Title: Wild Justice 
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor;
Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.    
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.  Be warned--this is a very naughty fic.  I am a bad person and I
promise I'll be spanked later (and hopefully often).
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc (and yes, I know,
it is getting entirely out of hand.)  Read them in
order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be
confused and to miss inside jokes.  



Elrond managed to wriggle out of his bonds and return to his chambers unseen, or
at least he hoped so.  Wartime stealth training had its uses, especially when
one's father-in-law happened to be insane.  He had immediately dressed and gone
looking for Celeborn, a strange calm filling him.  He was not even upset when he
was told that Celeborn had already returned to the Golden Wood.  He had not
ranted, raved or thrown anything--had not even wanted to do so.  He simply
returned to his room, undressed once more, and lay on his bed, enjoying the feel
of the cool breeze from the open window on his bare skin.  From where he lay,
Elrond could see the evening stars shining brightly over the treetops, and their
familiar light was soothing.  He was surprised at how serene he felt, as if
there was no great decision before him.  After a moment's reflection he realised
that it was not so much that a decision did not exist as that he had already
made it.  

Celeborn had to pay.  Oh, yes.  Of that, there was no longer any doubt.  But,
more than that, he had to be made to pay elegantly, subtly, and fully.  No
longer would a simple display of submission be enough, for Celeborn had dared
what no one had in 6,000 years, and that sort of humiliation deserved something
special in return.  There was also Galadriel to consider.  The elf queen was
just as much to blame, as far as Elrond was concerned, as her dear husband.  She
had also humiliated him and caused him three days and nights of unspeakable
torment, although, in her case, he did accept that there had been some
provocation.   The same could not be said for Celeborn, who had brought this on
both himself and Elrond with seemingly no concern for the consequences.  It was
also a consideration that, in this, there was the possibility that Elrond would
need an ally.  

His eyes glowed silver in the night, as he managed to farspeak his
mother-in-law.  Thoughts were conveyed and images passed, along with that one
careless comment of Celeborn's, "Leave my wife to me.  I have something special
in mind for her."  After a time, all alone in his room, Elrond began to smile.  

*   *   *

Orophin of Lorien was a stunning elf.  Both of Haldir's brothers had the same
aristocratic bone structure and exquisite fair colouring characteristic of
Silvan elves, but there was an added grace to their movements and a predatory
look in their beautiful eyes that reminded Elrohir of great, wild cats on the
prowl.  Orophin, the tallest and leanest of the three, especially conveyed the
impression of a big, sleepy feline, draped bonelessly as he was along a tree
limb, his eyes half lidded with ennui--until, that is, they fell on their party. 
One look at the fair elf at Elrohir's side and Orophin's face lit up as if his
birthday had come early.  Although they already had a guide, who had met them
near Lorien's borders to escort them to the Lord and Lady, Orophin quickly
volunteered to join them.  Before Elrohir could think of a reason to refuse, he
hopped off his perch and dropped gracefully to the ground, retaining his balance
although his eyes never left their party.  Elrohir hated him on sight. 

Glorfindel did not seem to notice the Galadrim's regard, being too busy chatting
with Erestor who rode to his left.  Elrohir wished, not for the first time, that
his lover was a little less flamboyant in appearance.  Glorfindel was looking
especially edible that morning, attired in a royal blue velvet tunic with deep
bell sleeves along which white embroidery carved the outlines of birds and
flowers.  His silver white leggings hugged his thighs like a second skin,
displaying the shift and play of his muscles as he easily guided his large white
stallion.  It was one of a line of magnificent horses, all descendants of the
same sire, and all quite impossible to tame--by anyone but Glorfindel.  Honey
blond hair spilled down his back in a careless wave, unconfined as he preferred
to wear it, and his indigo eyes were lit by amusement at some inanity Erestor
had spouted.  Orophin's delighted turquoise gaze never left their party and, by
the time they reached the outskirts of Caras Galadhon, Elrohir was almost
apoplectic.  His mood was not helped by the Galadrim's insistence on following
them up the stairs, which was, Elrohir was sure, to enable him to watch the way
Glorfindel's lean buttocks clenched and relaxed as he climbed them. 

Elrohir could feel a tiny pulse throbbing at the base of his throat, and his
left eye was twitching slightly, perhaps explaining the odd look his grandmother
threw him when they reached the council hall.  His reply to her greeting was
smooth, however, and he returned her questioning look with an innocent smile. 
He was fully aware that she had always had trouble reading his thoughts, and he
tried now to make his mind as blank as possible.  He did not even glance at
Orophin, although he was aware that the haughty Galadrim had not left the
chamber despite the fact that there was not the slightest reason for him to
remain.  

The interview was brief, as it was merely designed to welcome Elrohir and his
party to the Golden Wood and assign them to their rooms.  To Elrohir's
annoyance, he discovered that he and Glorfindel had not been given a single
chamber, but rather suites on opposite sides of the royal talan.  Not that it
mattered, of course, he would sleep where he liked, but it concerned him that
perhaps it indicated disapproval of the relationship by his grandparents.  He
sighed.  They were both so perfect all the time--no doubt they expected him to
make a loveless but politically correct union as his mother had done.  Well, too
bad.  He was not giving up Glorfindel, no matter the coercion that might be
used, so they had best just forget it.  He had spent his whole life being the
good son, and the good grandson, but on this he was immovable.  

