.
The knowledge was so close, just dancing out of the periphery of his
conscious.  But it seemed that the harder he tried to identify that
hushed voice, the more elusive the thought became.

It was at the moment of waking that Erestor decided to forgo more
sleeping potions.  With the identity of his dream-lover so close to
recognition, he was convinced that within the next few days something
would occur that would give him a definitive answer to whom his lover
was.  Fearful that drugging himself would cause him to miss some
important clue, the rest of the potion was discreetly poured in the
chamber pot. The dreams had not stopped, but neither did they come with
the compelling intensity of that single night the voice spoke to him.  

The one night of solid, albeit not dreamless, sleep gave him enough
clarity of mind to fulfill his duties, all the while studiously avoiding
the knowing, laughing gaze of Arwen.  Elrond made no mention of
Erestor’s hasty departure from the Peredhel’s office, and for that
Erestor was thankful.  He knew not how to explain to his Lord and friend
of the happenings in the past months.  It was bad enough Undómiel had
guessed of his ailment.

So it was that five days after Glorfindel’s departure from Imladris,
Erestor found himself marginally more rested than before.  The day’s
trials complete and the dinner hour over, he retreated to the sanctity
of his chambers.  Bereft of Glorfindel’s sometimes-raucous company, he
found himself adrift, foundering as a ship on stormy waters.  The
Seneschal was oft annoying, and irritating with his unfailingly high
spirits and good cheer, but their antagonistic behavior toward one
another was the hallmark of their friendship.  Imladris seemed a
cheerless place of late, in spite of the boisterous activity often found
in the Hall of Fire.  Without the Peredhil twins and Glorfindel’s
mischievous behavior, to Erestor the Elven realm seemed somehow
lifeless.  The golden Glorfindel was the sun, it seemed, around which
lesser beings revolved.

Washed and dressed in a loose pair of black silken sleep trousers and a
flowing crimson bed robe, Erestor blew out the lamps in the far corners
of his bedroom, leaving a single one lit on the bed stand, casting the
area not directly about the bed into shadows.  Randomly he selected a
book from one of the many shelves covering a single wall and returned to
the bed, disinterested in anything he would have selected.  Propping
himself up on the pillows, he crossed one leg over the other and
halfheartedly began to read.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Glorfindel and Arthadan thundered into Imladris late on the second night
since their riding from Lothlórien, making haste as though the great
wolf of Angband was on their trail.  Arthadan had finally been found
just as the skies purpled with the dawn, looking slightly green around
the edges and dotted with bruised marks of passion, sprawled naked in
the bed of the Galadhel guide who had greeted them at the gates two days
prior.  Looking a bit sheepish, and distinctly ill, the young Noldo had
nevertheless dressed and readied himself for the road.  Assuaged by
Glorfindel’s message promising him the first training rotation, he
kissed his newfound lover a passionate goodbye, with a promise to return
to the Golden Wood in a month’s time. 

Arthadan did not question his captain on their haste; in fact, barely a
dozen words were exchanged on their journey due to the speed of their
passage.  They stopped only long enough to water and feed their mounts,
themselves partaking of dried berries, nuts and dried meats while
riding.  

At the stables, Glorfindel dismounted and began hastily rubbing down his
mount, speaking quietly to his mare and thanking her for her haste,
begging her forgiveness for pushing her limits.  She nickered and nipped
at his hand, nodding her understanding, but letting him know he was
expected to make it up to her the following day.

Arthadan, seeing his captain’s preoccupation, insisted on taking over
the currying and feeding, and actually pushed the Elda forcibly toward
the house with a laugh.  “Go, Captain, take care of your business.”

Glorfindel nodded his thanks, grabbed his pack, and set off for the Last
Homely House at a dead run.  Arthadan watched him go, scratching the
mare’s broad nose, and wondered at the Seneschal’s odd behavior.

Stopping by his own rooms only long enough to open the door and drop his
pack on the floor just inside, Glorfindel hurried down the hall toward
Erestor’s room, his heart thundering nervously in his chest.  His guts
roiled with anxiety, but he was unwavering.  He was determined to see it
through.

A faint sliver of light glowed under Erestor’s door.  Drawing up short,
he reached up to knock, and then dropped his hand.

//Do it, you fool,// he ordered.

