Title: From the Fire (4/?) Author: Fimbrethiel Website: Iavas e Guren http://fimbrethiel.com LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fimbrethiel/ Fiction update list: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/FanSfictionupdates Email: fimbrethiel @ yahoo.com Type: FPS Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit depictions of homoerotic acts between consenting males, angst, romance 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: Minuial Nuwing *massive hugs* Any remaining errors are mine. Timeline: Primarily the year 1610 of the Second Age Summary: Fire is both the destroyer and the creator. Like the mighty Phoenix that rises from the flame, one Elf finds new meaning in life as he is returned 'From the Fire'. ~*~*~*~*~ So you have returned, Gentle Reader. Good, good, this pleases me. I trust you are well? Most excellent! Welcome back, my friends… pull up a seat and gather 'round. At long last we have reached the part of the tale you have been so patiently waiting for. But first… Nay, do not groan, it was but a mild jest. A feeble one, 'tis true, and I ask for your forgiveness. Without further ado, I shall begin. After the sundering of Beleriand and the end of the First Age, Círdan, most ancient of the Eldar in Middle-earth, settled inland along the River Lhûn. Mithlond was a seaside community reminiscent of the Swanhaven of Alqualondë in far Valinor. Gil-galad made his abode further west on the Gulf of Lhûn in the city of Forlond, and was acknowledged as their king. Forlond was a place of light and music, art and culture. Settled originally in the First Age by the Laiquendi, those who had left the Great Journey east of the Mountains, the city in the latter Age was ethnically diverse – Noldorin exiles, Sindar from the Falas and Doriath, and a smattering of Green-elves, all living together in a cohesive melding of philosophical and political culture. Though they looked upon the kindly Círdan much as a father figure, Erestor and Faelwen would not be parted with their younger cousin, so they too settled in Forlond. Elros and Elrond, twin sons of Eärendil, abode there, too. It was a unique family, most assuredly – four Half-elven and their cousin the King, himself of mixed Noldo and Sinda blood – but they were content. The isle of Númenor was raised from the sea as a refuge for the faithful Men, a place where they could live in peace and security. But for some, this freedom came with a price. The time came for hard choices. Elros fell in love with a woman of the Dúnedain, and for love of her, his fate was sealed. He chose a mortal life and became the first King of the Númenóreans. Erestor's and Faelwen's choices, too, were effortless, though they had never given voice to their desires. Aegnor had loved his children and their Human mother greatly, though he could not grant her the bond of matrimony that Saelind had so desired. After their mother's death, both held on to the hope they would someday be reunited with their father. Elrond's choice was less clearly cut. He was loath to be parted from his twin, but the song of the Ainur ran deeply in his soul, and he could not deny that the pull to cleave to Elvenkind was almost overpowering. It was the formalization of his kin's choices to be reckoned among the Firstborn that swayed him at last. The loving presence of Erestor and Faelwen was a great comfort to him when Elros – ancient beyond reasoning in the reckoning of Men, but far too youthful by accounting of the Eldar – finally passed on to wherever it is that the souls of men go. Though Morgoth was locked away and under guardianship of Eärendil the Mariner in the Outer Reaches of the world, the evil that the Dark Lord sowed was again at work. Most loyal of his lieutenants, Sauron took up his master's legacy of hatred and terror, seeking dominion over all Middle-earth, and in pleasing guise he sought to sway the mighty to his side. But to Lindon he did not come, for Gil-galad doubted this fair- seeming stranger's words and welcomed him not. Dismayed, he sojourned to Eregion and there found apt pupils. The Rings of Power were made, portents of ill times to come. But in the times of turmoil, the tides of Ulmo brought a recalcitrant champion to Middle- earth. And so once again we finally return to Glorfindel and his reluctant emergence into the society of Lindon. Think, for a moment, how our wayward hero felt upon being thrust brusquely into the limelight of Second Age Lindon. What must it have been like for Glorfindel to be unceremoniously torn from the warmth and peace of the Halls of Waiting, a sanctuary from guilt and self-loathing so deep it could destroy a man, and plunged back into life – to be remade in flesh and blood – with no forewarning? And what of simple *feeling*, Gentle Reader, those basic phenomena we of the living take for granted – the caress of the fresh, briny breeze off the Lhûn and the far Belegaer, or the rumbling of hunger from an empty belly, or the blush of the sun warming one's face? The reassuring touch of a loved one's embrace? How does one comprehend emotions so long denied: love and joy and hate, and guilt and blind rage and sorrow deeper than the ocean, and pain as exquisitely agonizing as a raw and bleeding wound? The world he had known was no more. His home of old had been ruined in the same destruction in which he lost his life. Kith and kin, lands, king, House… all gone. It was, to speak plainly, overwhelming. Túviluion the sea captain had told some of the history of Middle-earth since Glorfindel's death in Gondolin, with the end of the Sons of Fëanor and the breaking of Beleriand, and Morgoth's defeat. But the Eldar of the Blessed Realm lived a rather insular existence; many of the tales of the Firstborn in Middle- earth were unknown to those who walked the shores and forests of Aman. Only hints of great and terrible deeds were whispered on the tides, myths and rumors of a faraway place. The rest of the disastrous history of Middle-earth in the millennia during his tenure in the Halls of Mandos was still to be learned. How he was to fit into this a world? 'Tis no small wonder, my friends, our golden one chose to spend those first days alone. And there, Gentle Reader, is where we will resume our tale. *~*~*~*~* Middle-earth, the year 1610 of the Second Age, Lindon Glorfindel's arrival in Lindon was less than stealthy, much to his consternation. As the carriage brought him nearer to his new home, the remade elf paid little heed to the lush greenery of the Lindon wood. His thoughts were drawn inward and he sat motionless, eyes focused intently on a small, worn spot on the velvet seat-cushion in front of him. Elves, standing in ranks of two and three deep, lined the circular drive of the palace, each hoping to gain the honor among friends to say they were the first to glimpse the new arrival. His identity was unknown to all save the highest-ranking officials of Gil- galad's cabinet; only a rumor of the coming of a great warrior of old had filtered from behind the closed doors of the High King's secret councils. What would he look like, they wondered. Would he come bearing arms and a great battle-horn such as that of Oromë, or stand taller than Manwë? He ignored the excited twittering of the gathered multitude as the carriage rolled to a stop and he slowly climbed down to the ground. Before he could take a single step, a dark-haired Elf dashed down the steps of the palace and scattered the masses with a few sharp words, leaving the two of them alone in the yard but for the champing horse and the carriage's driver. Erestor turned to greet the yellow-haired warrior. Caught unawares by the fierce scowl upon the visitor's face, his words of welcome caught in his throat. 'By the Valar, he is imposing,' he thought. 'This is Glorfindel the beloved of Gondolin? The sketches from the archives did not do him justice. He is fair of face, but oh, so cold. 