Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 1/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Email: scrapcat21@gmail.com
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: Overall R, this chapter PG-13 
Summary: Set in the weeks before Elros departs for Númenor, Doubt 
explores the reason the twins chose different paths, Elrond’s emotional 
coming of age, the evolving relationship between Gil-galad and Glorfindel, 
and the reborn Elf’s adjustment to his new life in Second Age Lindon. 
Beta: Fimbrethiel

~*~*~*~*~
A mouth, hot, demanding, moved slowly down his neck, sending little 
shocks flashing through him. Strong hands roamed over his back and 
shoulders, rubbing, grasping The mouth withdrew, returned to claim his 
lips…. Bruisingly commanding, it tasted of sweet wine… a sharp tooth 
caught his lip, causing a thrill of pain. Besieged, he answered desire with 
an uneasy hunger. 
 
A hand beneath his tunic, cool against bare flesh, began to knead his 
back… hard, insistent motions, drawing him closer to the body that 
writhed against his. He could not see the face. Ecthelion? Was it Thel? 
 
"No," he murmured. “No, not now, not yet - please no - -" 
 
The hand insisted, the mouth demanded. A sense of nameless panic 
overcame him and he attempted to push the other away, to struggle free...
~*~*~*~*~
Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin, sat bolt upright gasping for breath, the 
covers in a heap on the floor. At the end of yet another night of broken 
sleep, largely spent reliving memories of family and former friends, the 
vivid, erotic dream of Ecthelion was simply the last straw. Forced from 
his bed, he splashed his face with cold water, tidied his hair and dressed, 
thankful the night was over. 
 
Upon leaving his rooms, he was relieved to discover that the early 
morning hour found most of Lindon still barely awake. Glorfindel made 
his way down to the informal section of the Palace gardens, an 
unexpected wilderness of roses, herbs and flowering shrubs. He followed 
a small gravel path which led to a bench facing a tiny fountain and sat, 
leaning back and closing his eyes. He felt desperately alone.
~*~*~*~*~
For the first few weeks after Lord Námo had sent him out into the world 
from the coolness and silence of the Halls of Waiting, he had been 
fortunate to find himself in the care of Círdan of the Havens.  
 
The ancient, quietly spoken Teleri, no stranger after so long to the 
inexplicable ways of the Valar, had tried to help him to accustom himself 
once more to the unfamiliar familiar, to the noise, confusion, and haste 
of life on Arda.  
 
He had been to the Havens twice before in his life - more correctly his 
previous life - and found the contrast between known hallways and 
unfamiliar landscaping similar to stepping into a dream world, vaguely 
threatening, not quite as it should be, but lacking a dream’s promise of 
morning.  
 
He learned early to close his eyes, shutting out the new strangeness and 
drifting into a world of sounds. Sounds were safe. Seabirds called as they 
ever had, the water lapped at the pilings of the pier; he could almost 
believe he had never left. 
 
How he had come to the Havens -- how, in fact, he had returned to 
Middle-earth -- was a thing known but unclear to him. Known, as is the 
fact of one’s birth, though to claim actual memory would be an 
exaggeration. He was simply here, almost as he had been before.  
 
His first clear memory of this new life was waking in a boat and hearing 
the sounds of the sea around him. There was no fear, no confusion. He 
knew, as though he had been told, that all he had to do was be still and 
wait. 
 
Presently he had heard the sound of oars and could make out soft voices. 
Strong, certain hands had reached for him, drawn him up into another 
boat, and still in a state somewhere closer to reverie than waking, he had 
been taken to shore.  
 
The small gray boat that had borne him to within sight of the Seaward 
Watch was left to either sink or return from whence it came. One swift 
glance had been sufficient to tell those who approached it the story of its 
origins, somewhere beyond the circle of the world.
~*~*~*~*~
He had slept for two days, and when he woke it was to a sense of having 
waded through mist - where he had been, how he had arrived here, were 
left behind him in the grayness.  
 
Círdan seemed surprised to discover that he knew his name, his former 
city - he needed no one to tell him the Hidden City no longer stood - even 
the tale of the Balrog and his fall into darkness.  
 
He had spent his time at the Havens resting, for he tired easily, and 
learning a little of the new and confusing order of things that had sprung 
up in his absence.  
 
He had been there for a little over three weeks, growing stronger, starting 
to feel more at ease with his surroundings, when one afternoon Círdan 
came and sought him out where he sat in the sun looking out to sea.  
 
The silver haired, lightly bearded Elf took a seat beside him and for a few 
minutes they sat in companionable silence, Glorfindel shooting glances 
at the other from the corner of his eye. He had always wondered how it 
was that this one Elf had a beard, for all the world like a Man, but would 
never have dared to ask. 
 
“I received a letter this morning,” Círdan said, breaking the silence 
between them. “It was from Gil-galad himself.”  
 
Glorfindel had already been told that Gil-galad, the son of a Sindarin 
maid and of Orodreth, brother to Finrod, was now the High King. This 
meant that the last clear heir to the line of the High Kings of the Noldor 
on Middle-earth was, in fact, half Sindar. He thought this rather summed 
up the whole distorted picture he was busy trying to accustom himself 
to.  
 
Belatedly Glorfindel focused his attention on Círdan, who was waiting for 
a response from him. “Is there a problem of some kind?” he asked, a 
sudden sense of unease touching him. 
 
“That would depend on how you choose to look at it,” Círdan replied 
evenly. “Gil-galad has decided that he wants you at court by the end of 
the week.” 
 
Glorfindel fought down a rising tide of panic.  
 
“But it’s far too soon,” he exclaimed. “I need more time. There will be so 
many people - everything is so different - “his voice trailed off as he 
looked at Círdan in dismay.  
 
Círdan, who had not heard his guest speak with so much eloquence or 
animation since his arrival, sighed softly to himself. He had rather 
expected this.  
 
“I think that in this, the King is probably right,” he said, keeping his 
voice level and reassuring. “Your future home is there, not here. You 
cannot stay hidden from the world for much longer. The Valar had a 
purpose in sending you back, and it was hardly so that you could hide 
yourself away here. You need to start meeting people -“  
 
“I meet people regularly in your guesthouse,” Glorfindel argued, an edge 
of desperation to his voice. “There are people coming and going there all 
the time.” 
 
“Yes, quite true,” Círdan agreed mildly. “And they are all in the process of 
leaving Middle-earth behind forever. The affairs of those who remain here 
are no longer their main interest. That is why they leave you in peace. In 
the beginning you needed this solitude, but now the time has come for 
you to move on.”
~*~*~*~*~
His arrival in Lindon had turned out to be less taxing and official than 
might have been expected. The King was absent on some business of his 
own, and the formal reception that might have greeted Glorfindel had 
been postponed. 
 
Lost and isolated, left to settle in as best he could, Glorfindel found 
himself forcibly confronted with the fact that he was, to all intents and 
purposes, alone in the world. His former friends and family were all 
either dead or over the sea in Valinor, and no familiar face remained to 
smooth his adjustment to the confusing new realities of Second Age 
Lindon. 
 
For most Elves this sense of loss and unfamiliarity would have been sad 
and unsettling, even when weighed against the joy of such a unique 
second chance at life. For Glorfindel, however, making new friends, 
fitting into a new society, was, as Círdan had realized, the stuff of 
nightmares.  
 
The prospect of receptions, formal dinners, endless numbers of new 
faces, far from offering a promise of new friends and adventure 
threatened to completely overwhelm him.  
 
Those clamoring to make the acquaintance of the mighty Noldorin war 
leader, Balrog slayer, and hero of song and legend would have been 
startled to learn that the tall, blonde, and stunningly good-looking Elf 
had one deeply rooted, socially overwhelming disability. He was and 
always had been intensely and painfully shy, causing him to regard the 
prospect of crowds of admiring strangers with a deep, crawling horror. 
 
In his youth, amongst family and his few close friends, he had been 
known and loved as a generous, friendly Elf, kind-hearted to a fault. In 
social situations, however, although he would have dearly loved to 
appear outgoing and friendly, his brain seemed to simply shut down. His 
tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his skin started prickling, his 
throat seemed to close up, and he withdrew into himself.  
 
Because of his silences, and his brief and abrupt-sounding replies to the 
simplest of approaches, he earned a completely undeserved reputation 
for being cold and aloof which, when matched with his unsurpassed good 
looks, was soon written off as arrogance.  
 
Fewer people tried to include him in their activities, he received less 
opportunity to try and interact, making it more and more difficult for him 
to do so. Even amongst those Elves whom he had known long enough to 
feel reasonably at ease with, he tended to be unsure of himself, his deep 
lack of personal confidence causing him to be hesitant and self-effacing.  
 
Strangely he had no problems with authority figures or the requirements 
of the environment of a full time warrior. He soon realized there was a 
right way and a wrong way of doing things, and not too much thought or 
improvisation was needed to choose between the two. Communication 
tended to be left at a minimum, and clearly defined actions were the 
primary requirement. 
 
Lacking the distractions that would have been expected in the life of one 
both well born and physically attractive, Glorfindel proceeded to carve a 
name for himself as a fighter of huge commitment and ability. 
 
The pattern was set that might have continued for the rest of his life, 
leaving him highly respected and admired, although achingly alone, 
when fate stepped in and opportunity was placed firmly in his path.
~*~*~*~*~
Ecthelion was dark haired, gray eyed, witty, and gifted with immense 
charm and popularity, and his friendship was courted assiduously by 
both ellon and elleth alike. Normally when confronted with such an 
extroverted personality, Glorfindel would not have managed to put two 
words together.  
 