Elrohir wanted to protest when his grandparents invited Glorfindel to remain for
a political discussion.  He was about to point out that the whole party was
tired and needed rest after their journey--intending to grab a quick session
with his lover before dinner--but Erestor chimed in with a request for a tour of
the city.  After that, he could hardly claim to be tired if an old elf like
Erestor was still bouncing with energy.  Indeed, Erestor had seemed unusually
vivacious ever since they left Imladris, although why remained a mystery. 
Elrohir could not even fathom why he had come along.  This was supposed to be
his and Glorfindel's journey, but somehow they had acquired quite an entourage. 
Two Noldorian servants of his grandmother had accompanied them--although why
they had not returned with her after her recent visit had never been
explained--and Haldir and Gildor had also ridden along.  At least the latter was
understandable as the Marchwarden had already spent a good deal of time at
Imladris for no particular reason that Elrohir could see.  Normally, couriers
delivered their messages and went home, but Haldir had stuck around for several
weeks, apparently doing nothing more than seducing Elrond and then Gildor. 
Elrohir was beginning to dislike his entire family.

His indignation increased as Orophin was delegated by Lord Celeborn to show them
about Imladris.  On the one hand, it did keep him away from Glorfindel, but, on
the other, it meant that Elrohir had to endure his presence all afternoon.  He
was effrontery personified, and apparently as depraved as his brother, for he
never missed an opportunity to brush up against him or hold his arm as they made
their way along Lorien's many swaying rope bridges.  Honestly, one would think
he was an invalid in need of aid!  Just to prove a point, Elrohir took a short
cut as they neared the hot springs, sliding several stories down a rope support
that slanted towards the ground while the others descended by way of the more
traditional ladder.

"You would make a good border guard, young one," Orophin told him once they had
caught up.  "Let us know if you ever tire of the decadent life of a princeling
and want something useful to do!"  He moved ahead before Elrohir could think of
a suitably cutting reply.

Erestor declared that he had to have a bath in the springs, and Elrohir
reluctantly agreed to accompany him.  He was surprised to note, as they settled
into the steamy water in one of the inner caves, that Erestor was not as pudgy
in the flesh as the rather old fashioned robes he favoured usually made him
appear.  Indeed, a nearby young elf was eyeing him with what looked like
distinct interest.  Elrohir tried momentarily to see him objectively, but it
didn't work.  He supposed the black drape of his hair--such an unusual colour
for elves, which matched his obsidian eyes--was pleasing, and his body, despite
being that of a very old elf indeed, looked quite youthful.  But, to Elrohir, he
was just Erestor--his tutor, mother substitute and, occasionally, friend--he
simply couldn't see him any other way.  

So caught up was Elrohir in trying to decipher the mystery of his old tutor's
appeal, that it took him a moment to realise that Orophin had also disrobed and
joined the small party of elves in the pool.  Elrohir moved another few feet
away, ostensibly to give him more room, but Orophin followed him.  With almost
unbelievable impudence, he caught up a strand of Elrohir's chestnut hair and ran
it through his fingers.  "So remarkable," he murmured, "like the bark of a young
oak when the sun shines upon it."  Elrohir regarded him with disdain, but the
presence of others kept him from expressing his annoyance in clear terms. 
Instead, he simply moved farther away, settling near Erestor who was sprawled
out in apparently blissful abandon at the deeper end of the water.  His head
thrown back, his eyes closed, his full, red lips open, he soaked up the steam as
if he had been starved for it.  Which was silly, Elrohir thought, as they had a
perfectly good steam bath at Imladris.  It was obvious, however, that Erestor
was not going to be much good as a diversion, a fact that was especially
irritating when Orophin swam over to join them.

Crowded into a small niche at the deep end of the pool, Elrohir balanced on the
narrow rocky ledge running along the wall three feet or so below the water line. 
When he tried to shy away from Orophin's presence once again, however, he lost
his footing and plunged under the hot water.  He was a perfectly good swimmer,
for Elrond had insisted that all three of his children be taught at an early
age, but before he had a chance to kick off from the bottom, he was caught in
strong arms and pulled back to the surface.  He emerged from the water to find
himself clasped to Orophin's chest, while their legs intertwined.  "What . . .
what do you think you're doing?," he sputtered, when he'd drawn in enough air to
be able to speak.

"Rescuing you.  Lord Celeborn made me responsible for your party, after all." 
The mocking expression on Orophin's face would have been enough to enrage
Elrohir, but the fact that he suddenly felt a strong hand caressing his buttocks
was enough to make him forget about propriety in front of the other elves.  He
sucked in enough air to allow him to hold forth at length on the subject of
Orophin's many failings, while at the same time kicked at him to remove the
unwanted embrace.  Orophin thwarted both intentions by simply dropping off the
ledge and dragging Elrohir with him, back under the steamy water.  The annoying
creature then took advantage of his disorientation to slip a practised tongue
between his lips.  Under the circumstances, Elrohir thought he could be forgiven
for biting it . . . so he did, hard.

Orophin released him and Elrohir quickly returned to the surface, amazed to find
that everyone else was still in the languid positions in which he'd last seen
them.  How could they possibly be so blind?  At that instant, Orophin's wild
eyed countenance broke the surface and sent a wave splashing over Erestor, who
sputtered and made enough of a fuss that Elrohir was able to escape.  Looking
back as he hauled himself out of the pool, he saw Orophin's eyes on him, and
they glittered in a way Elrohir didn't like at all.  It could be, he thought, as
the Galadrim's gaze slid down his water slicked skin and a tiny smile appeared
on his lips, that he had been wrong about the object of his interest.

*   *   *

"You are playing with fire, brother--don't blame me if you end up burned." 
Haldir was, in truth, not very interested in the discussion into which Orophin
had drawn him.  His usually level-headed brother had not been able to talk of
anything but Elrond's youngest son since the elfling arrived, and after three
days the topic was beginning to bore Haldir.  Especially as Orophin had managed
to trade shifts with a fellow guard and gain himself a period of leave in the
city, which meant that Haldir's plans to have the talan all to himself were
ruined.  It would serve Orophin right if Glorfindel . . . well, maybe not. 
Haldir didn't think Elrond's counselor would seriously harm his poor, deluded
brother, but then, where the Balrog slayer was concerned he would rather not
take chances.  He turned a serious eye on Orophin.  "You are insane.  Elrohir
belongs to Glorfindel--an orc would have enough sense to leave him be!"