'Tis a wonder the Balrog did not turn and flee.' The Lord of the Golden Flower was broad of shoulder, with shining yellow locks pulled back from strong, chiseled features, and a gaze as clear and blue as the High King's. But where Gil-galad's eyes were warm and open, these were hooded and cold, as frigid as chips of ice that reflected the cerulean winter sky, and they chilled him to the bone. Coming back to himself with a start, Erestor bowed low before the golden one. "Greetings, my Lord. I am Erestor, Seneschal to His Majesty Gil-galad, and I bid you welcome to our city. It is with my deepest regrets that you were subjected to that debacle upon your arrival; we had hoped to ensure your coming was met in privacy. Whoever is responsible for that untoward display will be spoken to." Glorfindel nodded in acknowledgement - barely. "I am Glorfindel… o Gondolin," he said, but nothing more. There was a slight hesitation at the mention of the fallen city, as though the words pained him. Erestor nodded once. "Please, follow me," he said, and led the way up the great stone steps and into the palace. "Gil-galad awaits us in his antechamber." Glorfindel had no choice but to follow as he was led up and down winding hallways and staircases of gleaming marble. After many twists and turns, the dark-haired Elf drew to a stop in front of an elaborately carved mahogany double door. He rapped once, sharply, and simply opened the door, even as a resonant voice from within bade him enter. Glorfindel stepped through, and his gaze swept about the room. Two dark-haired Elves lounged in comfortable chairs, sipping a rich-looking red wine. Clearly one of them was the king, but neither wore a circlet indicating his office, and they were dressed similarly, in snug leggings of a pale hue and lightweight tunics. Erestor nodded briefly. "Glorfindel of Gondolin, my liege," he said, then slipped back into the hall and closed the door behind them, leaving the three in silence. So it was that Glorfindel made the acquaintance of the High King of the Noldor. And he saw the light of Eärendil that shone in the other's eyes, and knew him to be the get of the child he had saved from the ruins. He unsheathed his sword and dropped to one knee before the Half-elf. The haft he brought to his heart, and bowed his head deferentially. "I do not profess to know the designs of the Valar, but it is by their will that I was returned, and I will not gainsay them. By my sword and my life I swear fealty to you and yours, to serve and defend you and the heirs of your body, until Mandos again reclaim my soul." Elrond was strangely stirred. Though the words were leaden and nearly without inflection, to see the noble golden head bowed in servility before him was touching, and his heart softened toward the Lord of Gondolin. Clearly it had cost Glorfindel much to humble himself thus. "The Valar's will is no more clear to me, but I acknowledge your service," he replied in the proper formal acceptance, and touched the bent shoulder gently. "Does his majesty bear witness to this oath?" "I do," Gil-galad replied. "Then so it shall be." *~*~*~*~* Spacious rooms within the nobles' wing were appointed for Glorfindel, with a sitting room, a spacious private bath with sunken tub provisioned with hot and cold running water, and a bright, airy bedroom with large windows that overlooked the river. Erestor, as Seneschal for the High King's household, was responsible for the choice of quarters, though Glorfindel was not aware of it at the time. Given the choice between rooms facing southwest and a view of the Bay of the Forlond beyond, or chambers in the northeast wing with a breathtaking landscape of the rugged peaks and rises of the mountains, Erestor selected the water view. He surmised – rightly – that the continual vision of the gray hills would be an unwelcome reminder to the Peaks of the Encircling Hills of his last home. The full import of that supposition did not become clear to him until much later. For now, he relied on intuition, since as Gil-galad often told him, his instinct usually proved just. The room was sparsely decorated, painted a plain white, and furnished with the essentials: soft, thick towels for the bath, a selection of personal hygiene items from which to choose, soft sheets and bed linens of the finest fabrics, though plain in color, sturdy work tables and desk chair, a small settee, slightly worn. All functional, but plain and without character. Glorfindel was given leave to order furnishings and decorate his new home to suit his taste. Cost was no object – the expenditures would be absorbed by the king's own coffers. But Glorfindel did not avail himself of these offerings. The walls remained unadorned, the drapery the same plain white muslin that had been hung only for function, intended to be replaced with lustrous damasks in rich colors. The polished wood floor remained chill and bare, never covered with plush carpets in cottons and wools. He lived among spartan, sterile isolation. Seamstresses arrived and took measurements, clucking over what a fine physical specimen they had to garb. They laid out an array of the most luxurious silks, softest wools, most supple of leathers, all in a veritable rainbow of colors, discussing amongst themselves the most flattering cuts and colors with which to drape this splendid form. When asked his opinion, he simply shrugged dispassionately, so the tailors made the selections for him, and clothed him in snug breeches in soft colors, and flowing tunics in rich, clear blues and greens, and doublets broidered with shiny thread. The cobbler came and measured for dress boots, work boots, house slippers. Again Glorfindel responded noncommittally to his queries and accepted whatever offerings were presented to him. To one item only did he make a concession to extravagance: a knee- length pair of riding boots, form-fitting around the calf, in a rich caramel color, sewn from the finest, buttery-soft smooth leather the cobbler had available. A matter more pressing than clothing or footwear, or quarters even was that of Glorfindel's role within Gil-galad's service. The High King had advisors and counselors in abundance. Another was certainly not necessary, even if Glorfindel had shown any interest. He was a warrior, ill suited to the sedentary life of books and scrolls. And the king's armies had an able arms-master, and commanders and captains aplenty. Erestor filled the role of seneschal and steward admirably. He ran the palace with smooth efficiency, seeing to accommodations, the organization of personnel, and the assignment of duties. Gil-galad often teased his elder cousin that Erestor's autonomy made his own role of king almost superfluous; all the Half-elf needed was a crown and scepter, and Gil-galad could slink into the shadows with none being the wiser. It was Elrond himself who ultimately solved the dilemma of Glorfindel's position within the court. As the king's herald, Elrond was charged with the palace communication and was Gil-galad's ambassador to the Elven realms, Círdan's Havens, and the city of Harlond across the river. It was a simple matter to appoint Glorfindel as the Half-elf's bodyguard and companion on these diplomatic missions. When not traveling, he would step in and utilize his experience on the battlefield at the training grounds. Often in those first days, Glorfindel found himself assailed by fits of inconsolable sadness and moments when the grief and guilt were so acute that he felt his very sanity was threatened. He fought against the tears that prickled in his eyes and forcibly kept them in check. This failing sickened him. *~*~*~*~* His dreams were dark and filled with visions that flitted in and out of focus, both the memories of what had been and broken promises of what might have been. Hazy glimpses of half-remembered friends. In sharp focus, two lovers entwined in carnal bliss - their movements forceful and tender by turns. A stunning, dark-haired Elf cradled a newborn babe in his arms, beaming proudly as all new fathers do, while a radiant elleth smiled dotingly upon them. A few days after his arrival, Glorfindel was awakened in the wee hours of the morning by the slight but distinctive sounds of lovemaking drifting through the wall from the room next to his. It was not that the anonymous pair next door was especially vocal, but Glorfindel's senses were long trained to alert him to any nocturnal sound, and he was immediately wrenched from uneasy slumber. He rolled over and buried his head under his pillow in a futile attempt to shut out the noise. But as it typically happens, the harder he tried to ignore it, the more pronounced the distraction became. Finally, he gave up and simply lay on his back, hoping the pair would finish soon and leave him in silence again. The soft moans grew increasingly impassioned. To his dismay and despite his best intentions, he found his pulse quickening from the faint murmurs and whimpers traveling through the