Title:  To Feel You Breathe (2/6)
Series:  The Games of Love (formerly Winner Takes All).  Unless you’re familiar with 
the series, many of the references in this story may not make sense.
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, cavity-
inducing FLUFF!
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.
Summary:  After millennia, and some misunderstandings, Erestor and Glorfindel finally 
bond.  This is the final installment in the Games of Love series.
Author’s Note:  For the Giant Pink Fluffy!bunny gang.  You know who you are.  ;)  

My deepest gratitude and much love to Miss SayAye for allowing me to use her artwork 
as inspiration for this story.  http://fimbrethiel.com/artwork/SayAye/SoulMates.JPG
  
The previous parts in this series can be found here: 
http://fimbrethiel.com/fiction/gamesoflove.htm

*~*~*~*~*

For appearance’s sake, the affianced couple had decided to keep their ‘official’ living 
quarters separate until after their wedding, though virtually every night since declaring 
their love had been spent together in Glorfindel’s massive four-poster bed, wrapped in 
each other’s loving embrace.  No one was fooled by this absurd pretense of decorum; it 
was excruciatingly clear each morning that what Chief Counselor Erestor and the 
seneschal were doing together in Glorfindel’s chambers was of a far more intimate nature 
than playing chess.

All of Imladris smiled indulgently at the blissful couple and turned a blind eye to the 
stark purpled bruises marring pale shoulders and necks, the kiss-swollen lips, the 
lingering looks Erestor and Glorfindel gave one another as they parted for their duties 
after breakfast every morning.  A more smitten pair the good Elves of Imladris had never 
seen, and they appeased the couple’s desire to at least appear to cater to the rules of 
propriety, for Glorfindel and Erestor both were well loved in the House of Elrond.

A week prior to the bonding ceremony, however, their living situation had undergone an 
abrupt and, to Glorfindel’s mind, entirely unsuitable, change.

On that night, he learned something surprising about his unconventional, dynamic lover - 
something that both infuriated him (at first) and touched him deeply (once he had the 
opportunity to calm down and think rationally again).

It seemed that Erestor, to his lover’s astonishment, was at heart a traditional Elf.  He 
insisted that since the two of them had been all but living together for nearly six months 
and flouting the rules of decency, he felt that during the week before their marriage, they 
should adhere to the generally accepted courting and betrothal rites, and therefore 
withhold from sharing the pleasures of the flesh until after the ceremony.

Glorfindel scoffed at these words, reminding the counselor rather crudely that Erestor had 
not been concerned about ‘propriety’ and ‘decency’ when Glorfindel was up his backside 
and fucking him through the mattress nearly every night, and besides, everyone in 
Imladris knew of their relationship and approved, anyway, so what was the point?

Nevertheless, Erestor, his face flushing crimson, did allow that though his current 
reticence to continue sharing Glorfindel’s bed did indeed sound a smidgen hypocritical, it 
was something he felt strongly about.

Glorfindel, overcome by a sudden attack of self-doubt and (he thought) justifiable fear 
that Erestor was simply attempting to find a tactful way to confess he was reconsidering 
his proposal, outright demanded an explanation.  He was heartened to learn that the 
reason was no more complex than that Erestor still clung to some old-fashioned ideals 
about love and marriage.   

In the end, Glorfindel agreed to his lover’s edict, albeit with much grumbling.  He 
complained churlishly that by their wedding night, he would be a reborn born-again 
virgin, but give in he did.  As though he had any choice in the matter?

The beatific look of gratitude on Erestor’s face and the sweet and loving kiss he received 
convinced him – almost – that the end would justify the means, if a week of abstinence 
would ultimately result in Erestor sleeping at his side for the rest of their lives.

Every evening since, Erestor had bestowed upon his sulking lover’s lips a chaste kiss and 
continued down the hallway to his own chambers, where he would spend the night alone, 
in his lavish and comfortable, but cold and lonely, bachelor’s bed.

And every evening after that demure kiss, Glorfindel would wander aimlessly around his 
own bedroom for most of the night.  The counselor had removed a scant few days’ worth 
of clothing and personal grooming items, the bare minimum he needed for the week, but 
even those few objects had become an integral part of Glorfindel’s surroundings.  The 
rooms he had lived in for centuries, always before seeming full of color and life, now 
were bleak and barren without Erestor’s presence.  