"There is no union between them," Orophin replied sulkily.  "They have not
bonded, so how do you know my attentions will be unwelcome?"

Haldir humphed, and turned back to the mirror to inspect his latest acquisition. 
It was truly appalling, but Gildor had liked it . . . he personally did not
think red was his colour, but it was almost impossible to refuse his lover
anything.  All Gildor had to do was look at him with those huge brown eyes of
his, and Haldir melted.  This time, that meant that he was doomed to appear at
the festivities that evening in a blindingly crimson tunic.  Still, he thought,
cheering up, he was certain Gildor would make his sacrifice worth 
while . . . Haldir would see that he did.  

Completing his inspection of his toilette, Haldir resumed his attempts to save
Orophin's life, or at least his dignity.  "From what you told me about this
afternoon, I do not think it sounds as if Elrohir was particularly impressed." 
The young Peredhil had demonstrated his delight in Orophin's interest by
overturning a hot bowl of hot broth into his lap at lunch.  He had apologised
prettily for his clumsiness, but Haldir had heard from a few elves who witnessed
the incident that it had looked almost deliberate.  What Orophin had done to
deserve the attack Haldir didn't know, but he strongly suspected it had been his
brother's idea to rearrange the seating so that he occupied the chair beside
Elrohir.  "In any case, no elf in his right mind would purposely challenge Lord
Glorfindel.  You ARE mad.  Go find another dalliance--this one is too much for
you, brother."

Haldir could see that his words had no effect at all, except possibly to make
Orophin more determined.  "We'll see," he replied, checking on his own
reflection with a determined look in his eyes.  Haldir gave a shrug; he had
tried.  He just hoped he wasn't going to be picking a quiver full of arrows out
of his brother's stubborn carcass anytime soon.  It was fortunate that he had
noticed the problem early on, and taken preventative measures . . . 

*   *   *

Elladan stood at the window to his rooms and read again the curious letter
Haldir of Lorien had written him.  It was absurd--he barely knew the elf--so why
would he make such a request of him?  Everyone knew his preferences--he had
never tried to hide them--so why would Haldir even think of him for such an
errand?  Of course, he reflected, he and Elrohir did look remarkably alike, and
so a substitution might actually be possible, especially since Elrohir and
Haldir's brother had just met.  Haldir assured him that he would keep them apart
as much as possible until Elladan could arrive, but the feasibility of the plan
did not mean that he considered it an attractive proposition.  On the other
hand, Imladris was very dull at the moment, and Lorien contained a large
assortment of beautiful Silvan maidens just waiting to be introduced to some of
the more interesting bits of knowledge he'd picked up through the years.  And if
some of them weren't exactly maidens, well, so much the better.  Elladan smiled
as a gentle wind ruffled his hair.  Oh yes, a trip to Lorien sounded like just
what he needed.

*   *   *

Haldir was having trouble containing himself.  Gildor had insisted on dressing
in a matching tunic and the red that so washed out Haldir's fair complexion
added a golden glow to his companion's honey coloured skin and brought out
auburn highlights in his long, dark hair.  It also molded to his beautiful
behind like a second skin, as the only tunic the stall keeper had had that
matched Haldir's was a little too tight on Gildor's muscular form.  Haldir
swallowed and tried to remember that they had at least another hour of this
endless party to get through, but it was no use.  All he could think about was
pressing himself against that slim, hard body, and caressing those smooth, firm 
cheeks . . . He looked about a little frantically for somewhere, anywhere, they
could be alone, but the cursed talan was crowded with guests and Celeborn stood
near the doorway, certain to intercept anyone who tried to leave early and
thereby insult his guest of honour.  

Haldir accepted the inevitable and ran a hand through his hair, trying to
distract himself by concentrating on cataloguing the many different costumes
worn by partygoers that evening.  The delegation from Mirkwood was especially
well dressed, as they always were when visiting the Golden Wood--almost as if
Thranduil was making some kind of a statement.  The king himself, on a rare
diplomatic visit, was especially stunning, attired in a deep green satin robe
over a golden tunic.  Emeralds shone at his fingers and a huge, carved example
of the gem decorated the ostentatious but beautifully made choker he wore. 
Dwarvin make most likely, Haldir mused; you had to give the annoying creatures
credit, they did do stunning work.  Of course, it seemed only fitting that they
should have SOME use . . . 

He was brought out of his reverie by a surreptitious stroke down his back that
stopped tantalisingly just before the swell of his hips.  Gildor looked
innocent, but a mischievous light danced in his brown eyes as he slowly drew
Haldir back towards the wall.  He found a position in which they were protected
from prying eyes on one side by a support beam of the talan and from behind by
one of its interior walls.  It wasn't much as privacy went, however, for in
front of them the party guests passed by in chattering profusion, but it would
have to do.  

*   *   *

Elrohir was in hell.  He had too much to watch and none of it was good.  That
cursed brother of Haldir's wouldn't leave him alone, causing him to have to keep
moving just to avoid his roving hands.  What he couldn't stop was the way
Orophin's his eyes roamed over his form as if he was a starving man and Elrohir
was a banquet.  Even from across the room, it was making Elrohir decidedly
uncomfortable.  But Orophin was a minor inconvenience when compared to the real,
show stopping, evening ruining, desperate threat that was the King of Mirkwood.  