windows left open to catch the faint night breezes. For a while, though surely it was not as long as it seemed, he warred with the desire to give in to self- gratification. He was not deserving of the body's pleasures. He had failed in life and failed again in death, and was vaguely angered by his body's betrayal. But two triumphant, distinctly male cries of completion broke down his resolve, and he at last gave up the fight with his body and took himself in hand. He spilled hotly over his fist and cleaned himself of the leavings of his release. His physical needs sated, Glorfindel rolled over and again sought Lórien's embrace, the oppressive loneliness more pervasive than ever. *~*~*~*~* "So, cousin," Gil-galad said casually to his companion, tipping back in his chair and wiping the corner of his mouth with a heavy damask napkin. "What do you think of our new arrival?" The remains of a simple feast of poached eggs, sausages, and lightly toasted seeded bread slathered with butter were laid out on the table. The king and his breakfast guest sat at a small iron table on an intimate balcony off the sleeping chamber of his quarters. Erestor sipped thoughtfully at the lukewarm tea in his cup, then set it down on the table. He too leaned his head back, warm and comfortably full from the modest meal, and rested his hands on his belly. "Hmm." Gil-galad turned his head to look at Erestor with mild amusement. "Hmm? Would you care to elaborate? 'Tis a strange day indeed when you are at a loss for words, cousin." Erestor, eyes closed and the picture of perfect repose, felt the king's eyes upon him, and stuck out his tongue. "Insubordinate boor," Gil-galad teased. "Will you enlighten me?" Erestor opened one eye a crack and peered over the table at his kinsman and liege. "You first." "Very well," Gil-galad said in his typically direct manner. "He seems to be quite arrogant. Rarely does he speak, and when he does, his words are brusque and nigh onto rudeness. Barely have I restrained myself from telling him to mind his tongue. 'Twas only that I felt his unique position awarded a bit of respect that kept me from dressing him down, though I will nip it in the bud soon if he does not change his tone. Respect he seems to neither want, nor bestow upon others." "Is that all?" Erestor asked wryly. "It is so unlike you to hold back your feelings." Gil-galad tossed a bit of toast across the table at him. "Whelp." Erestor snorted and leaned down to pick up the morsel and tossed it back on Gil-galad's plate. "I am your elder, 'sire', or has that fact slipped your mind?" "Your advanced years are irrelevant. I am your sovereign, and I command you to give me the respect my position demands." "Advanced years?" Erestor rolled his eyes. Gil-galad let out a bark of laughter. "Come now, Erestor, enough banter. Indulge me." Erestor stretched his arms over his head and deliberated, choosing his words carefully. "I think there is more to Glorfindel than meets the eye, if you must know. His attitude seems haughty, but if one were to look closely, it is possible to see small cracks peeking through the surface of that icy façade." Gil-galad lifted his head and met his cousin's dark gaze directly. "Oh? How so?" Turning sideways in his seat, Erestor turned toward the king and crossed his legs before picking up his juice glass. Idly he ran a finger around the rim. "I cannot quite explain it, but there is something about his demeanor that is at odds with what we know of the hero of Gondolin." "Erestor, he *died*," Gil-galad said. "Death changes one, would you not think?" "Nay, cousin, I speak in earnest. I mean that the face he presents to the rest of us is at odds with his true nature. He hides something – some great sorrow or shame. I can sense it. A few times I have glanced at him while he thought no one else was looking. The look on his face was one of wretched despair, not ego. There was true pain in his eyes, not the look of one who somehow feels he is doing us a favor by being here." Gil-galad looked thoughtful for a few moments. His cousin's intuition was uncanny – he was possessed of, not quite 'foresight', but empathy. Perhaps it was his dam's Human blood, for the line of Bëor was said to be wise beyond measure of the Three Houses of the Edain. And it was rumored that Aegnor's foresight was immeasurable even among the Eldar. "Possibly…" he agreed, though his tone made it clear he was skeptical. "He looked at me rather peculiarly this morning," Erestor added, nibbling daintily on a crust of toast and washing it down with a swallow of juice. "He seemed taken aback by my appearance in the hall outside our rooms. I do not believe he was aware our quarters in such close proximity to one another." "To what would you attribute his interest?" "I had a guest last night." "Ah. And you believe he heard your… entertainment?" Erestor shrugged. "'Twould seem so." They sat in silence for long moments, each lost in thought, until finally Erestor tossed his napkin on the table and stood. "'Enough procrastinating, cousin; time to get to work. You have a kingdom to rule." Gil-galad tipped his head in acknowledgement. "I suppose, enough of the day has been spent in leisure." "Sire, no matter your personal feelings toward Glorfindel, he is a Lord – though he refutes the title – and deserves a welcome befitting his station. I think it would be proper to hold a welcome ball in his honor. It should not be large, I think; too much to-do and he would be even more uncomfortable than he already appears. But a small dinner, with some music and dancing would be appropriate, I deem." Gil-galad nodded "Of course – I have been meaning to bring that up with you and Elrond." "Elrond concurs; we spoke of the matter yesterday." The king laughed lightly. "You are ever-efficient, dear cousin, in how well you anticipate my every word. Agreed. Three days hence we will hold a ball in the private gardens." Quickly he comprised a tentative guest list. The heads of state and council members would be invited, along with their spouses, and of course Faelwen and her husband, and the other Lindon nobility. With a final, affectionate squeeze to the king's shoulder, Erestor turned and left to begin consulting with the chefs and court minstrels. ~*~*~ to be continued ~*~*~ Title: From the Fire (5/?) Author: Fimbrethiel Website: Iavas e Guren http://fimbrethiel.com LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fimbrethiel/ Fiction update list: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/FanSfictionupdates Email: fimbrethiel @ yahoo.com Type: FPS Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit depictions of homoerotic acts between consenting males, angst, romance 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: Minuial Nuwing *massive hugs* Any remaining errors are mine. Timeline: Primarily the year 1610 of the Second Age Summary: Fire is both the destroyer and the creator. Like the mighty Phoenix that rises from the flame, one Elf finds new meaning in life as he is returned 'From the Fire'. ~*~*~*~*~ Special thanks go to Minuial for her assistance on this chapter. Thanks, meldisen, for the virtual hugs and the supply of Prozac. ;) *~*~*~*~* So we meet again, my friends. Thank you for returning, and I hope you are enjoying the tale. When last we met, Glorfindel had made an oath of allegiance to Master Elrond and strove to adjust to being among the living. Tell me, Gentle Reader, now that you have had a glimpse of the Golden One remade, what do you think of Glorfindel? Nay, my friends, look not to me for confirmation! Patience is a virtue, so it is said, and we shall see in time if your assessment is apt. Let us get right to the tale, shall we? *~*~*~*~* It swiftly became evident to Elrond that it would be in his best interest to forge some sort of affinity with the re-embodied Elda soonest. A gradual rapport between them would naturally develop, but it was apparent to the Peredhel that time was of the essence. The High King had already expressed impatience with Glorfindel's self-imposed reticence and impudent manner when he did deign another worthy of his regard. Gil-galad was not one to stand on ceremony any more than dictated by necessity, and though he was an amiable sort, his rarely incited temper was ferocious. Elrond, being somewhat between the proverbial rock and hard place with his king and his guardian, took it upon himself to be the conciliator between the two ere they came to blows over