Again he raised his hand and knocked softly.  No answer was forthcoming,
so he knocked again, a bit more forcefully.  Still no response from
within came, so he took a deep breath and slowly turned the knob and
opened the door a crack.  He peeked around the corner, and what he saw
made his heart leap in his chest.

Erestor lay on his back on the huge bed dominating an entire corner of
the room, his onyx eyes glazed in reverie.  His head was turned slightly
toward the door, and the dim light of the lamp cast faint shadows across
his face, emphasizing the high cheekbones and fine brow, making his fair
skin appear pale and creamy as rich, newly drawn milk.  Full, ruby lips
were slightly parted, and silken midnight hair spread like a dark pool
across the crisp white linens of the bed.  The silk trousers clung to
his lean thighs.  A book lay open upon his chest, the slim fingers still
marking the place he had left off reading, while the other arm was
thrown casually above his head, as though Erestor had been resting upon
it.  The crimson bed robe had come partially untied, falling open to the
navel, the deep V revealing a smoothly muscled breast and flat stomach.

Glorfindel drew his breath in at the tableau before him.  Never before
had he been more struck by Erestor’s exotic, serene beauty than he was
at that moment.  Perhaps it was simply because of his newly realized
love for the Counselor that colored his thoughts, but the picture was
striking indeed.  He did not wish to disturb Erestor, but he was unable
to tear his gaze away.  

The sound of a sharp intake of breath woke Erestor, who blinked sleepily
and raised his head.  “Glorfindel?” Erestor’s melodious voice was raspy
with sleep.  Coming more awake, he set the book aside and sat up,
rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  The surprise was evident in his voice.
“You are back sooner than I anticipated.  Elrond said you were to be
gone a fortnight.”

The Elda glanced at the floor guiltily.  “My apologies, Erestor.  I did
not wish to wake you.  I saw the light, but when I knocked there was no
answer.  I should not have entered unbidden.”

“Come in, meldir.  I was reading and must have dozed off,” Erestor said.
As he sat, the robe parted further, baring a rosy nipple, yet the
Counselor made no move to tie the fastenings.  Glorfindel stared at that
peaked nub, mesmerized, aching to suckle it until Erestor moaned and
wrapped his hand in Glorfindel’s flaxen locks and begged for more.

Tearing his gaze away from that temptation, Glorfindel walked like the
condemned into the room and closed the door behind him.  Erestor looked
at him curiously and patted the bed next to him, encouraging Glorfindel
to be seated.  “What is it, Glorfindel?”

Finally forcing his feet to move, Glorfindel moved leadenly toward his
love.  He froze just before the Counselor, at a loss for words.  “I,
uh…”

Forgoing the seat on the bed, he stood in front of Erestor and slowly
dropped to his knees.  This was it… he had reached the point of no
return.  “Erestor, we need to talk.”

Erestor paled.  This was it - the moment he had been dreading for weeks.
The moment in which Glorfindel would tell him he was furious with him,
and that he had given his heart to Elladan.  Or Elrohir.  It was of no
consequence; the end result was the same.  That he was dissolving their
friendship, all because of happenings millennia ago.  “Go on,” he said
quietly.

Glorfindel paused, collecting his thoughts.  How to approach this?  Ai,
this was much more difficult than he imagined it could ever be, back in
the comfort of Rúmil’s embrace.  “It is about the twins.  Well, no, not
*directly* about the gwanûn.  It is about us.  You, and me.”

“Aye, I figured as much.”

“Erestor,” the Elda began, but Erestor stopped him with a raised hand.

“First, before you go on, I need to know something.”  At Glorfindel’s
raised eyebrow and small nod of assent, he fixed the Elda with a dark,
probing stare and proceeded.  “Why did you run away?”

Glorfindel gulped.  He drew a deep breath and plunged in.  “I went to
Lothlórien because I was afraid.  In my jealousy, and my blindness, I
ran away.  Thoughts of you with the twins filled me with rage.  It was
not until I reached Lothlórien that I realized my anger was misplaced; I
realized it was *them* I was jealous of.”

Erestor blinked, perplexed.  “You are jealous of the gwanûn?”