As it happened, however, Ecthelion, an unlikely looking but 
acknowledged master swordsman, had offered to spar with him, to help 
him master certain finer points of swordplay. This was a type of 
interaction Glorfindel could handle with comfort.  
 
For his part, having made the right enquiries, Ecthelion decided that the 
seduction of this beautiful, surprisingly inexperienced golden haired Elf 
was worth more than a little effort.  
 
He put to good use expertise gained in dealing with a bitterly shy 
younger sister, handling the situation in such a way as to put Glorfindel 
at ease. Thanks to his efforts, their relationship developed swiftly from 
friendship to something with the potential to be far more intimate. 
 
The lack of competition created by Glorfindel’s all but non-existent social 
life had suggested to Ecthelion that it would take the minimal of time 
and patience to achieve his goal. However, every time it looked as though 
things might possibly progress from the stage of hand holding and 
careful, non-invasive kisses, Glorfindel always backed away.  
 
Unknown to Ecthelion, the golden haired Elf was wrestling with a 
familiar inner voice, one which had spent most of his life pointing out his 
many shortcomings to him.  
 
This voice was now asking him disparagingly why he was so set on 
making a fool of himself with someone as far out of his league as 
Ecthelion. With chilling logic it reminded him that, when confronted with 
his complete lack of experience, Ecthelion was likely to lose all interest in 
him, not just as a prospective lover but also as a friend. 
 
The same voice also reminded him, with brutal clarity, of all the reasons 
for avoiding an act that would require a fair degree of nudity, expressing 
a less than glowing opinion of the desirability of his unclad body.  
 
A critical observation before the mirror in his bedroom confirmed all his 
worst fears. The proportions, he felt, were probably acceptable, but his 
skin lacked the desired creamy white tones of Elven song and poetry, 
tending more towards a pale honey.  
 
Predictably, both he and the voice held serious doubts about the size and 
shape of his penis. He had no idea what normal would entail, but was 
fairly certain that it would have to be considerably larger.  
 
His nipples, on the other hand, to his deep embarrassment, certainly did 
seem larger than normal. Whereas those of other ellyn appeared to be an 
inconspicuous shade of beige, his were tinted a delicate dusky rose. 
 
Rather than try and explain any of this to Ecthelion, who was kindness 
itself but not a very good listener, he decided that it would be easier 
simply to continue to avoid intimacy, at least for the foreseeable future.  
 
He loved Ecthelion, achingly but silently, with all the misery, 
uncertainties, and small ecstasies of first love. He longed to submit fully 
to the caresses of the highly experienced older Elf, dreaming nightly of 
their completion, but each opportunity that came along saw his ultimate 
retreat behind stammered excuses and hurried departures. 
 
Elves are a patient people. Time is a commodity of which they have an 
almost limitless supply. They can usually afford to wait, and this is what 
Ecthelion settled down to do. He was not totally certain what it was that 
kept Glorfindel from submitting to him, but he kept trying, presenting an 
attitude of understanding and acceptance in the face of continued 
refusal.  
 
He also contrived to discreetly spend a fair amount of time with a very 
pretty, to say nothing of extremely supple young elleth, who was more 
than happy to go to quite uninhibited lengths to help keep his 
frustrations at a manageable level.  
 
This situation would probably not have been able to continue 
indefinitely, but before the inevitable confrontation could occur, Gondolin 
ran out of time. With betrayal came fire, Dragons, and the Balrogs of 
Morgoth. Ecthelion of the Fountain Court died in defense of that which 
had already been lost and Glorfindel the Golden fell, entangled with 
flame and horror, willingly giving his life to protect his princess and her 
seven year old son.
~*~*~*~*~
Drawn back from his memories by a sensation of being watched, 
Glorfindel opened his eyes and turned to see a tall, broad shouldered Elf 
leaning against one of the trees, apparently hesitant to disturb him.  
 
He had a large built for one of their kind, a mane of heavy black hair and 
very light blue eyes. His face was not beautiful in the classic Elven mold, 
but was instead better described as arresting, interesting. Unforgettable. 
 
Glorfindel felt the familiar gray blanket settling over his brain at the 
prospect of starting a conversation with a stranger. He cast about 
frantically for something, anything to say to the elf that stood there, 
radiating ease and self-assurance.  
 
Then the stranger smiled, a wonderfully charismatic smile, lighting both 
his face and the heart of whomever it was directed at, and finding the 
right words no longer seemed all that important. 
 
“I’m truly sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived,” the stranger 
said in a rather deep, mellow voice. “I hope your welcome wasn’t too 
chaotic. I left instructions that you weren’t to be bothered more than 
necessary.”  
 
At Glorfindel’s rather uncertain smile he frowned and then made a half 
amused gesture of annoyance. 
 
“I completely forgot my manners! I’m sorry, I didn’t think to introduce 
myself.” He reached out his hand, offering the warriors’ grasp. “My name 
is Ereinion, mostly called Gil-galad. Welcome to Lindon.”

Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 2/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Email: scrapcat21@gmail.com
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: PG
Summary: Glorfindel starts settling in, Gil-galad is intrigued, Elrond 
is...Elrond.
Beta: Fimbrethiel

~*~*~*~*~
Gil-galad - known as Gil to the carefully chosen few he considered 
friends - didn’t allow Glorfindel to be shy. The King was a practical Elf, 
possessing a quick, keen-sighted intelligence and a very sound instinct 
for the strengths and weaknesses of those around him.  
 
He realized almost at once that Glorfindel, far from being aloof and 
unfriendly, was feeling lost and more than a little afraid and 
overwhelmed. Furthermore, during a brief visit to the Havens, carefully 
timed to coincide with Glorfindel’s arrival at court, he had had an 
extremely illuminating conversation with Círdan about Lindon’s latest 
celebrity.  
 
This had helped him to gain a clearer understanding of the retiring 
nature of the new arrival, whose insertion into Lindon society would, in 
Cirdan’s opinion, probably need a fair degree of intervention and 
management.  
 
Gil-galad fortunately liked managing things. It was an activity at which 
he excelled. One of his basic tenets was that the less complicated an 
action, the more likely it was to succeed. In this case, to his mind, the 
simplest approach was to take Glorfindel under his wing and into his 
innermost circle, personally organizing his immersion into his new life.  
 
Over the following weeks and under carefully controlled circumstances, 
he introduced Glorfindel to a varied selection of people. The choices 
seemed at first glance to be completely random, but in fact were the 
result of Gil-galad’s personal, and occasionally eccentric, assessment of 
the person’s sensitivity and conversational skills. 
 
It would naturally have been impossible to exclude his wards, the 
Mariner’s sons, Elros and Elrond, from this list. Glorfindel’s death had 
come about as a direct result of his successful effort to save their father 
and grandmother’s lives. Furthermore, Glorfindel was distantly related to 
the twins and had expressed an understandable interest in meeting 
them.  
 
The request was perfectly natural. Gil-galad, however, felt the 
introductions would benefit from being preceded by a brief discussion 
between himself and the two young Half-elves.  
 
With this in mind, he sought the pair out in the suite of rooms they 
currently shared while Elros still remained in Lindon. The elder twin was 
in the process of completing his education before journeying to Númenor, 
which would eventually become his permanent home. 
 
The term ‘the twins’ was a trifle misleading, Gil-galad thought, as he 
surveyed them. They were alike, as often happens with brothers, but far 
from identical. He felt, personally, that this might have been due to direct 
intervention by the Valar, their way of making certain that there would 
only ever be one Elrond Eärendilion.  
 
Elros was never a problem. Had it been him alone, a quick word in 
passing would have been all that might have been necessary. He sat, 
straight and respectful, his long dark hair neatly braided, his mist blue 
tunic and grey leggings impeccably neat, his expression eager but polite. 
 
His sibling sprawled on his stomach on a cushion-strewn divan, chin 
propped on hands, the identical tunic and leggings clinging to him like a 
second skin. His unbound hair was a wild, smoky mass, spiderweb-fine, 
sinfully alluring, and his slanting grey eyes studied Gil-galad with an 
expression of such intensity as to be more than a little unnerving. 
 
“So, what you are saying is, you want us to keep our distance from the 
Balrog Slayer, in case we should happen to frighten him. Did I 
understand that correctly, Sire?” Little glints of mischief sparkled in the 
storm-coloured eyes.  
 
Gil-galad took a very deep breath and released it slowly. Losing your 
temper with Elrond was an instant admission of failure. At the least sign 
of weakness he would pounce, gleeful and heedless as a kitten, inflicting 
damage with surgical precision.  
 
“Firstly,” he said, very calmly, “I know it is in common use at the 
moment, but should I hear the term ‘Balrog Slayer’ from either of you 
again, I’ll give you cause to regret it. It belittles an act of ultimate 
courage, without which your father would have died at the age of seven, 
and you two would never have been born.” 
 
Elrond nodded gravely. “That was remiss of me, Sire. I take your point. 
Secondly?” 
 
Gil-galad eyed him suspiciously, but his face was smooth, displaying 
nothing more than the correct degree of polite interest. Elros, on the 
other hand, was positively cringing, usually a reliable pointer to his 
brother’s intent.  
 