some perceived slight. Elrond's primary reason for extending a tentative offer of friendship to the stoic Elda was borne of duty and honor, but also his understanding of how overwhelmingly isolated Glorfindel must feel. The Half-elf knew – as did so many of the Elves still remaining in Middle-earth – what it was to be alone and lonely, and angry at the Powers who held fate in their hands. Mercifully, even during his own darkest hours while in Maglor's care, Elrond had known the comfort of his twin's proximity. And when years later Elros made the choice to cleave to Mankind, the first King of Men sailed for Númenor knowing his younger twin would be well cared for by Gil-galad, Erestor, and Faelwen. Glorfindel had no one. Additionally, Elrond figured if he and Glorfindel were to be bound in allegiance for millennia, it would behoove them to form a friendship, however cautious. It would make for a protracted, unpleasant relationship if they could not somehow manage to be in the same room together. And Elrond had every intention of living for a very, very long time. For Elrond had a third, more private reason for seeking out Glorfindel's alliance – a motive not altogether altruistic, he admitted to himself. He wanted to gain the Elda's support and trust to aid him in the pursuit of his own goal. His objective, aside from seeing the destruction of the Dark Lord, was the hand of Lady Celebrían, the beautiful daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, in marriage. Some hundreds of years before, the Lord and Lady ruled over the land of Harlindon to the south of the River Lhûn. Elrond had the chance to make the acquaintance of the silver- haired elleth, and from the moment he beheld her gentle beauty, he knew no other would ever supplant her in his heart. Celebrían returned his regard, and pledged herself to him. But Elrond was possessing of foresight, a legacy bequeathed from his ancestor Melian the Maia. He knew in his heart it was not his time to wed; the power of Sauron was growing ever stronger, and he was needed at Gil-galad's side to battle the coming darkness. Someday, though, the Peredhel vowed he would see a gold ring gracing her finger, and wear her ring on his own. Finally, Elrond understood his brother's choice – what it was to love another enough to make any sacrifice, no matter the trials. Elros had cherished his mortal bride with that same bright, pure love that Elrond now felt for his Celebrían. No burden was too great to bear, enlivened by his beloved's avowal of commitment. This self-same pledge was to be a balm to his weary soul in the long years to come. The Dark Lord would one day be banished from Middle-earth, and with Glorfindel's oath of fealty and sword protecting him, Elrond would live through it and see his heart's desire – the day he would wed Celebrían and live blissfully in a land of peace and plenty. To that end, Elrond encouraged the beginnings of a faltering friendship and insisted the Elda forsake breaking his fast in the silence of his own rooms and join the rest of the king's household in the communal dining hall. Each day Elrond, with irrepressible fair spirits, would knock on Glorfindel's door. Without fail, Glorfindel would throw open the door and scowl at the Peredhel, but then close the door behind him and follow Elrond to the dining room. Little conversation passed between the two while idle breakfast chatter went on about them. For the most part, Glorfindel ate in silence, only interjecting a periodic gruff, "Please pass the butter," or pausing to send along an item requested from the far end of the table. Elrond was careful to tread lightly and be respectful of Glorfindel's desire to keep his distance, so his own side of the conversation was equally sparse. Whether Glorfindel's acceptance was out of a grudging sense of duty or the first cautious stirrings of friendship, Elrond did not know. But the Elda's willingness to accompany him to the dining hall each day satisfied him. It was a beginning. It was over one of these breakfasts that Elrond imparted the news of the upcoming festivities. Gil-galad, having the utmost faith in his herald's famed skills of communication, and aware that Elrond was one of the few whose presence Glorfindel tolerated, entrusted the Half-elf with breaking the news to the Lord of Gondolin. The declaration from Elrond that he was to be wined and feted with a dinner in his honor was - quite predictably - not taken well. Despite Elrond's assurances that the affair was to be casual and intimate in nature, consisting of a feast followed by music and dancing, a look of panic crossed the Elda's fair face. Glorfindel thought briefly of declining, but knew to protest was futile. He could not refuse to attend when the invitation amounted to a direct order from his benefactor, so he said only, "Very well." Elrond, sending the Elda's discomfort, quickly steered the subject around to Glorfindel's role within the High King's service. Until the ball, the golden warrior would be free of duties. On the morn immediately following the ball he would be accompanying Elrond south to Harlindon, while the king's herald participated in trade negotiations. They were to be gone a fortnight, after which time Glorfindel would take up the sword and assist Captain Celeg, commander of Lindon's defenses, at the training grounds. *~*~*~*~* Apart from the brief moments in Elrond's company each morning, Glorfindel spent a goodly portion of those first few days in a solitary existence. He walked and thought, often strolling along the quays of the waterfront, frequently turning his gaze to the harbor and the River Lhûn. He imagined that when the light was just right, and reflected off the water *just so*, and he squinted hard enough, he could see the Isle of Númenor as a dark speck on the horizon. And just beyond that, by angling his head in just the right manner, further even than the Isle of Men… the white shores of the Undying Lands. He shunned any offer of companionship, though there were many who would have gladly accompanied him on his ramblings over hill and vale. Even the youngest sprite knew of the fall of Gondolin and the heroism of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. Who would not wish to become acquainted with such a one as he – especially when possessing of such physical attributes to make even the most blissfully wedded among them fairly swoon at his feet? He made a remarkable, if imposing, figure stalking about the fields and quays of Forlond, a deadly sword slung low on his hips. As evening fell, Glorfindel would return from his meanderings, weary to the depths of his soul, skulking through the myriad of oft-unused passages throughout the palace in order to avoid as much contact as possible. He would wash the sweat and dust from his body, keeping his eyes vigilantly averted from the pale mark that wound across around his waist and down his flank, and then send for a cold supper. A young serving girl, hands trembling from fright at being in such close proximity to a living legend, would deliver the tray of chilled meats, cheeses, and fruit. He would eat slowly, sitting in a chair in front of the window overlooking the harbor, and think some more. To the faer called home into his care, Námo gave the choice for rebirth, once the misdeeds of their lives were forgiven. Not for the first time, or even the hundredth, since his coming to awareness on the ship that bore him east from Valinor, Glorfindel wondered what set *his* fate apart from that of the others. He killed them all, was as responsible for their deaths just as surely as if they were slain by his blade. Too late… always he was too late. He came to the Swanhaven too late to prevent Fëanor and his sons from the horror of the Kinslayings. If only he had been at his mother's side upon the Helcaraxë rather with the other warriors of Fingolfin's rearguard, he could have fished her from the frigid depths and saved her life. A faulty bow that needed an emergency restringing kept him from his father's side – his daring, adventurous, and kind father, another casualty of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. If only. If only he had recognized the flickering crimson of the eastern sky over Gondolin on that fateful morning for what it was, and sounded the alarm sooner. If only he had been in time to whisk his law-sister and her unborn babe to safety, before the Orcs hewed the child from her womb and then