“Let me finish, Erestor, before I lose my nerve.  That is not completely
the truth.  That is what I told myself, that I was angry with you for
bedding them first.  I had spent the night before in their bed and
fancied myself in love with them.  The night before I left for
Lothlórien, though, I realized I was lying to myself.  I ran because I
was a coward.  I could not bear the thought that I could not see what
was right before me all along.”

“And what is before you?” Erestor asked, genuinely confused.

“You,” Glorfindel said simply.  “You are.  For I have realized, Erestor,
that I am in love with you.”

Stunned into silence, Erestor opened his mouth and closed it again.  He
shook his head as if to clear his ears, certain he had not heard
Glorfindel’s words correctly, and tried again, only marginally more
successfully.  “You.  Are in love.  With me.”

“Aye.  I love you, Erestor.  I have for a very, very long time.  Even
before the night you told me of your tryst with the twins.  I could not
admit it, for I could not believe I could have been so foolish as to not
see it before, after all the years we have known each other,” he
concluded.  Glorfindel’s crystalline eyes searched Erestor’s deeply, as
if begging for his love to be returned.

Erestor stood and paced about the room restlessly.  “And you know you
love me, with certainty?  How can that be, Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel rose to his feet and moved toward Erestor, his arm extended.
His stilled the Counselor’s nervous pacing with a hand upon his arm and
turned Erestor toward him.  They stood motionless, each searching the
eyes of the other.  Glorfindel spoke then, telling of the vision he had
seen writ upon the tapestries of the fate of Arda.  “Vairë has foretold
it, Erestor; it must be so.  Before my release from Mandos, she showed
me a scene from her tapestry, a scene that showed of my fate.  My fate
is you, Erestor.”

The darkling Elf stood silently for long moments.  Finally he spoke, his
voice uncertain.  “I do not know what to say, Glorfindel.  I am stunned.
Never before have you spoken to me of love.  I need time to digest all
you have said.  But mere moments ago, I was asleep, thinking you were in
love with one of the twins.  Now you come home and tell me you are in
love with me and not them.”

Slowly, Glorfindel nodded.  “I understand.  This is much to think about.
I will leave you now to your thoughts.”

Drained, he released his hold on Erestor’s arm and turned to go.  He had
done it; he had admitted his love.  Perhaps one day, in the future,
Erestor would be able to love him in return, perhaps not.  If not, he
would bear it somehow, but for now, it was all he could do except wait,
and hope.

At the door he turned the knob, then released it and walked back to
Erestor.  He asked hesitantly, “May I… kiss you, Erestor, before I go?”

“We have kissed before, Glorfindel,” the Counselor countered, his brow
furrowed.  “How would this time be any different?”

“Aye, but just once more?  For if I find you do not return my feelings,
I would have us part with the taste of your sweet lips upon mine, and it
will have to sustain me for all time.  Never again can we come together
in anything less than love, for now I know my heart and to join with you
again, and know you do not return my feelings, would be the end of me.”

The barest tilt of the Counselor’s chin indicated his assent.  “You
may.”

His heart in his throat, Glorfindel drew close to Erestor.  Gently he
cupped Erestor’s smooth cheek, brushing the high cheekbone with the
rough calluses of his sword hand and closed his eyes, barely pressing
the soft petals of Erestor’s lips to his own.  Overcome with feeling,
with love and fear, their lips barely touching, Glorfindel murmured,
“’Restor.”

Erestor froze.

A strangled cry escaped Glorfindel’s chest, and he pulled away from
Erestor with tears pooling in his eyes.  It was true - Erestor did not
return his feelings.  The manner with which the Counselor had all but
turned cold was all the Elda needed to know to confirm that his desires
were without hope.  He turned and staggered drunkenly toward the door,
blinded by the pain, intent only on escaping the agonizing sorrow in his
chest.  He was a fool, damned for his love.  Vairë had been wrong.

Erestor stared, dumbfounded, and touched his lips in awe.  “Blessed
Elbereth… it is you,” Erestor breathed quietly as the mystery lover who
had haunted his dreams for weeks was revealed to him.  That voice - that
silken, lilting voice with its ever-so-slight trill – was Glorfindel’s.

A choked sob startled Erestor from his immobility, and he stared horror-
stricken at Glorfindel’s fleeing back.  “No,” he croaked, but his voice
caught in his throat.  Damn him, Glorfindel had run before, Erestor
would not allow him to run again, not now.  His only thought was to stop
the Elda’s escape.  He tried again, and this time his voice was strong
and clear, commanding as befitting the Chief Counselor of Imladris.