The life of trauma and horror to which they had been exposed since they 
were toddlers had affected them differently, defining their separateness 
even more clearly than their appearance did.  
 
Elrond presented an edgy, arrogant self assurance, a scalpel-sharp 
tongue, and gave no ounce of respect unearned. Elros manifested a calm, 
helpful appearance, and spent a fair amount of his time appeasing those 
his brother had managed, with a few well chosen words, to outrage. 
 
“Secondly,” Gil-galad continued, “To put it simply, Glorfindel died in the 
destruction of Gondolin. He has been returned, not reborn but returned, 
memories intact, to what is for all intents and purposes a different world. 
He is naturally disoriented and unsure of himself. I expect you to take 
this into account and treat him with courtesy and consideration.” 
 
Elrond scratched an elegant though slightly rounded ear thoughtfully. 
“Yes,” he agreed flatly. “It is a disorienting experience to have your life 
change in a flash of fire and violence. One would expect understanding 
and consideration to be the response to this, would one not?” 
 
Gil-galad caught and held his bland stare. The twins’ lives had changed 
through fire and violence. They had heard those around them dying in 
fear and pain and seen their mother throw herself into the sea, the 
accursed jewel around her neck, choosing her death before it could be 
chosen for her. At the time understanding and consideration had been in 
short supply.  
 
Remembering this, he swallowed back the angry response sitting on the 
edge of his tongue. However, he still held Elrond’s gaze, waiting until the 
Half-elf remembered whom it was he attempted to defy and finally 
lowered his sea-grey eyes. Gil-galad nodded slightly, whether to Elrond or 
to himself he was personally uncertain. 
 
“Finally,” he said, “I want you to regard this point as an instruction not a 
request. You will leash your tongues, you will swallow your wicked wit - 
both of you, it is not always just Elrond - and you will make Glorfindel 
feel comfortable and at home, no matter what the temptation.” 
 
He rose and looked from one to the other, and then continued, with the 
unmistakable undertone of a growl to his voice.  
 
“Should you see fit to disregard my wishes, we will be having another 
conversation, and it will be considerably less pleasant than this one. Are 
there any questions?” 
 
Elrond opened his mouth, caught his brother’s eye, and closed it again. 
Elros stood, gesturing his twin to rise as well out of respect to the King, 
and achieved what no one else could have as Elrond rose gracefully and 
stood, head slightly bowed, the picture of decorum and respect. Gil-galad 
felt an almost irresistible temptation to smack him. 
 
“We understand your concerns,” Elros said quietly. “I assure you, we will 
both go out of our way to make Lord Glorfindel feel as comfortable and 
welcomed as possible. Won’t we, Elrond?” He shot his brother a long 
warning look under his lashes. Elrond offered his infinitely charming 
smile and nodded agreement. 
 
“Absolutely. Your wish is our desire, Your Grace.” 
 
Gil-galad left while he could still hold his tongue. However, halfway down 
the hallway, and not for the first time after a run-in with Elrond, he 
found his lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Gil-galad was a practical Elf, and in Glorfindel’s case the list of the 
purely practical ways in which he could be helped to settle in were 
numerous indeed.  
 
Since Lord Námo had sent his former guest back out into the world as 
naked as the day he had been first born, Gil-galad immediately set about 
supplying his latest dependant with new clothes, personal effects, armor 
and a very good horse, all out of his own pocket.  
 
They tested the horse’s mettle with a series of hard-ridden excursions to 
see the surrounding countryside, in company with the twins and a small 
guard.  
 
Elrond’s behavior was impeccable. He even went so far as to appoint 
himself Glorfindel’s informal guide, helpfully pointing out places of 
interest and being quick to furnish answers to any questions that arose, 
though Gil-galad noticed with amusement that Elros kept a close eye on 
his brother at all times.  
 
Glorfindel enjoyed these outings. He liked being on horseback, the fresh 
air and physical activity agreed with him, although Gil-galad had worried 
that he would be tired by it, and he was fascinated at the pure scale of 
habitation in this, the largest and most secure of the Elven realms.  
 
He was, in fact, so interested in how this had all come about that the 
King’s next course of action was to acquire the services of a lore master 
to join him in explaining recent historical, geographical, and political 
changes.  
 
It was a natural consequence of all the time they spent in each other's 
company that they should start comparing their personal preferences, 
searching for areas of mutual interest.  
 
They were delighted to find they shared the same tastes in books - 
preferring general entertainment, as opposed to heavier works of lore and 
philosophy. They liked cats and horses, they were indifferent dancers, 
and shared an unexpected liking for board games. 
 
They were pleased to discover they had in common a great love for 
music, despite having no personal ability, though the King did possess a 
good, strong singing voice. They began attending small concerts and 
musical evenings together, which they discussed afterwards in great 
detail. 
 
The court watched the progress of this joined-at-the-hip friendship with 
a natural cynicism, which was kept carefully concealed as Gil-galad’s 
temper and his loyalty to his friends were held to be of more or less equal 
measure.  
 
The younger of the Peredhil twins, Elrond, was heard to pass a few snide 
comments, though he was careful as to time and place, but he was 
generally rumored to have a large, juvenile, and completely 
unreciprocated crush on the King. His comments, therefore, were judged 
to carry the sickly green hue of jealousy.
~*~*~*~*~
The day arrived when Glorfindel started to feel restless, expressing a 
desire to start getting himself back into shape. The King, who took this 
as a sign that Glorfindel was starting to settle in, immediately 
pronounced it an excellent idea, and offered to be his first sparring 
partner in Lindon. 
 
Being Gil-galad, what he actually said was, "I’ve never sparred with some 
one who’s managed to get close enough to a Balrog to get himself killed 
before.” 
 
Had this or similar comments come from anyone else Glorfindel would 
have had no idea how to respond, but he had learned early to be at ease 
with Gil-galad’s questionable sense of humour, so he accepted the 
invitation with laughter.  
 
He found himself laughing a surprising amount of the time. Gil-galad, 
although Glorfindel had no way of knowing it, gave quite a lot of thought 
to finding ways to get him to laugh, for the pure pleasure of watching the 
mirth light up that lovely though often over-serious face. 
 
They chose as their venue one of the small outdoor enclosures, and 
picked the hour when most thoughts were turning to the midday meal, in 
the hopes of getting a little privacy.  
 
Upon their arrival they spent a little time examining Glorfindel’s new 
sword, paid for out of the treasury this time, not Gil-galad’s pocket, and, 
pronouncing it sound, prepared to get on with the business at hand 
 
At any rate Gil-galad, who had never had a problem taking his clothes 
off, got on with it. Glorfindel stood in an agony of shyness, fiddling with 
the buttons of his jerkin without going so far as to actually undo any. 
Gil-galad, already stripped down to almost indecently tight leggings, 
frowned at him and said,  
 
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t fight like that. Get your shirt off; it’s hot 
as Mordor today. Do you think I’m going to run screaming at the sight of 
a male nipple?” 
 
Glorfindel was forced to laugh and, turning away, started to undress. He 
glanced back to see the King standing openly watching him and blushing 
furiously, was stung into saying,  
 
“If you don’t stop staring at me it stays on. I start feeling stupid and ugly 
when people stare at me.” 
 
Gil-galad moved forward, laughing.  
 
“Nonsense, come on, get this off and let’s get on with it,” he said, and 
reached out to help Glorfindel off with his undershirt, pulling it over the 
golden head in one smooth movement.  
 
Stepping back, still chuckling, with the shirt in his hand, he took in the 
sight before him and his breath caught in his throat. Glorfindel, bright 
gold hair braided back neatly, stood facing him, a light blush staining his 
cheeks and an uncertain smile on his soft lips, clad now only in a pair of 
form fitting, black leggings.  
 
Gil-galad looked at the perfectly sculpted body with the glowing, satin 
smooth skin and the delicate, rose tinted nipples, and the laughter died 
to silence, though the smile stayed in his eyes. 
 
“Not stupid, “he said at last. “And quite literally the furthest thing from 
ugly that I have ever seen.” 
 
They stood, their eyes locked, the world falling away into stillness, 
leaving both of them for the moment completely unaware of their 
surroundings. Then there were voices and Faeleron with two friends 
arrived, and the moment passed and they set to sparring, loudly 
encouraged by their impromptu audience.  
 
They were evenly matched in speed and experience, save that the King 
had never been killed by a Balrog, nor had he ever been a guest of Lord 
Námo.

Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 3/25	
Author: Keiliss
Email: scrapcat21@gmail.com	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: PG
Summary: Elrond decides to be helpful.
Beta: Fimbrethiel

~*~*~*~*~
Elrond, the image of helpfulness, had spent hours tracking down a book 
on the expansion of the coastal communities in response to a query from 
Glorfindel on the subject. He wandered, uninvited, into Glorfindel’s 
rooms, to find him trying to decide what to wear to dinner that night.  
 
What he was trying to achieve wasn’t too clear, though it seemed to have 
something to do with wearing an outfit Gil-galad would think looked 
attractive. To this end he had taken every possibly suitable item of 
clothing and simply dumped it on the bed, and was now standing staring 
in a bemused manner at the pile.  
 
Elrond put the book down and joined him in surveying the mess. 
 
"What were you looking for?" he asked at last, lifting and then with a 
pained expression dropping a pale brown tunic. 
 