tore her limb from limb. If only Glorfindel had been able to restrain his brother, near blinded by grief, from a daring but suicidal assignation with the Balrog, Ecthelion would not have ended up as a moldering pile of bones in the depths of his own fountain. And before the swan song of his own death, he failed his lover. Glorfindel had not registered the screams at first; they were simply yet another layer of the cacophony swirling around him amid the din. But with dawning horror he recognized the beloved voice that had whispered so sweetly in his ear, heard crying out in passion so many times in the night, and he ran toward it. But Glorfindel arrived too late, in time only to cradle his beloved in trembling arms as his life's blood soaked the tattered black and red standard he had fallen upon. He failed them all. Could not – did not – save them. *Why* was the question he asked himself continually, and came no closer to an answer with each query. What of *their* fates? Did any choose to forgo the Mandos-granted choice of rebirth and remain in the sacred Halls of Waiting? Or did they embrace the choice offered to them, to be reborn into a new rhaw? Were they even now walking the soft sands of the far shores, or rejoicing under the evergreen boughs of the deep forests of Valinor? They would have the opportunity to live again, a second life in which new experiences would meld with old, blunting the pain of their former ones, doubling the joy of the happy memories. And when one day again they would meet, Glorfindel wondered, when his duty was fulfilled in Middle-earth, would they even remember him? And when the memories of their first lives were regained, would they pardon him for his lacking, assuage his guilt with their forgiveness? So many questions, and no answers were forthcoming. *~*~*~*~* At night, when the moon rose in the west, when lovers found respite and comfort in their beds, Glorfindel prowled the castle corridors, unable to find peace from the memories that plagued his every moment. A scant few days had passed since his return to Arda, and not a single night had passed without broken sleep and horrifying nightmares. One late night near the culmination of his first week in Lindon, Glorfindel chanced to find himself at the entrance to an as-yet undiscovered passage that led off from the main Hall. In near silence he padded bare-footed down the sizable corridor, and to his surprise found two massive, intricately carved wooden doors that opened into a vast room lit faintly with oil lamps. Beyond the open doors was a library. Awestruck, Glorfindel peered around the dimly lit room, seeking out its occupants. Deeming the room satisfactorily empty, he crept inside and looked around in amazement. From inside the doorway, the library was even larger than it had appeared from the hall. In truth, to refer to this room as a common 'library' was a gross understatement. The room was a veritable catacomb of row after row, shelf upon shelf, of volumes almost beyond imagining. Even Turgon's great collection within the palace of Gondolin seemed insignificant compared to the sheer quantity of books amassed within the walls of the High King's library. Around the periphery of the stacks, every so often there was a grouping of two or three comfortable-looking chairs arranged in an intimate cluster, along with a small table and lantern, its flame safely ensconced behind a glass chimney. The collection of tomes housed on the sturdy shelves was equally astounding. The subjects ranged from the Creation and the story of Yavanna and the Two Trees, through the sinking of Beleriand, all the way to annals dated only a few years prior. There were books filled with sketches, and volumes of poetry, all catalogued by category and date, arranged in neat tiers. Noiselessly he walked up and down between the rows, marveling at the variety and thoroughness of the collection, and paused before a section that contained the chronicles of the Fall of Gondolin. He raised his hand, running a finger hesitantly, almost lovingly, over the binding, tracing the letters embossed on the spine. "I would not blame you for passing that particular volume by; 'twould be rather disconcerting to read of one's own death." "Who--" Glorfindel jumped, pulling his hand away from the book as though it had burned him, and whirled around toward the voice, heart pounding. Glorfindel peered through the shadows trying to discern the owner of the voice. He walked cautiously to the end of the row where the light was better. A dark-haired Elf sprawled in one of the chairs grouped at the end of the row under the faint light of a lamp, one leg curled under him, the other bare foot dangling casually over the arm of the chair. He wore loose sleep pants and a light colored robe that gleamed dully in the muted light. A book was clasped loosely in one hand. Glorfindel recognizing the voice as belonging to the dark-haired Lord who had greeted him on the very first day of his arrival – his lusty neighbor, the one whose bedroom activities had awakened him in the wee hours of the night. Since their brief nod of greeting in the hallway the morning after, Glorfindel had seen nary a trace of the exotic-looking seneschal, nor heard a word of his whereabouts, even from Lord Elrond. He searched his memory and finally put a name to the face. "Lord Erestor." "Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you." Erestor tucked a finger into the book, marking the place he had broken off from reading, and smiled apologetically at the Elda. Erestor was pleasantly surprised to learn the identity of the visitor. It had been a few days since the last time their paths had crossed, and then only momentarily. Duty and personal business had kept him from spending much time at the palace. "Begging your pardon, Lord Erestor, 'tis I who should ask forgiveness for disrupting your solitude. I thought the library was empty. If you will excuse me…" Glorfindel backed toward the door, intending to hastily retreat and return to his rooms, but was halted by Erestor's mellifluous voice beckoning him back. "'Tis no disruption at all, your appearance is a pleasant distraction from such dull fare." As though to prove his point, he held up the volume he had been reading, and Glorfindel could make out the title 'The Evolution of the Trade Agreement: Theory and Substance' etched across the cover. "I am happy to see you, actually; my schedule has allowed precious little time to visit lately." Erestor shifted in his chair to face his unexpected visitor. 'Tis not necessary to leave, my friend. I would quite enjoy your company. Will you join me?" He gestured to the chair opposite him, inviting Glorfindel to sit down. "Thank you for the offer, but I will pass. Perhaps another time," Glorfindel replied. "In the evenings I can be found here, more often than not. I am an affirmed night owl. This –" Erestor explained with an expansive gesture, indicating the library, "seems to be the only place I can gain any measure of peace and quiet these days. History has a unique scent that I find faintly reassuring." He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma that was at once dry and dusty, but somehow damp and musty, and as solid as the years that had made it. The corner of Glorfindel's mouth curved upward in just a hint of a smile. If Erestor had not been studying his companion watchfully, he would have missed it completely, but in truth, his eyes had not left the fair warrior's face from a moment. He was taken aback at the warmth that spread throughout his gut, seeing that somber expression lifted for the barest moment. "Tell me, are you settling in, my friend? I trust your rooms meet with your satisfaction?" "Aye, they are quite satisfactory," Glorfindel agreed. "Good, I selected them for you with the view in mind." Erestor smiled warmly at the blond, pleased that his choice of quarters had been so well received. "I thought you might appreciate the river view, it is especially lovely at the first light of dawn, when the mists rise off the water." "It is breathtaking. The effort is appreciated… I thank you." The conversation faltered. It was clear Glorfindel was becoming ill at ease. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other, obviously anxious to flee back to the safety of his chambers. Erestor found himself desperate to say something – anything – that would keep Glorfindel from leaving. 