“DARO!” he bellowed, the word resounding through the room like a clap of
thunder.  (Stop!)

Glorfindel halted at the threshold of the doorway and spun around.
Shimmering tears tracked down the planes of his broad cheekbones.
“Please, Erestor, do not make this harder,” he begged.

The Counselor dashed across the room and clutched desperately at the
sleeve of Glorfindel’s tunic.  The Elda tried vainly to pull his arm
away, but Erestor’s grip was strong as mithril and would not yield.
“No, Glorfindel, you do not understand.”

“I understand all too well, Erestor.  Leave me BE!” the Seneschal cried,
again attempting to wrest his sleeve from Erestor’s grasp.

“No, you do not.  Please, Glorfindel.”  Erestor held firm, pleading with
the Elda to stay.  “Please listen to me.”

The Elda cried for the first time in his re-born life, the pain he felt
poured forth with his tears.  Even upon Orodruin he had been strong,
commanding his troops fearlessly, never shedding a tear even as his High
King fell under Sauron’s sway.  This misery surpassed anything he had
ever felt.  Even the pull of the Balrog and the burning fire that
encircled him as he plunged to his death paled in comparison to this
all-consuming agony, this wretched despair.  

Erestor pulled him close, but Glorfindel stiffened in his arms.  “No,
Glorfindel, you do not understand,” he repeated.  “I love you.”

“Do not toy with my affections, ‘Restor.  My heart cannot bear it.”
Glorfindel hung his head, the tears running freely down his face making
dark patches on his tunic as they fell.

With loving fingers, Erestor tipped the golden head up and looked deeply
into the Elda’s startling pools of cerulean.  Tenderly he brushed a
silver droplet away.  “Glorfindel, you stubborn, pigheaded fool.  I love
you, too.  That is what I am trying to tell you.”

Blue eyes opened impossibly wide as the meaning of Erestor’s words began
to penetrate his grief-stricken mind.  “You love me,” he said dazedly.

“I do,” the Counselor nodded.

“But… why?  How?” he stuttered.

Erestor led him to the bed and pushed the stunned Elf down to sit.
Turning toward Glorfindel, he sat next to him and took one of those
large, rough hands in his.  “I do not fully understand it myself, but
Lórien has sent me dreams,” he explained gently.  Glorfindel looked
confused, but Erestor silenced his questions with a shake of his head
and lifted Glorfindel’s hand to kiss it.  “Nay, hear me out.  I will
explain more another time, but in the visions, I fell in love with you.
The meaning of the dream was hidden from me, but I loved you even before
I knew it was you.

“When you were gone, my loneliness and grief were unbearable.  I ached
with regret over telling you of my secret, fearful of your anger and
jealousy.  But I did not understand.  When you spoke my name, I knew.”

Glorfindel was stunned.  “You love me,” he repeated dumbly.

“Aye,” Erestor confirmed.  “I love you, Glorfindel o Gondolin a
Imladris, and perhaps I always have.” 

The golden head fell forward, the tawny locks falling as a shield to
hide his shame.  “I have wronged you, Erestor.  When in Lothlórien, in
my confusion, I bedded another.  Though you already had my heart, I
could not admit it.  Can you ever forgive me?”

The Counselor pulled Glorfindel to him, wrapping him in a firm embrace.
He kissed the crown of the tawny head.  “There is nothing to forgive,
melethen.  How can I be angry when it brought you into my arms?”  (my
love)

Glorfindel’s azure eyes shimmered again when he lifted his head.  “I,
better than anyone, know how precious life is. I gave my heart to you
years ago, Erestor, and it fills me with shame that I did not realize it
until now.  How many years have we wasted?” he asked, his voice thick
with emotion.
  
Erestor silenced his love with a finger against the Elda’s sweet lips
and shook his head.  Tenderly he kissed the salty tears away.  “Do not
say such things, Glorfindel.  The years were not wasted; can you truly
think that?  I regret we did not realize our feelings sooner, but I hold
the years spent as your friend above all.  You are fearless, loving, and
loyal, and beautiful, and if we were to never have realized our love
tonight, I would still cherish the memory of your friendship for all my
days.”