Elrohir had thought he would faint when his grandfather had introduced him to
Thranduil, who had glanced at him, smiled slightly, and then turned the power of
his considerable magnetism full on Glorfindel, where it had stayed ever since. 
Thranduil was . . . amazing.  Even catching only the slightest edges of his
personality, as he obviously did not consider Elrohir to be worth bothering to
charm, was like being nearby when a flash of lightening hit a tree.  Elrohir
could feel a frisson humming along his skin from just being near him.

Elrohir had hated Orophin when he thought he might be competition for
Glorfindel's affections, but he didn't feel that way about Thranduil.  No, this
was more like full-blown terror.  Observing them now, Elrohir could not deny how
well they looked together.  They were standing along the edge of the talan, yet
somehow, wherever Thranduil was seemed to be the centre of attention.  He almost
glowed, his silver hair radiant as a star under the light of a nearby lantern.  
His jade eyes flashed as brightly as the emeralds he wore, and his every
gesture, look, and breath was an invitation, but one designed to appeal to one
elf alone, the beautiful creature who stood at his side.  Elrohir choked on his
wine and tried to look away, but it was impossible.

Glorfindel was like the sun to Thranduil's star.  His robes of pale green silk
perfectly complimented those of Celeborn's guest, his honey coloured hair was a
nimbus about his face as his bright blue eyes laughed at something the king had
said.  Glorfindel's eyes only took on that particular shade when he was
genuinely amused, which he had no right to be by that . . . that . . . creature
from Mirkwood!  And Thranduil kept TOUCHING him, resting a hand on his arm to
illustrate a point, leaning just closer than necessary to whisper a comment in
his ear, bantering with him as if they'd known each other their whole lives. 
Which they most certainly had not!  Had Thranduil EVER visited Imladris?  No,
and even his visits to Lorien had been few and far between.  So what right did
he have, laughing so easily and joking so intimately, with an elf he barely even
knew?  And Elrohir's elf at that.  Glorfindel was HIS, and . . . 

A sudden burst of pain caused Elrohir to look down and see that his wine glass
had shattered.  Cursed things, he thought, picking shards out of his palm, they
made them better at Imladris.  Of course, everything was better at Imladris,
where, for instance, you didn't have gorgeous elf kings trying to steal your
lover from you right in front of your very nose . . . Elrohir glared at Orophin,
who had sidled up alongside him to proffer a handkerchief, and stalked off in
the direction of his wayward lover.  Thranduil had better watch out, or he might
accidentally slip off the talan and plummet head first to the hard forest floor
below.  Yes, that would just be a shame.

*   *   *

Haldir, who had been positioned facing the crowd by his naughty companion, could
not see what Gildor was up to behind him.  He was not sure what to expect, as
his lover usually let him take the initiative, and the fact that Gildor had
suddenly chosen to do so, and in such an open location, was enough to cause a
warm wave of desire to flood Haldir's entire body.  He felt Gildor's hands slide
beneath his robe, a cherry coloured affair to match his tunic, and pull up the
hem from the back so that Haldir continued to look respectable from the front. 
Haldir had to maintain a placid countenance while warm hands explored his back
and cupped him lightly before reaching lower to tug up the hem of his tunic.  He
could not repress a shiver of delight as those so talented hands slid up his
inner thighs, but he did swiftly close the front of his robe so that, hopefully,
he would not have to explain to Celeborn on the morrow why he had spent most of
Thranduil's welcoming party being felt up.

Haldir's thoughts soon grew too chaotic for such concerns, however, as Gildor
continued his public seduction.  The air was suffused with his scent--honey
sweet and spicy; it was, Haldir fervently believed, the most intoxicating aroma
he knew.  His vision began to blur as Gildor paused his exploration of his lower
back to feel for the indentations and stroke them lightly.  A warm finger then
quested beneath his loincloth to slide teasingly along his cheeks and caress the
cleft between them.  Haldir could not suppress the silly smile he knew had taken
over his face.  He should tell Gildor to stop, that he couldn't control himself
much longer, but then that lovely finger slid easily inside him and he lost his
train of thought completely.  His flesh grabbed greedily at the intruding
digits--when had there become two?--and a low purr of deep, relaxed ecstasy
escaped him.  Several nearby guests glanced at him strangely, then turned away,
not quite hiding amused grins.  Elbereth!  There simply HAD to be somewhere they
could go . . . 

Inspiration struck and Haldir towed an unprotesting Gildor behind the curtain
draping a small niche nearby.  It was usually used for showing off a large
carved urn, but a recent storm had toppled it from its platform and it was
currently undergoing repairs.  No one else was there--not surprisingly as it was
barely large enough to accommodate the two of them--and Haldir immediately
claimed Gildor's lips.  His companion's mouth was as soft and delicious as
always, and his silken hair draped over Haldir's hands as he backed him into the
wall, pressing his body against him hungrily.  He could feel Gildor's arousal
twitch against his leg as the beautiful creature in his arms uttered a low moan
into his mouth; Haldir almost came just from that sound alone.     

Haldir shivered, both from the sensations flooding through him and from the
chill of the evening air that hit his skin when Gildor reached down to pull up
his tunic once more, then dropped to his knees to take him in his mouth.  The
swirling of his tongue, from root to tip, over and over again; the pressure as
he swallowed, sucking him greedily deep into his throat; and the soft noises he
made combined to take Haldir over the edge, biting down on his lip hard to keep
from screaming Gildor's name loud enough to be heard along the Northern Fences.  

"Haldir, I . . . oh.  Sorry."

Haldir turned dazed eyes on the form that stood awkwardly behind him, as Gildor
made a choking noise and clutched at the curtain to draw it closed again,
withdrawing himself as he did so from his previous occupation.  Haldir felt the
loss of his warmth immediately, and turned to glare at his brother, while
re-arranging his robes as well as he could.  "Don't you have somewhere you need
to be, Orophin?," he asked through gritted teeth.