'Elbereth, never in my life have I found conversation so difficult. What is wrong with me? Say something, you fool!' "So… have you had the opportunity to discover the vineyards yet? I highly recommend a tour, and perhaps a wine tasting afterward. Our vintner is renowned for his skill. Ask him for a sample of the '07 Berdruskan red, it is superb." "Nay, I have not, but I will seek them out at the first opportunity, Lord Erestor," Glorfindel replied. Erestor grimaced. "The very idea of formality is abhorrent to me. Please – 'tis only Erestor." After another awkward silence, Glorfindel finally said, "Well, I must be going." "Very well." Erestor said, smiling, and again opening the book to where he had marked the page. "Will you be able to find your way back?" Nodding, Glorfindel turned toward the door again. "Glorfindel –" Erestor called suddenly to the retreating back. The golden head cocked quizzically, but he did not turn around. "Aye?" "… a group of us gather in the Green Room once a fortnight for an evening of gaming – though there is more drinking and ribaldry that occurs than gaming. It would please me if you would join us some night." "I will think on it. Good night, 'only Erestor'." And with that, he was gone into the night. For a long while Erestor sat motionless, book forgotten, smiling faintly at the shadows. His sudden shout of laughter rang off the walls and echoed throughout the library. Glorfindel had made a joke. 'You can run, but you cannot hide, Glorfindel. You crave companionship, a friend to allay your loneliness and help to heal that fragile heart. I will offer, and will continue to do so, until you are worn down. I will tear down your walls, my reluctant friend. You do not see it, but they are crumbling already.' *~*~*~*~* Ai, Gentle Reader, we do have a ball to prepare for; I had nearly forgotten. Thank you for the reminder. For three days, the palace had been abuzz with activity in preparation for the welcoming feast. The morning of the party dawned warm and humid, with clear azure skies. Evening promised to be muggy, but free of inclement weather. Shall we take a peek at the preparations? *~*~*~*~* In the gardens, on the spacious cobbled square near the orchards, carpenters ran to and fro constructing a raised dais where the musicians would entertain the party guests. Long tables were built, and arranged in a large semi-circle on the stones, leaving a large open space for dancing. Many lamps and lanterns were hung – from the fruit trees on one side, on tall poles pounded into the ground on the other – that would illuminate the gathering in soft light. The kitchens were no less busy with baking, washing and cutting, and the churning of fresh butter. Plump pheasants stuffed with an herbed dressing were nestled in pans and crackling merrily on a large brazier. A spring calf grown fat on sweet summer grass had been butchered, with thanks given to the Valar for their bounty. Pans of crisp vegetables picked at the height of summer's freshness roasted in the brick ovens; slices of creamy mellow cheeses and chunks of pungent cheeses were arrayed on trays. The freshest, ripest, most succulent fruits were picked and stored in the root cellar, ready to be washed and arranged in bowls and drizzled with honey-sweetened clotted cream to round out the banquet. The palace royals had maids and menservants aplenty to assist them in dressing in party finery. The High King and his herald would wear the official dress robes of their offices. Erestor intensely disliked the restrictive nature of the formal garments and chose to clothe himself in form-fitting leggings of dove gray and soft black boots that reached mid-calf. A crimson doublet, double-stitched overall with matching shiny threads, was cinched tightly at the waist with a black suede sash, atop a snowy white, flowing silk tunic. His raven hair was brushed until it gleamed like moonlit water and styled simply, the forelocks held back from his face with a jeweled clip. But Glorfindel refused the assistance of a valet, and tended to his hair and dress by himself. With a steadily growing sense of dread, he attired himself in garments just completed and delivered to his quarters that morning by a blushing, giggling maidservant. His trousers were the color of charcoal, crafted of the softest leather, and clung to his muscular legs, tapering at the ankles and tucked into knee-high boots. A creamy silk tunic was left unbuttoned at the collar and topped with a royal blue velvet sleeveless vest, embroidered with leaves and vines in dark green and golden threads. Intricate braids were woven through his hair, his fingers so accustomed by the years to the weaving and tucking that in short order every plait was perfect and smooth. As dusk fell, a knock on the door startled him from brooding thought where he stood by the window, staring out into the encroaching gloom. With a deep, fortifying breath that did little to bolster his flagging spirits, Glorfindel closed the door behind him and followed Elrond to the gardens. ~*~*~ to be continued ~*~*~ Title: From the Fire (6/?) Author: Fimbrethiel Website: Iavas e Guren http://fimbrethiel.com LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fimbrethiel/ Fiction update list: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/FanSfictionupdates Email: fimbrethiel @ yahoo.com Type: FPS Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit depictions of homoerotic acts between consenting males, angst, romance 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: Minuial Nuwing *massive hugs* Any remaining errors are mine. Timeline: Primarily the year 1610 of the Second Age Summary: Fire is both the destroyer and the creator. Like the mighty Phoenix that rises from the flame, one Elf finds new meaning in life as he is returned 'From the Fire'. ~*~*~*~*~ Welcome back, Gentle Readers. Now, where did we leave off when last we parted? Ah, thank you – the welcoming ball. The king's staff was in a frenzy preparing for the celebration of such an unprecedented occasion. The kitchens were a hive of activity with the selection and preparation of only the highest quality, freshest, and most delicious foods. The palace tailors and seamstresses worked their fingers raw, basting, hemming, beading, and stitching the finery their Lords and Ladies would wear. The High King's minstrels had been hidden away in the conservatory, where they remained even during the noon and dinner hours. And at the ball, Glorfindel and Erestor danced and fell in love, and after many years and many battles the Dark Lord was defeated, and the Rings destroyed, and they all sailed to Valinor and lived happily ever after. Now off with you, little ones – 'tis time for you to wash and head off to bed. Rest well, my young friends, and may Lórien's dreams be pleasant. And parents – I will pause while you settle the wee ones, but please do not tarry, for a long journey still lies before us. *~*~*~*~* Very good, Gentle Readers, you returned quickly! Forgive my small deception, I thought 'twould be prudent, to send the little ones off to slumber before we go on… 'tis a subject we shall come to now that is not suitable for little pitchers and big ears. Are we alone? Then onward we shall go… *~*~*~*~* Under the first twinkling of stars in the early evening sky, Gil-galad officially welcomed the remade Elda to Lindon. Flanking the High King on either side were his counselors – the chief advisor on his immediate left, followed by Erestor; to his right was Glorfindel, as guest of honor. Then Elrond, second-ranked to the king, at the Golden One's right hand. After the king spoke, Elrond stood to have a word. He echoed the king's greeting, and then let Glorfindel's avowal of service to him and his line be known to all. He picked up his wine glass and turned to face the Elda. During the speeches, Glorfindel's stomach rolled nervously. He would be expected to stand and say a few words, hollow platitudes paying homage to the joy of being alive again. There was no way to cry off without appearing crass, but he was certain his words would sound forced and insincere. Because, of course, they were. The fact was, Glorfindel did not want to be here. His first life had been a calamity, and the second was sure to be as well. But Elrond only raised his glass in a toast and said, "To Glorfindel, hero of the First Age. May your days be blessed." Glorfindel near sagged in relief when the Half-elf clapped his hands together sharply to indicate the