"I was trying to decide what to wear tonight," Glorfindel admitted. He 
pushed ineffectually at the pile of clothing. "I never seem to get it right 
somehow.” 
 
Elrond was still looking at the brown tunic. "You won't if this is the sort 
of thing you have to choose from," he remarked. "Where did you get 
this?" 
 
"When I arrived, Círdan organized clothing for me. That was one of the 
tunics he provided." 
 
"Círdan...!" 
 
"I was sent back with nothing, including clothing. The intention wasn’t to 
make a fashion statement, it was simply to cover me," Glorfindel offered. 
 
He had gotten over his initial uncertainty with Elrond. Almost everyone 
was wary of the young Half-elf's tongue, though Glorfindel knew a facade 
when he saw it. He was quite curious as to what lay behind this one.  
 
He also had an idea that Elrond had been warned by Gil-galad, as he 
was unfailingly polite and helpful, even when it was quite obvious that he 
was gritting his teeth from the effort. 
 
Glorfindel had started taking Gil-galad’s intervention in a whole range of 
areas for granted, from recommendations of books to read all the way 
through to the once-dreaded experience of social mingling. 
 
The King made a point of staying within earshot until he was sure 
Glorfindel had started to relax and take part in the conversation, which 
was something the blonde Elf found to be immensely liberating.  
 
He knew that, should there be one of those awkward pauses in the 
conversation, should a question be asked that he felt inadequate to 
answer, it would be dealt with, smoothly and effectively, by someone who 
was totally at ease in any situation and appeared never to be at a loss for 
words.  
 
Almost without realizing it, he started to take note of how Gil-galad did 
this, and slowly began to put these lessons into practice in a small way 
himself. This nurturing of a feeling of security, of being in a safe 
environment socially, was something he could not remember ever having 
experienced before. 
 
The habits of a lifetime are not easily shed, but Glorfindel’s shyness was 
not inborn but was a thing learnt in childhood. As with all habits, with 
patient support and guidance, it could, to a fair degree, be unlearnt 
 
Glorfindel was born the only son of the head of a wealthy and noble 
house, with connections to royalty. He was a beautiful, well-behaved 
child, although diffident and reserved towards strangers.  
 
His father observed his lack of confidence with deeply felt, ineptly 
expressed concern. This took the form of regular lectures on the need to 
be more outgoing, more assertive, to avoid gauche behavior that would 
open him to mockery and ridicule. 
 
His mother, in an attempt to aid her son, had supported him behind his 
father’s back with soft words of sympathy and support, which had the 
effect of reaffirming his fears.  
 
A phase that could easily have been overcome with a little understanding 
and guidance was slowly reinforced into a deep-seated fear of phobic 
proportions. 
 
Elrond was poking cautiously through the heap of clothing, a look of 
disbelief on his face as he examined first one item and then another.  
 
“You said dinner,” he queried eventually. “I wasn’t aware there was 
anything special planned for tonight?” 
 
“No, not special, no -“Glorfindel found himself stammering, and 
automatically coloured. He took a deep breath and tried again. “It’s 
nothing special, just the King, Dalbros, and Erestor. It’s just that I seem 
to wear the same clothes all the time and wanted a change, but I’m not 
much good at this sort of thing.”  
 
As he said this, he spared a glance for Elrond, stylish in soft rose and 
maroon. The dark hair had escaped its ties, as usual, and he had pushed 
his sleeves up almost to the elbows, and yet he still managed to look the 
picture of taste and style. The model of Elven elegance was frowning 
slightly. 
 
“Dalbros the librarian I know of course, but Erestor? I don’t think…” 
 
“The new assistant military advisor. Black hair, amber eyes, very 
intelligent, interesting to talk to.” 
 
Elrond bit back the clever little response that danced on his tongue, 
knowing it would be misconstrued, and chose instead to nod and 
murmur, “Ah, of course. I remember him now. Maedhros used to call him 
the Raven – for his hair. Very original.” 
 
He had started off minding his manners around the new arrival at Elros’ 
insistence but soon, to his surprise, found himself doing so as a matter 
of choice. In fact, he found himself actively seeking Glorfindel out, 
sensing the blonde’s loneliness. 
 
The contrast between heroic stature and extreme good looks on the one 
hand and shy, uncertain sweetness on the other were touching. They 
spoke to the insecurity and feelings of exclusion within Elrond himself, 
which he went to extreme measures to conceal, both from others and 
increasingly from himself.  
 
He did, however, find himself wondering with rather cynical amusement 
what Glorfindel’s response was going to be when Gil-galad finally made 
his move. The King had gone from feeling responsible for the returned 
warrior’s comfort and welfare to a condition where every third phrase out 
of his mouth seemed to be prefaced with “Glorfindel says….” or 
“Glorfindel wants…”  
 
Elrond, who had been trying half-heartedly to catch the eye of the tall, 
dark haired monarch himself, wasn’t sure whether to be upset or 
amused, finally settling, instead, to watch and learn. And maybe gossip a 
little while he was about it, much to Elros’ horror. 
 
Elrond started sorting through the clothing with a bit more purpose, 
accepting a few items, rejecting the majority until there were three piles 
on the bed. He moved back to stand with Glorfindel who had been 
watching him in confusion. 
 
“The first pile,” he said, pointing to a small mound consisting of a scant 
few items, “are the clothes you will choose your outfit for tonight from. 
These,” he gestured to the second, slightly larger collection, “are 
acceptable. Barely.” 
 
He leaned over and lifted the final pile of clothing and tipped it 
dramatically onto the floor beside the bed. He stood back and fixed 
Glorfindel with a firm stare. “These go!” 
 
“I can’t just throw them away.” Glorfindel exclaimed, horrified. “That 
would be wrong, and ungrateful and wasteful and….” 
 
“And then we will replace them with something more suitable,” Elrond 
continued, as though he had said nothing. “Something more in line with 
your coloring and build.” 
 
Glorfindel’s face lit for a moment at the thought of stylish, elegant Elrond 
helping him choose clothing, and then reality intervened and he shook 
his head.  
 
“I can’t do that,” he said regretfully. Elrond frowned at him in 
impatience. 
 
“I promise you, neither Círdan nor Ereinion would even notice. Are these 
the clothing choices of an Elf who notices fashion? Be sensible. There’s 
no need to throw them away, there are enough refugees here who would 
be grateful for them. I can arrange to…” 
 
“I can’t ask the King to give me money to buy more clothing just because 
what I was originally given was not fashionable enough. And I have no 
resources myself,” Glorfindel interrupted him, his face deeply flushed 
with embarrassment. 
 
Elrond opened then closed his mouth. Memories flashed through his 
mind of himself and Elros, dependent for a large part of their lives on the 
kindness of others, teaching each other to sew in an attempt to maintain 
the few clothes they had.  
 
Things were very different now. They each received an allowance from the 
Treasury. Much of that which had been taken the night their mother died 
and their world changed had been returned to them. The days of want 
were now long past, but he knew very well how it was to lack the means 
to replace the smallest item of clothing. 
 
He looked at the miserably uncomfortable Elf before him. Glorfindel had 
never known a day of want before now, had no experience to fall back on, 
and was both too shy and too proud to ask for help. Something small 
shifted inside Elrond, something that was the beginnings of 
responsibility and compassion, the core of the Elf Lord he would one day 
become. 
 
“You don’t have to ask Ereinion,” he said in what he hoped for 
Glorfindel’s sake was a suitably casual tone. He found he had no urge to 
embarrass him further. “I’ll see to it. I think I’ll rather enjoy this actually. 
Like having a life-size doll to play with.” 
 
“I can’t possibly allow you to spend that amount of money on me,” 
Glorfindel began, but Elrond shook his head firmly before flashing him a 
rare, genuinely sweet smile. 
 
“Look on it as the beginnings of restitution,” he suggested quite gently. 
“After all, my brother and I do rather owe you for the Balrog.”
~*~*~*~*~
After Elrond left, Glorfindel picked up the clothing from the floor and 
folded it carefully before putting it away, after a little thought, into the 
chest where the extra blankets and such were kept. The ‘acceptable’ 
clothing he put away in their usual place and then he turned his 
attention to the available choices for the evening. 
 
There was a deep blue robe that he felt too conspicuous in, though it 
would have appealed to Elrond who had a fondness for peacock colours, 
a pair of gray leggings, and a choice of tunics, one being of a red that was 
closer to scarlet, and the other a soft forest green. 
 
After some thought, feeling defeated through lack of experience, he wore 
red because he had been told it suited him. He dressed his hair casually, 
plaiting a few side braids and leaving the rest loose. It hung in a heavy 
ripple of gold over his shoulders and down his back to a spot somewhat 
below his waist. 
 
Finally, trying not to think overmuch as to why he was going to so much 
trouble for what was merely a simple dinner with friends, he made his 
way to Gil-galad’s private rooms.
~*~*~*~*~
He arrived on time, but upon entering discovered he was alone in the 
little sitting room that the King used when entertaining informally. 
 
This was a room Glorfindel liked and in which he felt at ease. There were 
comfortable chairs, a divan covered with cushions, small tables holding 
an assortment of Gil-galad’s personal treasures.  
 
One table, set slightly apart and under the window and flanked by two 
chairs, held a crystal chess set with a half-finished game - the twins were 
dedicated, aggressive players.  
 
There was a thick, warm rug on the floor in front of the fireplace. It was 
the perfect spot to sit and have a late night cup of wine and one of those 
long, involved conversations that Gil-galad so loved, which took the world 
apart and rebuilt it again.  
 
