Title:  To Feel You Breathe (3/6)
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

*~*~*~*~*

There was a soft knock on the door and a melodious voice called, “Erestor?  May I come 
in?”

At Erestor’s nod of agreement, Elrond opened the door and admitted his daughter, who 
was dressed in a swirl of emerald satin and weighed down by a long swath of white silk, 
a hanger poking out of the top. 

“Am I late, Ada?  It took me a bit longer to get ready than I expected,” Arwen said 
apologetically, handing her father the bundle.  “Did I interrupt something?”

“Not at all; we were simply reminiscing,” Elrond replied, relieving her of her burden and 
hanging the garment on the corner post of Erestor’s bed.

“Just wait until you see them, Ada!  They turned out even better than I hoped,” she said, 
doing an excited little twirl.

She tugged at Elrond’s sleeve, whispered something in his ear, and clapped her hands 
together eagerly as he smiled and nodded.

“Do I want to know what that this is all about?” Erestor queried, watching the exchange 
between father and daughter, his lip quirked in amusement by the cryptic conversation.

Arwen laughed.  “Today is not the day to ask questions, my friend.”

“Just agree with whatever she says, Erestor,” Elrond added, smiling.  “My daughter is a 
force not to be denied.  Now if you will both excuse me, there is something I must see to.  
Work your magic, Arwen.”

Before Elrond slipped out the doorway, Erestor grasped his hand and squeezed it lightly.
“Thank you, Elrond.”

Elrond placed his hand over Erestor’s and patted it.  “Always, my friend.”

Giving Arwen a peck on the cheek, he smiled, tossed a wave over his shoulder, and 
disappeared into the hall, whistling as he went.

Arwen rubbed her hands together and cast an appraising eye at her charge.  “Now, shall 
we get down to business?  Is that how you are wearing your hair?”

“Well, yes, that was my intention,” Erestor replied, his voice taking on an uncertain tone 
as he ran a hand over his hair, brushed smooth until it flowed thick and glossy over his 
shoulders.  He thought it had looked fine, but…  “Is something wrong with it?  Should I 
braid it?  Glorfindel likes it this way – “

“No, no, it looks wonderful, truly!” she replied hastily, patting his cheek.  “I didn’t mean 
it like that, it just needs a little something…” she broke off and waggled a finger under 
his nose, bringing a smile to his lips.  “Just trust me on this, hmm?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

Erestor only prayed that the one who would someday marry her was as strong-willed as 
she.  Her future husband would need the determination of ten to contend with her.  “Very 
well, do what you will.”

Deftly, she smoothed the already impeccably groomed raven locks off his face and 
fastened them into a single thin plait at the nape of his neck.  The effect was to sharpen 
the angular planes of his jaw and bring his eyes, unobscured by heavy waves of hair, into 
sharp focus, showing off thick lashes that any female would be jealous of.

“There you go.  Very elegant and understated, just like you.  Now take your clothing off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Were you planning to wear your dressing gown to the ceremony?”

“Of course not!”

“Then strip.”

Moments later, Erestor stood bare-chested, clad only in leggings as white as the snow that 
blanketed the ground outside, and highly polished black boots that reached halfway up 
his calves, while Arwen fussed and clucked around him like an overprotective hen.

There had been a time, when Arwen was just a girl, when she had a crush on the 
handsome, dark-haired counselor, and had even fantasized that one day, she would grow 
up and marry him.  They would have five children, three girls and two boys, and a little 
cottage in the rear garden.  This crush lasted until her eldest brother had explained the 
biology of procreation in rather crude terms and she decided that perhaps childbearing 
was more distasteful than she had imagined.  Eventually her obsession passed and she 
came to think of Erestor only as a cherished friend and father-figure.

Now, she thought appraisingly as she hummed to herself, Erestor was a splendid figure 
indeed – long-limbed and sleekly muscled, without the bulk of a career warrior, but 
strong and fit.  And very, very handsome.  Glorfindel was one lucky Elf.