beginning of the meal. He met Elrond's eye gratefully, and Elrond gave a circumspect nod. The banquet was sumptuous. Wine, both red and light, flowed freely, though pitchers of cool, sweet fruit juices and chilled water were arranged on the tables for those who did not wish to imbibe. The laughter grew somewhat raucous, the talk more ribald, as the bottles and carafes emptied and the serving platters and bowls took on a rather ravaged appearance. Finally Gil-galad clapped twice, signifying the end of the feast, and scullery maids hurried to clear the tables. On the raised platform, court minstrels tuned their instruments and opened the festivities with a dignified waltz. Erestor and Maluön, one of the High King's advisors, were the first to reach the dance floor, where they remained for most of the evening. Both were accomplished dancers, and their movements, elegant and fluid, were a joy to behold. But not for Glorfindel. He did not dance, but stood in the shadows watching the revelry going on about him. After his fortuitous encounter with the king's seneschal in the library, Glorfindel had returned to his chambers slightly less heavy of heart, enlivened at the prospect of making a friend – aside from Elrond – with whom he could spend some time. From the ebony-haired Lord emanated a sense of tranquility and purpose that Glorfindel found reassuring, as though Erestor knew precisely who he was and was comfortable in his own skin. Erestor did not, the Elda noted, wear a ring – either silver or gold – upon his finger. And his words, "In the evenings I can be found here, more often than not," implied he was unbound, or otherwise unattached. Glorfindel surmised that the seneschal's tryst of a few nights before was an anomaly – a singular occurrence to while away the hours. Erestor would not have sought the peace of the library had he a spouse or lover of any permanence. Glorfindel had fostered a small notion of hope that he might become better acquainted with the king's striking seneschal. But it was evident by the manner that his silver- haired partner held Erestor so possessively that the two were far more than contemporaries. They were lovers. *~*~*~*~* The quintet took a much-needed break, and the dancers trickled off to rejoin their companions and fortify themselves with more food and wine. Erestor and Maluön, hands loosely entwined, headed toward a group mingling in a shadowy corner of the garden, underneath a beech tree adorned with sparkling lanterns. Erestor stripped off his sweat- soaked doublet and tossed it on the back of his chair, then fell into his seat next to the High King and joined in the conversation. Maluön, mopping at his sweaty brow, caught sight of an elleth, heavy with child, picking her way carefully through the grass and toward the gardens. He nudged Erestor sharply, interrupting his exchange with Elrond and Gil-galad, and gestured in her direction. Erestor glanced at his lover, and following the advisor's look, jumped up in haste. "Faelwen!" he called out in surprise and rushed to her side. He led her over the uneven cobbles of the empty dance floor, a solicitous arm twined about her waist. Reaching the group, Erestor lent her an arm as she gradually lowered her bulk into the seat he had just vacated, while Elrond stepped aside and fetched an additional chair. "Forgive me for being late, Gil," she apologized to the king, rubbing her swollen belly absently. "I fell asleep." "'Tis understandable under the circumstances, my dear. I am glad you could make it at all," Gil replied with an affectionate kiss to her cheek. "'Tis a surprise – though a pleasing one – to see you out, with the babe's time drawing so near," Maluön remarked. "Erestor said he did not believe you would be joining us tonight. Mere days away, are you?" "Aye," Faelwen nodded, fanning her flushed face with a slender hand. "Three risings of the sun and she will be here, and not a moment too soon. Her ada grows anxious to meet her. I have vowed that if he does not cease with his daily countdowns, I shall throttle him," she said with a small smile that belied her exasperated words. It was obvious that she was as enthusiastic about the impending birth as the babe's sire, for she was positively radiant, despite the dark circles under her eyes. Erestor patted the distended stomach fondly. "She promises to be as beautiful as her mother." "Ai, Erestor, you are incorrigible," she laughed and pushed his hand away. "Now be a dear and go get me some water." He bent and whispered loudly to the babe cradled snugly in her mother's womb. "Your mother is demanding, my sweet – she tries my patience sorely. 'Tis a good thing I love her, little one, or I would pitch her off the docks and be done with her once and for all." With a quick kiss to the swollen belly, he darted out of reach, snickering, before Faelwen's playful swat could make contact with his backside. "My pet's well-being is in your hands, Malu – mind she does not run you ragged while I am gone. She is a stern task mistress," Erestor tossed over his shoulder, heading to the serving tables for more refreshments. Maluön laughed, and Faelwen rolled her eyes in her brother's direction before turning her attention back to the group. For the first time, she noticed the tall, silent figure standing behind Gil-galad. She turned and peered at the king's herald expectantly. "I believe introductions are in order, Lord Elrond." Glorfindel, standing behind the group and lurking as far into the shadows as protocol would allow, was startled out of his ruminations by the gentle rebuke in the elleth's tone. Elrond, duly chastised, hastened to make their acquaintance. "Forgive me, my dear. 'Tis the drink that causes me to forget my manners; I had assumed the two of you had met already. Faelwen, may I present Lord Glorfindel. Lord Glorfindel – Lady Faelwen, cousin to the High King." Faelwen's gaze was thoughtful as she studied the tall, blond warrior for long moments. "My Lord," she said quietly. "My Lady," he nodded, unsettled by the unwavering gaze, which somehow made him feel as though she could look into his soul and see the darkness caged there. He looked away uncomfortably. Erestor returned with a goblet of cool water for his sibling and two more glasses of wine balanced between the fingers of other the other hand. After passing the water to a grateful Faelwen, he handed a glass of wine to Maluön and sat down between his sister and his lover. It was far too early in the evening to excuse himself without appearing boorish, so while the merriment went on around him, Glorfindel returned to his ruminations. The banquet had been delicious, but he found himself strangely without appetite, and only picked at his dinner. The wine was extraordinary, however, and he kept his glass full throughout the evening. The quintet, much revived by a few draughts of potent, dark wine and seated again on the dais with instruments in hand, struck up a spirited jig. In a single, long swallow, Erestor downed his drink and seized the High King by the hand. "Come, my king, dance with me!" "Erestor, you are intoxicated!" Gil-galad chastised good-naturedly with a half-hearted protest as he allowed himself, amid much ribbing from his subjects, to be pulled onto the dance floor. "Nay, not intoxicated, merely giddy with the joy of life, my Lord!" Erestor exclaimed, whirling his cousin around in circles. Together Erestor and the High King careened about the garden, arms around each other's waist, stepping in time to the lively tune. When the song ended, the assembly broke into vigorous applause. Gil-galad, his cheeks rosy with wine and high spirits, bowed gallantly to his cousin, a broad smile upon his face. "Thank you for the pleasure of your company, my Lord." Erestor threw his arms around the king and bussed him noisily on the cheek. "The pleasure was mine, my liege," he said with an exaggerated bow, and the group, except for Glorfindel, burst into laughter as the duo returned to their seats. *~*~*~*~* The break between numbers was longer than usual and drew a few irate glances from the revelers eager to dance the night away. On the dais, the lead violinist had placed his instrument back in its case and was moving among his musicians, conferring quietly with each one in turn. At the rear of the platform, there was a large, open trunk. From the trunk he withdrew a few objects, while the second violin and flutist both returned their instruments to their