“But - -“ Glorfindel protested.

“Nay, my beautiful golden love, speak no more of it.  It is enough that
we have finally come together,” Erestor said softly.  “No regrets, and
no recriminations.  Over the years we have shared our bodies and our
secrets.  Is it not fitting that we now share our hearts as well?”

His heart light at last, Glorfindel trailed his fingers over the downy
softness of the Counselor’s face.  He kissed his love then, pouring all
of the pent-up longing of the past weeks into the kiss.  He claimed
Erestor’s lips fiercely and kissed him breathless.  Erestor melted into
the warrior’s embrace and kissed him back, needing to assure the noble
Elf-lord of his love.  

When at last the need to breathe drove them apart, Erestor pulled back,
gasping for air.  Glorfindel clutched at him desperately, unwilling and
terrified to let go of his newfound love, even for a moment.  Panic
filled his eyes when Erestor stood, but the Counselor simply shook his
head and untied the belt of his dressing gown, dropping the robe to the
floor.  Sleeping pants followed, falling to the ground in a pool of
shimmering black silk.

Suddenly he was naked, standing before his lover, long and lean and
hard, his skin milky in the pale light.  Wordlessly he reached out to
Glorfindel and pulled him to stand before him.  On tiptoes he leaned up
and lightly kissed the slightly taller Elf, and turned to the bed,
leaning forward and offering himself to Glorfindel for the first time in
love.

They knew each other all too well and did not waste time on the subtle
game of seduction.  It was pointless, after all; they had shared their
bodies with one another countless times over the millennia.  They were
too old and too world-weary to waste any further time on the niceties of
courtship.  Years uncounted they had spent apart, unknowing and blind to
their love.  It was with urgency and fervor that they came together this
time, pouring all the emotion of the past years into their joining.

Glorfindel stripped off his clothes and fumbled in the drawer of
Erestor’s nightstand for the vial of oil he knew to be there.  He
dropped to his knees and parted the pale moons of Erestor’s buttocks.
Erestor shuddered at the touch of a warm, wet tongue probing at his
entrance, and yelped when the tongue slipped inside, gently stretching
him.

Hard and fell, Glorfindel could wait no longer to be inside his love.
To be home.  He stood and spilled oil thickly along his aching shaft,
coating his fingers and sliding two into Erestor’s tight heat, spreading
the slick fluid well.  Quickly, a third finger followed, and Erestor
pushed back against him.  “Enough, Glorfindel, I am ready,” he barked,
unrestrained in his need for Glorfindel.

Hands gripping Erestor’s hips, with one forceful thrust Glorfindel was
embedded to the root in the Counselor’s velvet passage.  “So tight,
Erestor, so beautiful… Elbereth, how I love you,” he groaned.

Erestor cried out at the sudden penetration, but immediately bucked back
against his lover.  “Move, damn it,” the Counselor demanded, wanton and
as desperate as his lover.

He had taken many in his life, been claimed by less, and belonged to
none.  Yet for the first time in either of his lifetimes, Glorfindel
knew what it was to give completely of himself.  He wept freely, his
tears of joy falling like rain upon Erestor’s slender back.  He
plundered the willing, heated depths of his lover, his lips pressed
against the ridges of Erestor’s spine, each thrust punctuated by
murmured words of “Love you… love you… love you…” and tasting Erestor’s
spicy scent and the salt of his own tears.

Erestor parted his legs further, spreading himself as widely as he
could.  Nothing was held back, for they had come too far to withhold
anything from the other.  He surrendered himself, body and soul,
completely to the golden demi-god who claimed his heart.

With a roar of ecstasy, Glorfindel spent violently in Erestor’s
clenching heat.  The pulsing of the heavy cock deep within him sent
Erestor over the edge with nary a touch to his own dripping length.  He
cried out Glorfindel’s name as pearlescent jets of his essence sprayed
over his stomach and onto the bed coverings.