Gildor was sitting on the floor, convulsed with laughter.  "I think we severely
shocked a few people," he said, when he could speak.

Orophin just continued to stand there, and Haldir, who usually loved his
brothers dearly, seriously considered choking him.  "What. Do. You. Want?"

"I, er, was hoping you could help me.  I haven't been able to get Elrohir alone
all evening and . . . "

"Get. Out."  

"But, if you could just . . . "

"Out!"  Orophin took one look at his brother's purple countenance, and fled,
mercifully letting the curtain fall closed behind him.  Haldir looked down on
Gildor, who was laughing so hard that tears were coursing down his face.  He
smiled as he ran a hand over his lover's shining head.  "Now, where were we?"

TBC

A/N: The title is from a quote--Revenge is a kind of wild justice--by Francis
Bacon.


Title: Wild Justice 2/? 
 
* * *

Elrohir watched the elaborate preparations being made in the small glade with
considerable interest.  He had seen Erestor leaving the royal talan that
morning, looking quite furtive, and decided to follow him.  He had little else
to do.  Glorfindel was stuck in political meetings all day as he had been since
their arrival in Lorien, although he gave only vague answers to queries as to
what was going on.  Frustration and worry over the fact that Thranduil was also
in these meetings had been enough to make Elrohir very edgy.  Discovering
whatever Erestor was up to, then, would provide a welcome diversion. 

Elrohir followed his old tutor to a glade quite distant from the city, and
became steadily more mystified by his elaborate efforts to avoid being seen. 
Erestor was dressed unusually in a plain, grey-green ensemble that blended in
perfectly with the deeper foliage; whenever he stood still for a moment, Elrohir
had great difficulty seeing him.  He almost lost him twice, and had to close the
distance between them or he would certainly have done so.  It was rather amusing
to be tailing Erestor, who had been one of his teachers in the art of
concealment and stealth.  Strangely, Elrohir had never before wondered why
Erestor had taught those lessons, rather than Glorfindel who had instructed him
in most of the other arts of war.  Now, however, as he found himself having to
use all his talents plus a good bit of luck to follow the dark shadow through
the forest, it made sense.  It also caused him to wonder what, exactly, Erestor
had done in the days of the First Alliance.  Now that he thought about it, he
could not recall a single story having to do with Erestor's role, yet he was
certainly old enough to have participated.  And, as Elrond had not founded
Imladris until the war was well along, he couldn't very well have been his
housekeeper then!

Erestor finally made his way to a small glade.  Elrohir, skulking behind a tree,
peered out onto a strange scene.  About twenty elves, Noldor by the look of
them, were milling about the open space.  Elrohir only recognised two of them,
those supercilious blonds Elros and Camthalion, who were standing over to one
side, arms crossed, surveying the others with their usual icy expressions.  But
they looked up as Erestor approached and, to Elrohir's surprise, broke into twin
smiles of welcome.  Elrohir could not remember ever seeing those two evidence
any emotion, much less a friendly one.  He found it a little creepy and
unconsciously drew back a bit further into the shadows.   

After a few moments' conversation that Elrohir was too far away to hear, Erestor
turned to face the throng of elves and clapped his hands imperiously.  "All
right," he said, raising his voice and drawing something out of the wide sleeve
of his tunic.  "Over here, gather round everyone."  He surveyed the elves who
arranged themselves into two lines in almost military formation before him, "Let
us be perfectly clear.  I am here as a favour to the Lady Galadriel who
expressed an interest recently to Lord Elrond about having some of her servants
trained in certain matters.  What I am going to teach you has already been
learned, in part, by two of your number," and he indicated Camthalion and Elros
with a flourish of his riding crop.  Elrohir paused to wonder what he was doing
with a crop with no horse in evidence, but Erestor was continuing on and he
concentrated on trying not to miss anything.

"The skills I am about to teach you may shortly be needed in an important
mission.  However, we have much work to do, as you are all presently the
strictest of novices," and here he punctuated his words by thwapping his crop on
the thigh of a nearby Noldor.  The proud elf said nothing, but shot him a glare
from angry blue eyes.  Camthalion and Elros seemed to find something amusing,
for they exchanged arch looks behind Erestor's back.   Erestor also smiled, a
little strangely Elrohir thought, and ran his hand gently along the elf's sleek
head.  "You don't like it when I do that?," he inquired softly, his tone almost
too low for Elrohir to hear.  He chuckled, then suddenly grabbed a handful of
blond hair and jerked the elf's head toward him while forcing him to his knees. 
"I think we've just found our first volunteer."  He released him to allow Elros
and Camthalion to each grab an arm and tow the struggling elf off into the
woods.  Erestor watched them for a moment before turning back to the assembled
elves.  "Lesson one--you do what you are told, how you are told and when you are
told.  There is only one master here, and that is me."

The elves looked at each other but there were no arguments.  "Good."  Erestor
rocked back on his heels, apparently pleased.  "Then strip."

"Er, sir?"  One of the Noldor spoke up, looking a bit confused.  Erestor smiled
more broadly and walked slowly over to him.

"You have a question?"

The elf looked a little unsure, but persisted nonetheless. "Yes, sir.  Er, we
were told that we are here to be trained in interrogation techniques."

"Yes, that is one of my specialties."

"Well, in that case, why do you want us to . . . disrobe?"

Erestor glanced up as Camthalion reappeared at the edge of the forest.  "We have
volunteer number two, Cam," he commented briefly, and the elf in front of him
looked about fearfully as Camthalion moved quickly towards him.

"Any other questions?," Erestor asked the assembled elves.  They looked at each
other for a second, then, as their fellow elf was dragged protesting into the
undergrowth, quickly began stripping off their clothing.  Erestor smiled at them
and caressed his crop with a loving motion.  "I do so love my work," Elrohir
heard him mutter.  