cases as well. To the violinist and flutist respectively the lead musician gave a wooden shaker filled with small stones and a horn, shaped somewhat like the traditional herald's trumpet, but with holes down the barrel, intended to be covered with the fingers to create notes. For himself, he carried a small round drum. The sense of expectancy grew. What the minstrels had planned was sure to be something special, if the variety of instrumentation was any suggestion. The assembled crowd watched and listened, their curiosity piqued, while the viola player tucked his bow away and began to retune his instrument, plucking at the strings here and there with his fingers, listening carefully to the pitch before strumming another chord. Meanwhile, the lutist removed the leather tie from his hair and wrapped it tightly around the upper neck of his instrument. The notes he plucked were high-pitched and sharp, and had an altogether unique sound. The drummer commended tapping on the stretched leather of the drum wedged between his knees, setting the tempo. Taptap tap, taptap tap. A few beats later, the staccato rattle of the shaker joined the thumping of the drum, and soon the shrill bleating of the horn echoed under the trees. As the first few bars of the song filled the air, Glorfindel gasped in recognition. It was not possible – it had been lost along with the Hidden City. How could it be? But there was no mistaking that sultry sound for what he knew it to be, no matter how unlikely. Meren Echui – the Dance of Gondolin. *~*~*~*~* Meren Echui, my friends, 'twas a sight to see. What was this mysterious Dance, Gentle Reader, which had our Golden One in such a state? 'Tis a challenge to explain the Dance using mere words, my friends, but I will endeavor to do it justice. Meren Echui – the Dance of Joyful Awakening – was one of the few traditions salvaged by the refugees of the fall of Gondolin. The music and steps were judiciously preserved in remembrance of the Hidden City, but while often attempted, few managed to master the intricate and highly choreographed footwork. The Dance of Gondolin was an expression of beauty, an exploration of eroticism, the movements designed to incite and tempt the senses and excite the passions in a synchronization of bodies and movements. When performed by elleth and ellon, Meren Echui was an entreaty to fertility and sensuality, he led, she echoed; her movements were graceful and designed to be balancing his. Between ellyn, the Dance was one of symmetry, an expression of virility, the maneuvers of one a reflected image of the other. And rather plainly, it was the last thing Glorfindel expected to hear on that sultry, humid evening. Shall we return to the party, Gentle Reader, and see what happens? *~*~*~*~* Erestor could have blamed his impulsiveness on the wine, or the frenetic, pulsing beat of the music, or the oppressive summer air. But what triggered his action, he admitted to himself the following day, was the pained look on the remade Elda's face when the first few measures were played, and the memory of that tiny, hesitant smile that had flitted over Glorfindel's face that night in the library. Erestor decided he would give much to see a genuine look of happiness grace that noble face, for another of those tiny smiles that warmed his heart to its very core. He found himself standing. Shaking his head absently as Maluön rose expectantly from his seat. Coming to stand in front of the golden warrior. Wordlessly offering his hand in invitation. At Erestor's murmured query as to whether he recalled the elaborate steps of the Dance, Glorfindel was able to do little more than offer a mute nod of assent. As though guided by some invisible force, powerless to resist, and overwhelmed near into incoherence, he automatically reached out to accept Erestor's outstretched hand and blindly follow him out into the center of the dance floor. Still dazed, Glorfindel instinctively took his place next to Erestor and positioned himself in the opening sequence, waiting for the preliminary measures of the song to segue into the primary rhythm. They stood side-by-side facing in opposite directions, shoulder to shoulder, their right hands stretched across their partner's waist and resting intimately on the other's right hip. The opposing hand rested upon the partner's, holding it in place just above the curve of the hipbone, while their eyes met and held each other's gaze. A tiny pulse fluttered swiftly under the smooth ivory of Glorfindel's neck. Standing in place, counting each beat of the music, Erestor had to suppress a sudden urge to swipe his tongue over the tender hollow, to find out if that sweat-glistened skin would taste of honey or salt. And then the music swelled, and there was time to do nothing but move. The first few steps were awkward while they settled into the pattern of the Dance and each learned the other's rhythm. A rapid step forward and then back, and Glorfindel stumbled on an uneven cobble. Erestor broke the pattern and steadied him, and they continued on. The hand drum and shaker pressed on with the driving, ever-increasing tempo. The deep, vibrating bass of the bowless viola imparted a potent, almost mystical quality, while the piercing bleat of the horn and sharp, incisive tone of the lute competed for authority, layered over all, driving each other on. The dissimilarity between the dancers should have been distracting – radiant daylight and mysterious moonlight, gold and sable, lithe and broad – yet only paradoxically illustrated the perfect harmony in which they moved. It was near impossible to believe the pair had never danced together before this moment. Lost to the music, the sensuality of Meren Echui, time became meaningless, a wisp of smoke blown away by the wind. Glorfindel was back in Gondolin thousands of years ago, in – quite literally – another lifetime, in his lover's arms, the last time he had performed this dance. His last moments of elation, the eve before his world came crashing down in a barrage of flame and screaming and pain, before the blissful oblivion of nothingness. Glorfindel's eyes saw not the raven-haired beauty of his partner, but a dashing brunette, his hair burnished with auburn. Warm, expressive brown eyes the color of rich, fertile loam became gray, glittering with mirth, lust, and adoration. In his arms was not the lissome, elegantly muscled form of a king's advisor, but the broad, commanding bulk of a warrior who outweighed Erestor by at least two stone. Not the scent of fresh spice and a trace of clean, wholesome sweat, but leather and the metallic tang of well-oiled armor and weapons, and pine. The dancers circled around each other, mirroring the other's movements, never breaking eye contact, lost to all but the steady driving tempo and the pulse of their own arousal. They drew apart with a swirl and paused, arms outstretched, then spun together again, Glorfindel's sculpted thigh against Erestor's leanly muscled one. Hands – one slender and long-fingered, one broad – gripped the other's hip, fingers splayed over a comely backside. They swayed together, hips grinding, simulating the act of love. Erestor's tunic had crept up and clung to his sweat-damp stomach, leaving no doubt that he was affected by the overtly sexual nature of the Dance. It was impossible for anyone not to be touched by the erotic vision of the dancers and the heady scent of arousal that hung on the fragrant night air. There would be little sleep within the palace walls this night. And then with a final crescendo – an explosive musical orgasm – it stopped. They landed face to face, eye to eye, chests heaving, their lips a mere hand's breadth apart. For the space of six heartbeats, the night was still. Not a sound but the idyllic chirping of crickets could be heard. Then Elrond stood, shaking his head to rid it of the lethargic haze of lust, and began clapping his hands together slowly. A second Elf joined in, and a third, dragged reluctantly from their sensual torpor, and then the dam broke. The applause was deafening, punctuated by hoots and wolf whistles. Drawn slowly back to themselves by the crashing applause, the dancers released each other and drew apart, panting from their exertions. Erestor smiled and bowed gallantly to his partner. With dawning horror at the spectacle he had made of himself, Glorfindel flushed scarlet to the very roots of his hair and fled into the night. ~*~*~ to be continued ~*~*~