The counselor, Elladan was overheard whispering to his twin one evening at table, had 
Glorfindel wrapped around his not-inconsiderably sized appendage.  Mercifully, this 
hushed remark was not heeded by the increasingly foul-tempered and sexually frustrated 
golden-haired Elda.  The counselor in question, however, chose that moment to suffer a 
coughing fit that sounded, to the twins’ knowing ears, suspiciously like a hastily 
disguised snort of amusement.

The scene in Glorfindel’s chambers at the moment was startlingly similar to the one 
occurring in Erestor’s room just a few doors down the hall.  Where in his betrothed’s 
room, there was one Peredhel, in Glorfindel’s there were two, both tasked with the 
pacification of a nervous bridegroom.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his bowed head resting in his hands.

Elrohir, standing nearby at a small table, chuckled and looked fondly down at the golden-
haired warrior.  Little resemblance did this Elf bear to the renowned Glorfindel, legend of 
the Elder days, who had served as protector to their family since well before the twins’ 
birth.  At the moment, despite his height and breadth, Glorfindel looked small, alone, and 
very frightened, like a child afraid of the wraith he imagines is in the closet.  

“I do not think I can go through with this,” Glorfindel whimpered, rocking back and forth 
and clutching at his hair.

“Do you hear this, tôren?” Elrohir teased gently, looking up from where he was arranging 
an assortment of combs, brushes, and hair oils on the tabletop and giving his twin a 
sidelong wink.  “The fearless Glorfindel, famed slayer of a Balrog and hero of Ages, is 
frightened!”  

“Not frightened,” Glorfindel muttered petulantly from behind his hands.  “’Terrified out 
of my wits’ would be more accurate.”

Elladan withdrew a long, white silk bag on a hanger out of the wardrobe and turned 
toward the pair, a sly smile on his face.  “I never thought I would live to see the day, 
gellen,” he said to his brother.  Shaking the bag gently, he carefully hung the garment 
concealed within on one of the bedposts and smoothed a few minute wrinkles from the 
covering.  “Never did I think to see the day our little Glorfindel would be getting married, 
either,” he added, ignoring the indignant look that Glorfindel shot his way at being 
addressed so impertinently, “so it is proof positive that given time, most anything can 
happen.”

“Surely, Erestor is less fearsome than the Balrog, mellonen?” Elrohir queried gently, 
abandoning his task in favor of taking a seat next to the trembling Elda and embracing 
him.  The visage that turned toward him was pale, with enormous blue eyes that seemed 
to dominate his face.

“The prospect of marriage is nothing to be taken lightly, pen neth.”  Glorfindel turned his 
face to Elrohir’s chest and mumbled from the comforting embrace, “I would rather face 
the Balrog again than go through this.  My nerves cannot handle it.  At least the Balrog 
was sudden.”

Elladan chuckled, a sound that brought a small, reluctant smile to the stricken face of the 
nervous bridegroom and warmed his twin’s heart.  “You had best not let your intended 
hear you say that, pen iaur.  The Balrog was merciful compared to what Erestor would do 
to hear you speak thusly about your own wedding.”

“Erestor would have him drawn and quartered, El, do you think?” Elrohir queried, lifting 
his face to give his brother a conspiratorial wink, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh, at the very least.  Castrated, and then drawn and quartered – “

“- after first blinding him with lye - ”

“- and finally hacking his lifeless corpse to bits and feeding it to a flock of crebain.”

Glorfindel finally lifted his head and glared at his companions.  “Watch your tongues, 
curs.  Full-grown you two might be, but I could still turn you over my knee and pound 
your little asses into the ground.”

“It was a bed, and I believe you have already had that pleasure,” Elladan fired back.

The second the words left his mouth, he knew had been the wrong thing to say.  The 
expression on Glorfindel’s face simply melted… that was the only accurate description.  

“Shit,” Elladan said.  “This is not good.”  

“El?  That little lever inside your brain that tells you to keep your thoughts to yourself?  
Turn it on, lack wit,” Elrohir snapped, shooting Elladan such a look of derision that the 
elder twin felt his insides curl up on themselves and wither into a tiny, hard ball at the pit 
of his stomach.