*   *   *

Celeborn knew, of course, that Elrond would try something, but he had expected
it and made certain preparations, so the thought did not initially concern him. 
His first clue that something more ominous than he'd anticipated was possibly
occurring was the silence.  He began to worry when days passed and he heard
nothing from Imladris, as, by now, Elrond must have discovered his little
deception.  Celeborn had been extremely pleased to hear that Deya and her band
of gypsies were in the area of the Last Homely House, as their magic combined
with his own had virtually insured Elrond's subjugation.  Fortunately, she
happened to owe him a favour.  Of course, being Deya, she had turned the tables
on him rather neatly, practically insuring that Elrond would eventually discern
what had happened by dressing the last dancers almost identically to the two of
them.  Celeborn sighed.  It was so hard to get good help these days.

In any case, it was foolish of Elrond to believe that Celeborn would ever drop
his guard where he was concerned; his son-in-law could plot all he wanted, but
he would never have the opportunity to put any of his plans into action.  It
would be a relief, however, whenever Elrond got around to trying something, as
this eerie silence was beginning to grate on Celeborn's nerves.  He hoped Elrond
wouldn't do anything too extreme and cause him to have to retaliate.  Now that
it was all in the past, he almost felt as if he owed Imladris' master a
favour--he'd felt more alive in the past few weeks than he had in centuries, and
still had the pleasure of dealing with Galadriel to anticipate.  Despite
everything, that little trip to Imladris had been an excellent notion.  

The second hint he had that things might be becoming complicated was Galadriel's
decision to make another quick trip to Imladris, ostensibly to visit Arwen.  As
his lovely granddaughter had just returned home after an extended stay in
Lorien, Celeborn found this extremely difficult to believe, not to mention that
his wife had not bothered to even try to make her excuse convincing.  There was
something in her clear blue eyes that worried him.  If Galadriel was plotting
with Elrond, this whole situation might become considerably less amusing very
quickly.  There was no way for Celeborn to prevent her journey, however, nor
could he follow her as someone had to remain to continue the negotiations with
Thranduil.  It was going to be difficult enough to explain his wife's sudden
absence; obviously both of them could not just disappear.

Celeborn poured himself some more wine and scowled at the pretty green glass
bottle that held it.  A Mirkwood vintage.  The opaque glass rather reminded him
of Thranduil's clever green eyes, and he absentmindedly rubbed the bridge of his
nose.  Thranduil was yet another problem.  The king rarely left his realm, and
never without good reason.  Celeborn had no idea what he was doing here, taking
up endless hours in roundabout discussions that, when examined later, were shown
to be completely meaningless.  Elbereth, but the elf could talk!  They had spent
almost four hours in consultation the day before, and he still, for the life of
him, could not recall a single point of interest.  There had certainly been no
explanation for the king's visit.  

Thranduil wanted something, of course, that was sure, but just what it was
Celeborn had no idea.  Whatever it might be, though, he apparently had no doubts
that he would obtain it.  He positively dripped power, and his easy confidence
in his own authority vastly annoyed the Lord of Lorien.  Thranduil had moved
into the royal talan and made himself and his huge entourage as comfortable as
if he owned the place, monopolizing the servants who practically fell over
themselves to wait on his every need.  Celeborn had had to fetch his own wine as
all the available help were busy in the king's quarters.  He should have known
that he couldn't expect to take a few weeks off for a much-deserved break
without having to return to a mess, but this was more than he had planned.  He
sighed and finished his wine.  Why did he have a feeling that this was going to
be a very long week?

*   *   *

Elrohir was feeling a little dizzy.  It was an extraordinary experience to see
an old friend and mentor, who you had long believed you knew thoroughly,
suddenly transformed into a very different person.  The martinet in the glade
looked like Erestor, but the resemblance ended there.  The dandified little
housekeeper who had fed Elrohir treats and indulgently failed to report any of
his childhood capers to Elrond, was completely gone.  In his place was a tyrant
and sadist of unbelievable proportions.  Elrohir could hardly believe what he
was seeing as the day wore on.  And he had thought a few of Erestor's suggestion
to him about ways of pleasuring Glorfindel were over the top!  He now realised
that his old tutor had merely been playing with him.  He wasn't playing now--or,
if he was, Elrohir REALLY didn't want to be there when he decided to get
serious.

For hours, the twenty nude Noldor were put through tortures Elrohir doubted if
he would ever have thought up, no matter how many ages he might live.  Erestor
had early on declared that, before they could interrogate anyone properly, they
had to understand the uses of both pain and pleasure, and the best tutor for
that was experience.  Elrohir wasn't sure about the pleasure part, but the pain
was undoubted.  He would probably never be able to excise from his brain the
image of Erestor, in the dispassionate tone he had always used in the
schoolroom, giving an extended lecture of the basics of torture with various
"volunteers" as visual aides. 

The first two elves actually ended up better off than some of the others.  They
reappeared as Erestor was holding forth on the merits and disadvantages of using
a cat of nine tails over a cane or crop.  Unfurling one of the former, he walked
casually over to where the two elves had been stripped and tied in different
ways.  The first was shackled hand and foot and suspended from a thick,
overhanging tree limb.  Metal bars had been placed between his cuffs to insure
that his limbs were spread quite far apart.  The other had been affixed to a
strange contraption that looked like a large wheel.  