The room was decorated throughout in an assortment of warm, vibrant 
colors, which should have fought one another to a standstill but 
somehow blended into a harmonious whole. 
 
The only new addition to be seen was a small table over in the corner, 
attractively prepared, and decorated with a small floral centerpiece and a 
pair of good candles. Places were set for two diners. 
 
The inner door clicked shut as Gil-galad came through to join him. He 
was dressed simply in dark blue leggings and tunic, his hair held back 
with intricate mithril clasps. An alert observer might have noticed a brief 
hesitation before he came forward with his usual heart-stopping smile. 
 
“Thought I heard some one,” he said, going to the fire and adding a 
totally unnecessary log. 
 
“I seem to be the first,” Glorfindel volunteered from his place by the chess 
set, where he was busy scrutinizing the game. 
 
“Oh, no, no, it’s just us tonight,” Gil-galad told him, still very busy with 
the fire. “Erestor pleaded pressure of work and Dalbros had forgotten a 
family commitment.” 
 
Before he would have to answer the query in Glorfindel’s eyes, which 
would probably have required huge economy with the truth, there was a 
tap at the door. A small delegation from the kitchen entered, bearing an 
assortment of foods in covered dishes, which they proceeded to lay out 
on the server set next to the table. 
 
“I thought, as it was just the two of us, that it would be pleasant to have 
something we could see to ourselves,” Gil-galad ventured. “Keep it 
casual, no need for servants.”  
 
Glorfindel, as he had hoped, nodded eagerly. The blonde was never 
relaxed in the more formal environment created by servants, and would 
be more than happy for it to be just the two of them.

Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 4/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Email: scrapcat21@gmail.com
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: Glorfindel has dinner, Elrond takes a walk.
Beta: Fimbrethiel

~*~*~*~*~
The meal was delightful. There was a starter of sweet melon and ham, 
followed by a fish platter consisting of a variety of seafood on a bed of 
wild rice, a small salad, and a delicately flavored pink sauce. This was 
followed by a crisp and rather filling apple dessert topped with custard, a 
favorite of the King’s.  
 
To accompany all this there were several bottles of a light though potent 
sparkling wine brought from the far south at considerable expense. 
 
The conversation was casual and confined to generalities: the King’s 
meeting with a trade delegation from the southeast, Glorfindel’s opinion 
concerning Elros’ new puppy, the likelihood of Dalbros’ wife being 
pregnant – again.  
 
Glorfindel, to his continued amazement, had never experienced any 
difficulty in talking to Gil-galad. Tonight, however, the King seemed 
distracted, and after a while Glorfindel turned his attention instead to 
enjoying the meal. 
 
After they had eaten and carefully stacked the dirty dishes on the small 
serving table, Gil-galad proceeded to wander around the room, wine cup 
in hand, snuffing out candles as he went, eventually leaving the room lit 
by one small lamp and the firelight. Settling himself down on the rug, he 
said over his shoulder,  
 
"Bring that last bottle over here with you. Now that it's open, we might as 
well finish it." 
 
Glorfindel picked it up with a smile. "Can't understand how you could 
open it by accident," he said in amusement. "You leave us no choice now; 
we’ll just have to drink it. I hadn’t planned on another half bottle 
tonight." 
 
Gil-galad pulled a slight face and shrugged.  
 
"Can't imagine how I happened to do that, uncorking it when we hadn’t 
even finished the other one," he said evenly. “Still, it would be a pity to 
waste it. It’s very good. You get a lovely warm feeling from all those little 
bubbles, have you noticed?" 
 
Glorfindel, who was usually a two- to three-cup Elf, and was currently at 
the top of that self-imposed limit, had noticed. Very warm. In fact, his 
skin seemed to be starting to tingle. 
 
He brought the bottle over, handed it to Gil-galad and settled down 
opposite him on the rug before the fire, leaning his head back against 
one of the chairs, and relaxed.
~*~*~*~*~
An hour after dinner found Gil-galad and Glorfindel stretched out on the 
floor, the chessboard between them, engaging in a not very serious and 
rather haphazard game of something approaching chess, played to a 
raucously expanding set of rules. 
 
Gil-galad, lying propped up on an elbow, had just taken another of 
Glorfindel's pieces by an act of blatant dishonesty. He was busy palming 
it while attempting to justify his actions, his blue eyes sparkling and 
alive with mischief.  
 
Glorfindel, laughing, and made more than a little uninhibited by the 
wine, reached out and grabbed at the King’s wrist in an attempt to wrest 
the little crystal figurine from his grasp. 
 
"You had no justification for doing that, Sire..." he began, tugging 
ineffectually at the large, strong hand into which the rook had vanished. 
 
“’Gil’!” insisted his opponent laughingly, keeping a tight hold on the 
piece. “I have told you more times than I can remember, when we are 
alone I want you to call me Gil. It’s hardly a difficult name. Come on, let 
me hear you say it first and then we shall see.” 
 
Glorfindel raised his eyes from the strong wrist he was gripping and gave 
Gil-galad a mock scowl. “Whatever name I call you makes no difference, 
GIL, you still had absolutely no right to do that,” he said, before bursting 
into laughter.  
 
Gil-galad looked up at him. Glorfindel’s golden hair gleamed in the 
firelight. His beautiful face, alight with laughter, was slightly flushed, 
both from wine and from the fire's warmth, and his soft lips were moist, 
irresistible.  
 
Dropping the gaming piece and moving upright with surprising grace, he 
drew Glorfindel into his arms. All laughter gone, his face utterly serious, 
Gil-galad kissed him, very softly and very carefully on the lips. 
 
For the space of some seven heartbeats they were both motionless, then 
they drew back to look at one another. Glorfindel's eyes were wide, 
wondering. He moved his hand up, touching his fingers almost 
unconsciously to his lips, never taking his eyes off the King.  
 
Gil-galad took Glorfindel’s face gently between his hands, tilting it up to 
his while lightly stroking his thumbs back and forth across the high 
cheekbones and watching him intently.  
 
He leaned in slowly, keeping eye contact until finally their lips met. His 
tongue snaked out and licked slowly, almost thoughtfully, across 
Glorfindel's mouth, tracing first his top lip then, lingeringly, the bottom 
one. Drawing back slightly he murmured,  
 
"Part your lips, let me taste your mouth. Please!" 
~*~*~*~*~
Early evening had found Elrond out for a walk in the palace gardens, 
Elros’ puppy, Laslech, leashed and firmly in tow. The dog had been a gift 
from a delegation of Men who had come to Lindon in the hope of 
speaking with the future King of Númenor. Elros had accepted her with 
thanks. It would have been impolite to say he much preferred cats.  
 
Elrond had taken it upon himself to make sure the animal was properly 
fed and exercised, making it clear that he did so in the interests of a 
clean and controlled living environment. He missed no opportunity to 
remind Elros, and anyone else who would listen, of the sacrifice he was 
making, both in time and patience. 
 
In fact, Elrond adored the puppy, but he kept up the façade as he could 
hardly admit to this. His entire image revolved around his complete lack 
of sentiment or softness, and the term ‘dog lover’ hardly sat well with 
that. She was, however, his confidante, someone he could hold onto in 
his many moments of insecurity. 
 
They were passing the fountain with the ugly dolphin motif when he 
spotted a vaguely familiar figure. He paused to look, attracted by the Elf’s 
appearance, and then after a moment’s thought recalled a name for the 
face – and an interesting snippet of information. 
 
Laslech had found an intriguing place to sniff around and nose at and 
seemed oblivious to the fact that her companion wanted to move on. 
 
“Come along, Laslech,” he said, giving the leash a quick tug. “Let’s go 
and have some fun.” 
 
His target was standing looking down into the fish pond, and he glanced 
round, the gleaming fall of black hair swinging smoothly with the 
movement, to see who approached. He offered Elrond an enquiring smile. 
 
The Elf was a little under medium height and had the grace and balance 
of a dancer. His hair fell straight and gleaming like black satin to mid 
buttock, his exotically slanted eyes were deep amber, and he had skin 
the colour and texture of thick cream. 
 
“Erestor, isn’t it?” Elrond inquired on reaching him. “I thought I 
recognized you. I remember you as an occasional visitor to our camp 
back when my brother and I were with Maedhros.” 
 
Any reminder of a connection to the Sons of Fëanor was usually regarded 
as hugely embarrassing. Elrond both enjoyed and despised the 
sidestepping or even outright denials this sort of statement would 
normally induce, so he was quite impressed when the black-haired Elf 
nodded at once without so much as blinking.  
 
“Yes,” Erestor answered. “We met on a few occasions when you and your 
brother were much younger.” He had a low, even voice, cool as water, 
mellow as honey. 
 
Laslech spotted the fish and began barking frantically, straining at the 
leash in her efforts to get to the water. Elrond picked her up, shushed 
her firmly, and tucked her under an arm, refusing to be made 
uncomfortable by her behavior. 
 
“My cousin has appointed you assistant military advisor, I believe,” he 
said, displaying the sort of poise that denied the existence of an over-
excited young dog under his arm.  
 
Erestor nodded. “Yes, I was very fortunate. I was hoping for some kind of 
a clerical opening, and this was far more than I had expected.” 
 
“Clerical?” Elrond asked. “I thought I recalled intelligence as your 
specialty?” 
 