Elladan sank down on the bed beside Glorfindel and he, too, wrapped his arms around the 
Elf who had been teacher, mentor, lover, friend.  “I am so sorry, sometimes my mouth 
opens before my brain can stop it.  That was a subject I should never have brought up.”

“My brother and I,” Elrohir added, with another frown at said shamefaced Peredhel, his 
fierce expression softening a second later, when he saw the truly devastated look on 
Elladan’s face, “were under Ada’s strict decree never to speak of that night to you, nor 
utter any word of your journey to the Wood.”

A flicker of merry green eyes flashed through Glorfindel’s mind, and he flushed at the 
memory of that single night in Lothlórien – the one that, if not for the practical guidance 
of a certain silver haired tree-sprite named Rúmil, could have been the undoing of all of 
his hopes and dreams, however belatedly realized.

“And how in Arda did your father know of that?”  Glorfindel growled, lifting his head.  
“Are the actions of my private parts fodder for the gossip mills of all of Elvendom, or 
only for the wags of Imladris?”

Elrohir was heartened to see a flash of Glorfindel’s usual fire flaring once again in those 
bright sapphire eyes.  Actually, neither he nor Elladan had any idea what their father 
meant in regards to Glorfindel and Lothlórien, only that Glorfindel had ridden out one 
day as though a pack of wargs was on his heels, and returned sooner than expected a few 
days later, as though that same pack of wargs smelled blood and was closing in for the 
kill.  But the twins were uncannily resourceful, and were confident that with some 
vigilant prying among the guards of the Golden Wood, they would learn well enough 
what their father’s seneschal had got up to that was so scandalous that it must never be 
spoken of.  Not that Glorfindel – or their father – would ever learn of their covert 
inquiries.

For one fraction of a second, Elrohir struggled with the insane urge to lean forward and 
press his lips against Glorfindel’s.  No, it was in the past, and that single night was 
enough.  Elladan was enough, and Glorfindel had Erestor, or would, shortly.  It was as it 
should be.

Instead, he simply shrugged.  “No, of course not.  The Valar only know how he knew 
about us, we certainly never mentioned it, and I have not the slightest idea of what he was 
talking about as far as whatever happened in the Wood.”

Glorfindel was certain how Elrond knew about Rúmil; there was nothing that transpired 
within Galadriel’s realm that escaped her notice, and only little less that escaped Elrond’s 
in his own.  He chose to temper his tongue and simply ignore Elrohir’s subtle hint for 
details.  “Exactly what he tell you, then?”

“Practically the moment we returned, he took us aside and told us about you and Erestor, 
and warned us never to breathe a word of our, er, escapade, in front of either of you.”

“A little more specifically, if you please… what about Erestor and me?”

“He simply said that you and Erestor were together and that it had not come easily for 
you, and that if we were to meddle and jeopardize things for either of you, he would skin 
us both alive.”

To the twins’ surprise, a slow smile spread across Glorfindel’s face, and he laughed, a 
jolly, ringing sound that resounded throughout his chambers.  

“His foresight is both blessing and curse.  Aye, it was a near miss, he is right about that, 
and just how close is too dreadful to bear thinking about.  But all is well that ends well, 
and that mess is behind us, may Vairë be praised.”

An unusual choice of benedictions, Elrohir thought, but Glorfindel had always had an 
odd affinity for the Weaver.  He paid it no further mind, however, and heaved a silent 
sigh of relief.

“Well then, now that we have that out of the way, I believe a drink is in order,” he said, 
coming back to himself.  With a fond kiss to Glorfindel’s temple, he quickly crossed the 
room to where Glorfindel kept his stash of liquor, and poured three short glasses of 
miruvor.  Handing them out, Elrohir raised his glass.

“To love.”

“To love,” they echoed, and all three tossed back their drinks with practiced hands.  

Glorfindel smacked his lips and slammed his glass down on the table.  He turned to his 
companions, a twinkle in his eye and a broad smile on his face.

“Now, if you two are quite finished yammering like a couple of fishwives, I have a 
wedding to get to.”

~*~*~ to be continued ~*~*~

Translations:
tôren = my brother
gellen = my joy (Elrohir’s endearment for Elladan)
mellonen = my friend
pen neth = little one
pen iaur = ancient one