"The cane," Erestor lectured, "is usually considered more painful than the crop
but considerably less than this," and he fondled the heavy braided leather
weapon in his hand with affection.  "Usually, it is best to begin subtly and let
the individual rest in between sessions, to give them time to think about what
might be coming next.  Start with the crop or the cane," he advised, "and move
on from there as needed."  He nodded at Camthalion who proceeded to give the
first trussed elf a number of sharp whacks across the buttocks with the long,
thin reed in his hand.   Elros followed this by applying a riding crop to the
thighs and buttocks of the other elf.  Erestor had them stop after eight or ten
strokes and called the observers over to examine the differences between the
marks.  Spinning the elf on the wheel upside down, he brought his bright pink
posterior to eye level and nodded approval at Elros.  "Nicely done, but then,
you always were a quick learner."

After a discussion on the merits of the cat, as Erestor fondly called it, he
looked about as if searching for a volunteer on whom to demonstrate, but the
assembled elves all seemed to suddenly find the grass extremely interesting and
none met his eyes.  He sighed, "perhaps we'll leave this for another day, when
you've advanced a bit further."  He looked rather disappointed, Elrohir thought
in amazement.  Had he actually expected anyone to volunteer?

Their meditation on the local flora did not save several elves from being
brought forward to demonstrate the proper use of nipple clamps, of which Erestor
seemed to have an astounding collection, complete with weights of differing
sizes.  "It is truly amazing," he was saying, as he attached a particularly
heavy specimen to the clamp biting into the breast of one large elf, "how much
pain one of these tiny things, if properly applied, can inflict."  The elf, who
had steadfastly refused to show any emotion up to this point, winced slightly as
Erestor adjusted the device.  "Such clamps can also be applied to the genitals,"
he commented casually, his hand sliding down the front of the hapless elf, whose
face had taken on a warm pink flush by the time Erestor began to stroke a thumb
over one soft, furred ball.  "Similar weights may be attached to either the
penis or testicles, varying in size depending on the amount of . . .incentive .
. . you wish to apply," he continued.  This little piece of information caused
the elf on display to lose his recently acquired colour and begin to look
seriously worried.  Erestor smiled into his suddenly huge blue eyes with
tolerant amusement.  "But that's also a lesson for another day," he murmured
before releasing the slightly shaking elf, whose eyes glistened with tears of
profound relief.  
 
And so it went, hour after hour, as such things as methods of using ice and hot
wax, various types of gags, and whether blindfolds or hoods were best in
particular situations were discussed with no more concern than if Erestor was
conversing on the weather.  He finally released the sore, aching and extremely
subdued Noldor just after lunch, sending them off with the ominous
pronouncement, "We'll move on to intermediate lessons tomorrow!"  

Elrohir sat on the ground, partly to make himself smaller so as not to be
noticed by the departing Noldor, but also because his head was frankly spinning. 
What a completely bizarre way to spend a morning.  Glorfindel was never going to
believe this.  The fresh, green smell of the woods was comforting, and he
thought that perhaps, in an hour or two, he might be able to return to the talan
unaided.  Then, out of nowhere, Erestor's animated face appeared in front of
him, black eyes glittering wickedly.  "Lunch, young one?  Or would you like to
stay and play with the boys?  I think Elros and Cam are going to remain awhile." 
Elrohir suddenly found strength flowing back into him, and he scrambled to
quickly follow Erestor, glancing back over his shoulder to see Cam spinning the
wheel with a delighted expression on his face. 

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 3/? 

* * *

He had been having a wonderful dream.  He was in a place of light and beauty,
laughter and song, with plenty of food and a blissful absence of pain.  He did
not know where this place was, or who the shadowy figures who populated it might
be, but that did not matter.  He did not even know his own face anymore.  He had
once spent as much time as he dared, when the overseers momentarily left him
alone, staring into the dark pools in the center of this endless cavern of
stone.  The torch-light had allowed him to just make out his haggard features in
the murky water, but what he had seen was no more familiar to him than the face
of a stranger.  

He vaguely thought that once, long ago, his hair had been dark and silky, not
the wispy white strands that now framed his face; and perhaps he had not always
looked so weak, almost translucent, as if part of his body had faded along with
his memory.  It had been impossible to tell in his poor mirror what colour his
eyes were, but he rather thought that perhaps they had been blue . . . It did
not matter anyway, and these days, he no longer even bothered to look.  Nothing
was of importance except continuing the dream for as long as possible.  To awake
was to return to pain, darkness and despair.  

He thought, in some part of his mind that was still able to function, that the
dream world he saw had once been real.  In another place and time, he had known
happiness, almost a foreign concept to him now, and health, instead of this
constant weariness and unrelieved pain.  Once he had stood proud, not constantly
bent with aches some part of his mind insisted he should not have.  Then others
had listened to his words with respect, instead of beating him if he even dared
to raise his eyes from the ground.  Yet, whenever he tried to focus on those
memories, or to see his dreams more clearly, waves of pain flooded through him
and awareness of anything was soon blotted out.  It was still important to him
to see the face of the one who always seemed to be by his side, but never quite
within vision range--a presence that, although hidden, felt familiar.  Yet he
never could, for even trying to focus on that one brought pain quicker and more
sharply than anything else.  

He had learned through the seemingly endless years to remain still, as the
beautiful dream people danced in front of his vision and charming music played
somewhere out of sight.  That way, occasionally, something new would edge its
way into his vision, and he could add another tiny fragment to the largely blank
canvass of his mind.  He did this more for lack of anything better to do, rather
than a burning curiosity to know who he was, what his name had been and what had
happened to him.  Those questions had once fired his mind, but the centuries,
the almost unceasing work and the regular torture inflicted by his captors had
largely convinced him that it was irrelevant.  He would die here, he knew that
now, in the dark and the damp, and never again see the light of the stars. 

*   *   *

Elwyyda blinked as a sudden flood of light hit her eyes when the hood was
removed.  She immediately turned on her captor and bit him as hard as she could. 
She'd have rather taken an axe to him, but her hands had been securely bound
behind her and anyway, she had not had anything that remotely resembled a weapon
in so long that she doubted she would know what to do with one.  The light
surprised her, though, for the mountain was always dark, for the goblins hated
the day.  Then, as large hands slipped a gag into her mouth, she had a chance to
look about and see that, wherever this strange place was, it was assuredly not
the mountain.  