Erestor quirked a brow at the less than complimentary tone. “Well, that 
perhaps overstates it, but I do have some experience in gathering 
information,” he conceded, “However, His Majesty felt my talents could 
be used in a more conventional manner. We shall see if it works out or 
not.” 
 
Elrond frowned to himself, estimating the time. “Being exceptionally late 
for dinner won’t endear you to him,” he suggested. Erestor looked at him 
enquiringly, and then his face cleared. 
 
“Oh, the dinner invitation for this evening. No, it was cancelled, 
otherwise you’re quite right, I would be rather late. “ 
 
“Cancelled?” Elrond asked, glancing back over his shoulder to see what 
had attracted Laslech’s attention this time, and spotting the 
unmistakable figure of Lord Círdan.  
 
“His Majesty had to attend an urgent meeting. He had no idea when it 
would finish, so he thought it better to reschedule.” 
 
Elrond found he rather liked the black-haired Elf, enjoying the fact that 
he had not attempted to hide the more inconvenient details of his past. 
An incorrigible gossip, he opened his mouth to share the assumed focus 
of the ‘meeting’, and then a picture flashed into his mind.  
 
He saw Glorfindel and a bed full of clothing, saw the blonde trying to 
decide what to wear out of this limited selection, blushing painfully as he 
admitted to being penniless and dependant.  
 
Elrond’s definition of ‘family’ tended to be vague, but he was prepared to 
protect anyone who fell under that heading with his life. Currently this 
select group consisted of Elros and to a lesser extent, Laslech and Gil-
galad. Somehow, in the space of an afternoon, it now also encompassed 
the shy, quietly-spoken blonde, whom he owed for the Balrog. He did 
what up until then he had only ever done for Elros. He lied. 
 
“Yes,” he said easily. “I suppose he would have had to reschedule. He 
was complaining to me earlier about his life not being his own.” 
 
He put Laslech down again. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he added with 
one of his more charming smiles. “I need to leave before Lord Círdan 
spots me. Long story.” 
 
Erestor inclined his head slightly, then bent down and patted the pup. 
“Of course,” he said, shooting Elrond a considering look from amber 
eyes. “I hope we meet again soon.” 
 
Elrond’s brows shot up and he laughed. “This place is like a small village. 
You’ll be lucky to have a day go by without running into me once you’re 
settled.” 
 
Saying this, he turned and headed off quickly in the direction from which 
he had come, Laslech trotting to keep up. Because he really did prefer 
not to run into Círdan if he could help it – the ancient Elf always had 
some question about his behavior, some comment about his appearance 
- he went in through the nearest door and took a roundabout route back 
to the private wing. On the way to his own chambers, he passed the 
hallway that led to Gil-galad’s rooms and flashed it a curious though 
amused look. 
 
“Wonder how that’s working, girl?” he asked the dog. “We’ll have to see if 
we can get Glorfindel to kiss and tell, won’t we?” 
~*~*~*~*~
Glorfindel could hear the blood humming in his ears. There was a 
heightened tension spreading throughout his body, mostly concentrated 
in his groin. There the sensation of throbbing heat was slowly making 
itself the focal point of his world.  
 
And Gil - no longer Gil-galad the King, just Gil - was kissing him as he 
had never even dreamed of being kissed, slowly exploring his mouth, 
tasting, savoring. The strong arms that held him had drawn him back 
down onto the rug, the chess set having been firmly pushed to one side.  
 
Gil was leaning over him, stroking his hair and face as he kissed him, 
while trailing light, caressing fingers down his neck, moving them in tiny 
circles. The gentle touch moved steadily lower, finally coming to rest on 
the top clasp of his tunic. Panting slightly, Gil eventually released 
Glorfindel’s mouth and drew back so that they could make eye contact. 
 
"I need to undress you,” he said simply. “I need to touch you. Please..." 
His gaze was intense, the blue eyes dark and cloudy. 
 
Glorfindel lay staring up at him, remembering all those times with 
Ecthelion, when this same request had been made. Somehow that all 
seemed very far away, while Gil was close and warm. This time he really 
didn’t want to stop. 
 
In a shaky voice, searching Gil’s eyes, he asked,  
 
"Why me? You could have almost anyone you wanted, someone beautiful, 
special...why would you want me?"  
 
Gil quirked an eyebrow while running a less than steady finger along the 
line of Glorfindel’s jaw. Smiling, he shook his head and said in 
amusement,  
 
"You simply have no idea, do you? I have no interest in anyone else. 
Come, just your tunic, sweetheart. I won’t ask you to do anything that 
makes you uncomfortable, I promise, just please, please let me touch 
you..."  
 
As he spoke, he was stroking Glorfindel’s chest and shoulders, enforcing 
gentleness on hands that wanted to squeeze and grasp. Glorfindel 
swallowed hard and closed his eyes, nodding. 
 
Gil decided not to give him too much time to think about it. The tunic 
was removed swiftly and efficiently, followed by the undershirt, Gil’s 
fingers proving to be remarkably agile despite their size. Before he knew 
it, Glorfindel lay on the rug with air and firelight tracing patterns on his 
naked skin and sun-bright hair. Gil removed his own tunic, balling it up 
and tossing it across the room before taking a moment to loosen his hair. 
He placed the mithril hair clasps beside the chessboard and shook out 
his long black hair.  
 
Glorfindel noticed the unexpected red lights in the thigh-length mane 
and focused on this, trying to shut out the suddenly silent room. 
Predictably, all the usual feelings of uncertainty and inadequacy were 
rushing in to claim him, to take this night away from him as they had all 
the others.  
 
Gil, however, proved himself to be even quicker than fear and self-doubt. 
Kneeling, he proceeded to run firm but gentle hands over Glorfindel, his 
face serious, concentrated. Gil’s fingers explored the curves and hollows 
of the body lying still but uncertain under his touch, tracing ribs, circling 
down lightly over the firm stomach, following the line of the waist using a 
soft feathery touch that raised gooseflesh. 
 
Leaning closer, he ran his hands smoothly back up, and began to circle 
Glorfindel’s highly sensitive nipples with his fingertips before rubbing his 
thumbs over them, gently but firmly, grazing very lightly with his short 
nails. Almost as a reflex Glorfindel gasped, his eyes closing abruptly, and 
Gil bent his head to take one hardening temptation between his lips. He 
felt the moment of tension in the body beneath his and then he drew the 
nub and surrounding flesh into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue.  
 
Glorfindel cried out sharply and reached for Gil, his arms going round 
him. One hand found the back of his head, fingers sinking into the thick, 
dark hair, pressing him closer as the blonde Elf writhed and moaned 
softly. Gil licked and suckled each nipple in turn, whispering broken 
words of praise and desire, then moved slowly down Glorfindel’s body, 
the sure touch of his hands and mouth making the blonde Elf murmur 
incoherently and wrap his hands tighter in Gil’s hair.  
 
He pushed the band of Glorfindel’s leggings down carefully, exploring his 
navel thoroughly with his tongue, causing his inexperienced partner to 
shiver and whimper softly. A series of lingering kisses, with a pause to 
lavish more attention on the intensely responsive nipples, was followed 
by Gil nipping a trail of fire up Glorfindel’s neck and reclaiming his 
mouth. 
 
This kiss, unlike the others, was almost rough, his need and insistence 
showing. It left Glorfindel almost inarticulate with desire as he attempted 
to deal with the rush of new sensations that were overwhelming his body. 
When the kiss ended, Gil drew back from him and moved to sit up. 
Glorfindel groaned aloud and tried to hold on to him, but Gil disengaged 
himself easily. He took Glorfindel’s hands in his own and said softly,  
 
“I need you to look at me, sweetheart. Are you sure you want this to go 
further? You need to be certain.” 
 
The world started crowding back in on Glorfindel, and in a dazed sort of 
fashion he began to remember why he should be saying no. Struggling to 
give some order to his thoughts, he tried to explain – no easy task while 
lying half-naked on the rug next to the fire with Gil’s hands holding his, 
stroking his fingers firmly. 
 
"I know I’m going to sound stupid, but I have never - well - never done 
this before. I know I don’t have the experience to satisfy you. I have no 
idea what you need from me - I am just afraid I will disappoint you,” he 
said, finishing in a rush of words and turning his head away, his face 
burning. 
 
"Never before, sweetheart? Truly?" Gil asked in a quiet, serious voice. At 
Glorfindel’s uncertain nod, he smiled and raised one of the hands he was 
caressing to his lips. 
 
"None of us are born experienced," he said gently. “I can think of nothing 
more wonderful than to be your first lover. Will you have me?” 
 
Glorfindel lay looking up at him searchingly, and Gil waited quietly, 
perfectly still save for the movement of his fingers. Finally, slowly, the 
blonde Elf nodded. Gil leaned down, smiling, to take him into his arms, 
and for long minutes simply held him close, rubbing his cheek against 
the fair hair.  
 
After a while he began to stroke a hand slowly up and down Glorfindel’s 
back, eventually reaching lower, to unfasten the blonde’s leggings. He 
removed them and the loincloth, carefully. Only then did he take off the 
last of his own clothes.  
 
Turning back from throwing his garments off into the dimness, he heard 
Glorfindel, a trace of color even now staining his cheeks, whisper softly, 
“You’re - beautiful!” He was looking up, eyes wide, at the strong, well-
proportioned body kneeling above him.  
 