“This goes on first.”  Arwen handed him a linen under-tunic, and without question, he 
slipped it on over his head.

“Now lift,” Arwen ordered, and the counselor obediently raised his arms so she could slip 
the robe over his head.  When he lowered his arms, she settled the robe into place and 
fussed with the plackets and collar until it draped just right over his shoulders and across 
his chest.

Not one, under other circumstances, to be overly concerned with his attire, Erestor’s 
usual method of selecting new clothing was to visit the seamstress, point out fabric in 
colors that appealed to him, and stand somewhat impatiently while she took his 
measurements, and then simply wore what was delivered to him a few days later.  In the 
design of appropriate marital garb, as opposed to his everyday wear, he had the interest 
but no ability, but had been utterly overwhelmed by the multitude of fabrics, weaves, 
weights, colors, and accents presented to him.  The shrewd garment-maker had taken one 
look at the frazzled expression on his face and suggested tactfully that perhaps Lady 
Arwen would be available to ‘facilitate the decision-making process,’ which was 
somewhat more courteous than simply stating that such decisions were better left to the 
folk who knew the difference between velvet and broadcloth than to anxious 
bridegrooms.

After learning that Glorfindel was in similar straits, Arwen took over completely and 
enthusiastically, to the relief and gratitude of the affianced Elves.  Giving neither even the 
least hint of her choices, she swore her handmaids to secrecy, and together, painstakingly 
sewed and beaded, embroidered and corded, each of their outfits.  When they were 
completed, each garment was vigilantly hung in silk bags and stored in her own 
wardrobe, awaiting the day of the ceremony.

Late that morning, Arwen had delivered Glorfindel’s robe, carefully wrapped, to her 
brothers’ chambers, allowing the pair a brief glimpse accompanied by a stern warning to 
thereafter keep their hands and eyes to themselves, and not breathe a word of the bag’s 
contents.  Neither had dared question her, and swore upon their very lives that the 
garment would arrive unharmed and intact in Glorfindel’s room at the appointed time, 
and not a moment later.  

She would entrust Erestor’s to no one and hand-delivered it herself – she loved Glorfindel 
dearly, but Erestor had ever been her favorite.

“How do I look?” Erestor asked apprehensively.

“Here, see for yourself.”

Holding his arm, Arwen gently maneuvered him around to face the full-length mirror in 
the corner and stood at his shoulder, her eyes shining with pride and love, as he took this 
first look at himself.

Admiring the elegant drape of the most exquisite garment he had ever owned – ever 
dreamed of owning – Erestor knew he had been right to trust her judgment.  Nothing he 
would have selected for himself could have suited him more perfectly than what Arwen 
had created.

Simply and tastefully cut, his robe was designed so that the hem just brushed the tip of 
the boot. It fell in graceful folds from the shoulders, and was fashioned of the purest 
white, to symbolize love and purity of heart.

Crafted of the finest-spun silk to be found west of the Anduin River, each thread was 
woven ingeniously into a mid-weight fabric that allowed it to drape and flow beautifully, 
yet remain fresh and uncreased with wearing.  The collar was high in the rear, with a 
small, stiff band that buttoned up the front.  The hem, neckline, and sleeves were studded 
with jewels set into the shape of celandines to honor the standard of his intended’s House, 
but were not yellow.  For days, Arwen had agonized over the choices of these gems until 
she finally settled on tiny, semi-precious sapphires for the petals, in a blue that exactly 
matched the color of Glorfindel’s eyes.  Sapphires signified truth, sincerity, and 
faithfulness.  At the eye of each flower was a precious blood-red ruby, selected simply 
because the look of the two colors together pleased her.

“Just perfect,” she said approvingly, standing back to admire her handiwork.  “Now we 
must hurry.  It is ill luck to be late for your own wedding!”

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