Trembling with emotion and exhaustion, the lovers collapsed onto the
bed, still joined.  Glorfindel pulled his softening length from
Erestor’s body and spooned the slighter Elf’s body to him, neither
caring that the sticky leavings of their passion coated their sweat-
slicked forms.  Sated, and content, they fell asleep in each other’s
arms, sweet dreamless sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the morning they woke, limbs entwined, golden and ebony locks all a-
tangle, and made love again.  This time it was Erestor who claimed his
lover, as he had taken him only once before in all the times of their
joining.  Glorfindel gave himself willingly to Erestor, needing the
Counselor to claim him as he had claimed his lover the night before.

Their lovemaking, as Anor bathed them in its bright light, was languid
and tender, containing none of the urgency of the night before.  Erestor
rocked dreamily into the pale form below him, one hand fisted in his
lover’s lustrous mane, and the other between their joined bodies,
stroking Glorfindel’s shaft with long, measured strokes.
 
Glorfindel smiled radiantly up at his beloved, their eyes locked
together, his long legs wrapped firmly about Erestor’s waist, Erestor’s
hard length piercing him deeply.  The Counselor’s raven hair flowed like
spilled ink across his back, spread upon their heated bodies in a
blanket of silk.

This was the scene depicted in Vairë’s tapestry.

Glorfindel had looked deep within his heart and found his answer.

Erestor felt the tensing of Glorfindel’s body as his release drew nigh,
and halted his motions, remaining deeply embedded in his lover’s depths.
“Tell me, Glorfindel.  Say it,” the darkling Elf whispered in the
shapely ear of his beloved.  “I will not allow you release until you say
the words I need to hear.”

“I am yours, Erestor.  Yours.  Only yours.”

“As I am yours, my golden beauty.  Never again will you share yourself
with another, nor will I.  You are mine,” he breathed, resuming his
thrusting, “and I will never let you go.”

“Never,” Glorfindel gasped.

As Erestor stroked his beloved to completion, even while reaching his
own release in the snug heat of Glorfindel’s ivory body, the morning air
resounded with gasping professions of timeless devotion and breathless
words of love.

“I could become accustomed to this,” Erestor sighed from the strong
circle of Glorfindel’s arms, warm and glowing in the blissful aftermath
of their lovemaking.

“I certainly hope so, melethronen, because you have no choice in the
matter.  It took four and a half millennia to find you, and I have no
plans to let you go.”  Glorfindel claimed Erestor’s lips in another
passionate kiss, his desire stirring anew.  (my lover)

Hours later, bodies sore and voices hoarse from the exertions of
lovemaking, they rose and bathed together in Erestor’s chambers.  The
morning ablutions took far longer than usual, for the lovers exchanged
many kisses and loving caresses before they finally deemed themselves
sufficiently clean and ready to present themselves in Elrond’s office.
Their first order of duty was to reveal the change in their relationship
to their Lord and friend.

The Counselor dressed in clean leggings and tunic, forgoing his stately
robes of office.  Scowling playfully at his laughing lover, Erestor
arranged his hair to cover the stark purpled passion marks that began
just beneath and behind his ear, trailing down his slender neck and
ending at his collarbone.

Glorfindel pulled Erestor’s discarded crimson night robe over his nude
body, and then they made a brief stop at the Seneschal’s rooms so
Glorfindel could dress.  It was Erestor’s turn to tease his lover over
the perfect impression of strong white teeth marring the milky flesh of
the Seneschal’s neck.  Glorfindel was thankful his clothing concealed
the other scarlet markings: leggings hid the mark at his groin and the
tunic veiled the one next to his left nipple.

Together they strode through the wide, airy hallways of the Last Homely
House, exchanging nods and words of greeting with those they met along
the way.  A few curious glances followed the two as they passed, for it
was unusual to see the Elf-lords about this late, and together, at that;
at the breaking of dawn, Erestor was typically closeted in the library
or Council chambers with their Lord, and Glorfindel either training or
out on patrols.

Arriving at Elrond’s office, they paused outside the door and stole a
quick kiss, tender and full of promise.  Together they strode through
the open door, hand-in-hand, into their Lord’s office.  Elrond looked up
from his scrolls and quills, and a wide smile crossed his face as he
noted their entwined hands and the glow that seemed to surround them.

“It is about time,” were his only words, before he embraced them with
joy.

~*~*~*~*~*~

High upon the pinnacle of Taniquetil, towering over the Pelóri, in the
vast halls of Manwë and Varda, the Valar looked down upon them, and were
glad.

~*~*~ finis ~*~*~