“Do you think I am?” Gil asked him, smiling. At Glorfindel’s nod he 
leaned over and, lips close to his ear, said, “Would you like to explore 
what you see? It would give me so much pleasure if you wanted to touch 
me.” 
 
He lay down, rolled onto his back, and folded his arms behind his head. 
Giving Glorfindel an encouraging grin, he assumed an air of waiting. 
 
Glorfindel started slowly, uncertainly, caressing the firmly muscled 
stomach and chest, finally daring to lick the small, dark nipples, causing 
Gil to groan with need. He progressed to sucking the hardened points 
and stroking them with his tongue, shy uncertainty melting away in the 
face of Gil’s obvious pleasure.  
 
Presently he kissed his way lingeringly down to Gil’s waist, from where 
he was encouraged to venture lower. He found himself tentatively 
touching Gil’s erect penis, an action full of new uncertainties but, 
remembering every conversation on the subject that he had ever 
overheard, he applied his lips and the tip of his tongue to the swollen 
head and experimentally sucked.  
 
Gil allowed himself a few selfish, mind-numbing minutes of pure 
pleasure, and then tugged at Glorfindel’s hair - hard - to make him stop.  
 
“You have no idea what you are doing to me, do you?” Gil managed to get 
out on a half laugh. “You are driving me insane... come here and find out 
what it feels like!” 
 
Gil pulled him up into a quick, close embrace, kissing him hard. 
Glorfindel barely had a chance to return the kiss before he found himself 
lying flat on his back again.  
 
Gil ran hands and tongue down his body in a straight, unerring line and 
then, for Glorfindel, time all but stood still. The room retreated, leaving 
him aware of nothing but the rug under his naked back, the dark hair 
falling across his stomach and hips, and Gil’s mouth doing impossible 
things. For a few minutes there was nothing but the mouth, his cock, 
darkness, and sparks behind his closed eyelids. He almost forgot to 
breathe.  
 
Gil released him despite his almost frantic protests and propped himself 
up on his elbows, shaking his hair out of his face. He looked at 
Glorfindel, lying on his back, his arms flung out, fingers gripping the rug, 
his hair a pool of gold. The fire lit his body, showing the taut, ruby 
nipples and the darkening kiss marks.  
 
”Do we finish this?” Gil asked him softly. Glorfindel was gasping for 
breath, beyond words. All he could manage was a nod and an incoherent 
murmur. 
 
"I'm going to assume that meant 'yes' then," Gil said with a breathless 
laugh and sat up. 
 
Glorfindel had a brief impression of movement, of Gil stretching out and 
scratching about amongst the wood beside the fire, then he was once 
more being held and kissed and then nothing mattered except the strong 
body moving urgently against his, and need that was slowly becoming his 
whole existence.

Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 5/25	
Author: Keiliss
Email: scrapcat21@gmail.com	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: Beginnings. 
Beta: Fimbrethiel

~*~*~*~*~
The Palace at Lindon was in reality a series of buildings serving a variety 
of purposes: part administrative center, part military headquarters, and 
part royal dwelling place. It contained all the offices of government, an 
armory, comprehensive kitchen facilities, a healing center, and of course, 
extensive stables.  
 
It also offered accommodation, at a nominal rental, for those employees 
who wished to take advantage of this convenience. Those who did so 
received two basic meals a day, laundry services, and access to the 
communal bathing facilities.  
 
The sprawling complex was the first of its kind, bearing no resemblance 
to the walled, defensible strongholds of former Noldorin Kings. It was a 
new approach, a response to the dawning of a new Age.  
 
Outside the palace, the town around it was growing and sprawling 
outwards. Settlements had sprung up in all directions, catering to many 
different groups and cultures. found it reassuring to live under the 
protection of the first High King ever to hold out the promise of some 
form of peace and security.
~*~*~*~*~
Inside the Palace, in the living quarters set aside for mid-level 
administrative personnel, Erestor stood in the middle of his small, plain 
room and considered his surroundings. 
 
He had unpacked his sparse belongings within an hour of arriving, put 
them neatly away and thought no more of it, but he was now struck by 
how bare and unwelcoming the room appeared. There was no warmth, 
none of the little extras that suggested home. It appeared untouched, 
unoccupied.  
 
Until now, this had been of no concern to him. The room had simply 
been a convenient place to read and rest. Now he looked at it through 
other eyes and found it to be wanting in the extreme. No one would bring 
a guest here for any reason other than brief, meaningless physical 
satisfaction.  
 
Having assessed the room as a problem to be solved, he took a stick of 
graphite and one of the parchment discards he used for notes and 
proceeded to make a list of items that would address the solution. It was 
a methodical and comprehensive list, reflecting the sharp, observant 
mind that had led to his being employed in a potentially sensitive 
position despite his less than pristine past. 
 
The idea of perhaps being able to invite someone back to his room for a 
cup of wine and a little conversation, had not fully occurred to him until 
earlier that evening, and then only vaguely. The thought that the guest 
might be the Half-elven Princeling he had encountered in the garden was 
something he firmly dismissed as unlikely in the extreme at this point in 
his career.  
 
However, stranger things had happened in his life. There was also 
nothing wrong with being prepared. Anyway, he reasoned, a little colour 
and texture would be pleasant for a change. 
 
Decisions made, list written, he fastened his hair back and then, putting 
out the lamp – oil was far from inexpensive in this fast-growing capital, 
he had discovered – he left the room. Once outside, he resumed his 
search for the most conducive spot to perform the exercise routine with 
which he had, for years, been in the habit of beginning and ending his 
day.
~*~*~*~*~
Meanwhile, lying on the rug in front of the fire, decision made, Gil found 
that he was in no hurry to proceed. Instead, he was taking his time and 
simply enjoying the closeness, the escalating heat between them, the 
shared caresses. 
 
Glorfindel, to his delight, was no longer a tentative partner. Lips 
explored, sampled, hands tangled in hair, and all the while their bodies 
twisted and writhed almost as one.  
 
Finally, when the moment felt right, Gil guided the blonde Elf onto his 
side, drawing one of Glorfindel's legs half over his hip, and moved a hand 
smoothly down Glorfindel's body, caressing his thigh, his firm behind, 
before using one finger to circle his lover's most intimate opening, lightly 
at first, then harder, deeper. 
 
Glorfindel was vaguely aware of slickness - oil? Where would Gil have 
found oil? he wondered vaguely. Then the finger thrust inside, and even 
before his own cry, he heard Gil give a low moan of desire. The finger 
penetrated him, pushing against firm resistance. There was no real pain, 
just a feeling of strangeness, which was not exactly unwelcome, just – 
different.  
 
After a few minutes, Gil carefully added more oil. Suddenly, despite a 
moan of protest from Glorfindel, one probing finger became two. The 
kissing and caressing continued, as Gil’s mouth roved from lips to 
nipples to throat, licking and sucking, balancing possible discomfort with 
proven pleasure.  
 
The slick fingers meanwhile stretched, loosened, seeking and finally 
finding their sensitive target. Sudden pressure caused Glorfindel to 
swear graphically while instinctively jerking sharply back against the 
source of the unbelievable jolt of pleasure.  
 
Gil drew him into a fierce, one-armed embrace, reclaiming his mouth in a 
passionate kiss, while he proceeded to thrust his fingers in and out of 
the blonde, striking the same spot each time and causing him to moan 
and writhe and attempt to cry out against the covering mouth. 
 
Finally, ignoring some very vocal protests, he released Glorfindel and 
reached again for the little bottle of oil he had secreted earlier, 
optimistically, by the fire. Kneeling, he poured a generous amount into 
his hand and started smoothing it over his aching shaft, shuddering at 
his own touch.  
 
After a moment, he became aware that Glorfindel was watching him with 
a less than encouraging expression in his eyes. 
 
Gil paused.  
 
“Is everything all right?” he asked in sudden trepidation. 
 
“I can’t!” Glorfindel said flatly.  
 
A little voice in the back of Gil-galad’s head screamed, “You idiot! Too 
fast, you moved too fast!” but he managed to keep his expression 
reassuring and his voice calm though a bit breathless as he asked,  
 
“What’s wrong? What did I do?” 
 
“No, no you didn’t do anything wrong, you’re wonderful, being with you 
feels like all I ever wanted. I just feel so…so…” he broke off, dropping his 
embarrassed gaze and blushing furiously. Gil knelt looking at him 
quizzically, an oil-covered hand resting, all but forgotten, on his penis. 
 
“Well, what then, sweetheart?” he asked. 
 
Glorfindel refused to look at him. “I‘m just still not completely sure how it 
all works,” he muttered, shaking his hair over his face like a shield. 
 
In spite of frantic efforts to stop himself, Gil burst out laughing. 
Gathering Glorfindel into his arms, he wrapped himself around the 
desperately embarrassed Elf, resting a cheek against the golden hair. 
Gil’s genuine amusement finally infected Glorfindel, forcing him to see 
the humor in the situation and join in the laughter. 
 
When they at last settled down, save for the occasional giggle, Gil 
brushed shimmering fair hair back from Glorfindel’s face and said, still 
grinning,  
 
“My dear, I assure you that I certainly know how it all works and if I give 
you my word to be slow and careful, if I promise to be gentle, do you 
think we could at least try?” He cupped the flushed but lovely face with a 
strong hand. “If you would rather wait, I’ll understand, of course, but…” 
 
Glorfindel gave a final chuckle and then put an arm round Gil’s neck, 
looking up into his eyes. 
 
“Slow and careful and gentle sounds perfect," he said. “I think I’ve waited 
long enough. It’s time I found out.” 
 
They lay kissing quietly for a few minutes, recreating the earlier mood, 
until Gil, with a final caress, released the blonde and retrieving the oil, 
told him to turn onto his side. When he looked back, Glorfindel was lying 
as instructed, stretched out like a golden cat and facing the fire.  
 
Settling down behind him, Gil took his time, kissing Glorfindel’s neck 
and shoulders and stroking his hair, before placing his hand behind an 
upper thigh and pushing gently, murmuring,  
 
“Draw your knee up to your chest – it will make this easier for us both.” 
He then slipped his left arm under Glorfindel’s shoulder, drawing him 
close, and whispered, “Give me your hand.” 
Taking the long fingered hand, which was so much more like a 
musician's than a warrior's, within his own, Gil linked their fingers. 
Resting his free hand on Glorfindel's buttock and spreading him open, 
Gil pushed forward firmly and entered his lover. He paused a moment 
while placing a steadying hand on Glorfindel's hip, and then with his 
usual approach to difficult actions of 'getting it over with', arched 
abruptly forward, burying himself within his partner to the hilt. 
 
Glorfindel’s head jerked back and his breath hissed sharply with a sound 
of pain, but on the third attempt, Gil found his pleasure spot and was 
rewarded with Glorfindel crying out and thrusting back against him. Gil 
nodded to himself, satisfied, and moved his right hand down to grasp his 
lover’s suddenly steel hard arousal.  
 
“Careful enough?” he asked, resting his cheek against Glorfindel’s and 
laughing huskily at the response, which was an almost incoherent growl. 
Tightening his arm around his partner and squeezing the hand clasped 
in his, Gil began to thrust into him, slowly at first and then faster and 
deeper, finally burying his face in the golden hair, all caution forgotten, 
and giving himself over to ecstasy. 
 
Lying beneath him, Glorfindel moved urgently in time with Gil, his mind 
empty of all else save the firm hand wrapped around his pulsing erection 
and the unbelievable sensation of Gil within him. At each thrust he 
experienced a fire-burst of agonizing delight, pushing him higher, and as 
Gil's hips moved harder, quicker, there seemed to be nothing else in the 
world, only an overpowering, nameless urgency. 
 
He came at last, chanting Gil’s name like a litany and then, to the sound 
of Gil’s own shout of triumph and completion, he fell back through white 
light, sinking down into a dark nothingness.
~*~*~*~*~
The cool night air wafting in through the open window carried the scent 
of the sea into the quiet room where Elrond lounged, dog on lap, 
pretending to read. He was a voracious reader, devouring books with the 
hunger of one often deprived, which was close enough to the truth.  
 
There hadn’t been all that many books available while they had been on 
the move. Furthermore, Maedhros, who had discovered it was the one 
punishment that seemed to make any impact on Earendil’s more 
intransigent son, had regularly forbid him access to those few books they 
had.  
 
Gil-galad had at first teased him, asking if he was attempting to work his 
way through the entire library within a year. On learning a little of the 
past from Elros, however, he had simply told Elrond to take what he 
wanted when he wanted it and, should it not be available, to order it.  
 
Elrond, taught by bitter experience to be suspicious of large gestures and 
vocal declarations, was reassured by Gil-galad’s matter-of-fact attitude. 
This increased in the face of the King’s genuine interest in his reading 
choices and his readiness to spend time discussing them. 
 
Elrond was, in fact, developing a strong interest in the healing arts. He 
had an almost intuitive response towards illness or injury, and was 
surprisingly empathetic in a practical sort of way when dealing with pain 
or fear. Blood, gore, and strong emotions held no terror for him. 
 
In the face of almost universal disbelief at the idea of Elrond as a healer, 
Gil-galad had been unexpectedly supportive of the idea, promising to 
arrange for his training should he decide to pursue this activity on a 
more serious level. 
 
Tonight however, in an attempt to educate himself about an area of his 
family’s history, Elrond was attempting to read about Gondolin. It was a 
tome written by a respected author, one who had lived in the Hidden City 
and survived the Fall. He had made his way in the world afterwards by 
telling the tale of its years, until someone finally had the idea of getting 
him to write it all down.  
 
Elrond hoped the author had been a better bard than he was a writer, as 
the text was dust dry. The more he read, the more certain he was that it 
would be easier to get Glorfindel to sit down and tell him the tale himself, 
blushes, disclaimers of eloquence and all else that might entail. 
 
Thinking of Glorfindel made him frown slightly. He wondered how late he 
could wait before casually dropping by without making his intent 
obvious. He wondered, briefly, if it would be better to wait until morning. 
He finally decided that stopping by when he took Laslech out before bed 
would be just about acceptable.
~*~*~*~*~
Late evening, therefore, found Elrond and Laslech making their way 
slowly home after an unsuccessful visit to Glorfindel’s rooms, which had 
proved to be unoccupied.  
 
Elrond, with his usual insatiable curiosity, decided that a not-so-casual 
scrutiny of Gil-galad’s sitting room window seemed to be called for. As far 
as he could tell, this could best be accomplished by climbing up onto the 
parapet of the terrace, which, after checking to make certain he was 
unobserved, he did. 
 
A careful, precariously balanced scrutiny suggested that the room was 
either in darkness or else very dimly lit. Elrond made a mental note to go 
back to see Glorfindel around breakfast time. He found it difficult to 
imagine even Ereinion being able to convince the shy blonde Elf to stay 
and face the incuriously curious eyes of his personal staff.  
 
Turning to get back down, he was confronted by the totally unexpected 
sight of Erestor looking up at him. He was casually dressed in a thin 
shirt, leggings, and soft-looking suede boots. He had picked up and was 
holding Laslech, who was licking his face in adoration. Elrond dropped 
lightly down, took a deep breath, and mentally straightened his 
shoulders. 
 
“Lovely night for a walk,” they said simultaneously.
~*~*~*~*~
The first thing Glorfindel was aware of when he came back to himself 
was the soft crackling of the fire next to him. This was followed by the 
fact that he lay, utterly relaxed, with his head on a solid shoulder. Strong 
arms were holding him while gentle hands stroked his hair and back. His 
body felt strange to him, tired and well used in a different sense to 
anything he had ever experienced before.  
 
He turned his head slightly and opened his eyes to see Gil watching him, 
a half smile on his face, his light, clear eyes content. “Welcome back,” he 
said, placing a soft kiss on Glorfindel’s cheek. His reward was smiling 
eyes and a more comfortable settling of the blonde head on his shoulder. 
 
Glorfindel stroked his hand down over Gil’s chest and stomach, 
marveling at the solid feel of him, knowing that he was in exactly the 
right place and time at last. He did, however, have a question, the 
answer to which was becoming clearer to him by the minute.  
 
Observing Gil’s slightly self-satisfied air and the proprietary way he was 
being held, he reached up and wound dark hair round his hand and 
pulled firmly. Gil slanted a look at him and raised a querying brow. 
 
“Where did the oil come from?” Glorfindel asked softly. 
 
Gil-galad briefly considered lying, but knew this would be a bad 
beginning. Glorfindel was someone with whom he wished to share very 
much more than just one night. 
 
”I put it there earlier,” he admitted. “We have had a good chance to get to 
know one another, we were going to he spending the evening alone, I just 
hoped that, perhaps…” 
 
“Dalbros and Erestor didn’t really cancel at the last minute, did they?” 
Glorfindel asked, keeping his grip on the black hair. “They were never 
invited, were they, Gil?” 
 
Gil rolled his eyes then tried playfully to slap away the hand gripping his 
hair. 
 
“No, they were invited,” he insisted cheerfully. “I have never planned a 
long term seduction in my life. I don’t seem to have the attention span for 
it. No, I uninvited them, this afternoon.” 
 
“You told them not to come?” 
 
“This afternoon,” he confirmed with a sigh, his voice now becoming more 
serious. He turned to study Glorfindel’s face as he continued.  
 
“Almost since we met I’ve sought your company, found myself thinking of 
you when we’re apart. This morning I realized just how much I wanted to 
be with you, and I knew you felt it too. I hoped tonight you would be 
willing to act on those feelings. Which you were. Therefore the oil.” 
 
“Therefore the oil,” Glorfindel agreed. A thought struck him and he half 
rose, almost spluttering in his disbelief. “And therefore all that wine! You 
tried to get me drunk, you - you…” 
 
Gil was shaking with laughter as he pulled the almost speechless Elf 
forcibly back down to lie on top of him and held him tightly.  
 
“Oh you didn’t have nearly enough to make you drunk,” he disclaimed. 
”It was simply enough to help you relax, make you less likely to get up 
and run if I did something untoward like trying to kiss you. You’re really 
skittish about that sort of thing till you get used to it, I’ve noticed.” 
 
“You tried to get me drunk.” Glorfindel subsided with bad grace, shaking 
his head. “I will never, never be able to trust you again. Of all the 
underhanded…” 
 
Gil chuckled and rolled them over so that they lay facing one another, 
warm and at ease together, covered by a throw he had pulled from one of 
the chairs earlier. 
 
“Be honest. Aren’t you just a little glad I am?” he asked, and with an air 
of finality silenced him with a kiss. 
Tbc…