She looked up to see shapes slowly coalesce around her as her eyes adjusted. 
The one immediately in front of her was nursing a wounded hand, and looking at
her in high annoyance.  She would have lunged for him again, except that, first,
strong hands were now holding her firmly around both bound arms, and, second,
her brain finally registered the fact that she was not, in fact, looking at an
orc.  Instead, the creature who glared at her as he wrapped his hand in a
handkerchief was . . . 

"Zirak!," she tried to grab him, but could only struggle uselessly against her
captors.  But no, wait.  It could not be he.  Zirak was much thinner and his
hair, though light, did not have the same sheen; it looked like dirty cotton,
but had once had a silver tint to it.  That was why she had given him his name,
meaning silver in the tongue of her people.  This one's hair was like spun gold,
and he wore a sapphire tunic of a fine weave, not dirty rags.  But they had the
same eyes, a bright, true blue, and a light seemed to radiate from both of them. 
This one, then, must be another like Zirak.  She had occasionally seen them in
the mines, but only from a distance.  Reassured that, at least, it was not the
goblins who had found her, she stilled and waited.

"A dwarf!  I might have known.  Why didn't the guards gag her?," the one that
was not Zirak asked, his voice as fair as the words were harsh.  

Another of the shining ones answered, "They gave her drugged wine to render her
unconscious.  One underfed dwarvish female is hardly a threat in any case. 
Besides, she is here to talk and a gag might make that somewhat difficult. 
Please, Haldir, stand aside and let Gildor try.  He has been known to have
success in these cases."  The voice came from over her shoulder, so she could
not see who spoke, but another of the bright ones approached and caught her
attention.  He was dark of hair and eyes, but there was a gentleness about him
that reminded her even more of Zirak than the other.  

He smiled down at her, and his eyes were kind.  "If I remove the gag, will you
speak with us a time?  We will not hurt you." 

Elwyyda nodded cautiously, and the cloth was removed from her mouth.  The dark
one gestured and the hands holding her arms were withdrawn.  He removed the
strange, grey rope, freeing her from her bonds, but she was not deceived.  The
golden haired one behind him was armed, with a long, well made knife at his
belt, and he looked at her with suspicion.  She glanced about and saw four other
shining ones, one near each of the exits to the large, round room.  Getting out
of here was not going to be easy, but she was determined to try.  She was NOT
going back there; she would gladly die first.  

"I am called Gildor," the dark one, who had seated himself on the floor before
her, said as easily as if they had known each other all their lives.  It was
strange, Elwyyda thought, but she almost felt as if they had.  This one reminded
her of Zirak so much that it was necessary to remind herself that it was not,
could not, be he.  But, she thought, examining the one before her carefully,
perhaps this was what he would have looked like, had not the goblins so
delighted in torturing him.  "Why did you call me . . . Zirak, was it?"  

Elwyyda would have preferred to say nothing, but she had so long been
conditioned to answer or suffer greatly for it, that her response was almost
automatic.   "You are like him.  You look like him."  Her voice sounded rough,
even to own her ears, compared with the lilting quality of this Gildor's, but he
did not seem to notice.  The golden one winced, however, as if the sounds hurt
his delicate ears.  She smiled grimly; the goblins made noises that would cause
him considerably more pain than her attempts at speech.  She felt like telling
him that dwarvish voices, too, could be fair, but not when they had spent most
of their lives either unused or screaming in agony.  Still, what was the use? 
Elwyyda was not accustomed to wasting effort--better to hoard your strength for
survival.

"How do I look like him?"  The question seemed an innocent one, and Gildor's
eyes were large and clear, not narrowed in hate as the orcs' usually were.  

Elwyyda considered for a moment, then reached out a tentative hand to touch his
arm where it glowed beyond the short sleeve of his tunic.  "You shine," she
whispered, astonished at the feel of his skin.  She had never known anything
like it.  Even Zirak's was not so fine.  The golden one stepped forward, a
warning on his lips, but Gildor glanced at him and he did not interfere.  

"And Zirak shone?"  Gildor asked, more urgency in his tone, but he did not draw
back from her touch.  She just nodded, feeling suddenly shy.  Her clothes were
torn and stained, and had originally been cast offs from another prisoner who
had not survived.  Aule knew how long it had been since they were actually
clean.  She had not seen her reflection in so long that she had no idea what she
looked like, but knew her appearance must be terribly rough in comparison to the
beautiful creature in front of her.  Even Zirak was not so fair, she thought in
amazement.  This one's voice was almost like music when he asked her, "So Zirak
is not a dwarf, then?"

Elwyyda shook her head.  She suddenly longed for a bath, to be clean and dressed
in fine clothes like Gildor.  She glanced down at her hands, with their scars
and calluses and the collective dirt of years of harsh work in the mines, and
wished that they could be clean and soft like his.  But even then, she thought
sadly, they would still be stubby and clumsy, while his hands were almost works
of art . . . 

The golden one said something in a language she did not know.  At least Elydda
thought it must be a language, for Gildor replied in similar sounds.  But it was
not anything like Khuzdul or Westron.  She contented herself with examining
Gildor more closely, and found it beautiful how the sunlight coming through the
high windows of the room gilded his dark lashes.  Finally, he turned back to
her.  "Can you describe him for me?"  When she hesitated, Gildor scrambled to
his feet.  "Is he my height?"  

Elwyyda walked slowly around him, trying to remember.  For some reason, she
wanted to answer this one well. "Maybe.  But you are straight."

"And he is not?  He does not stand straight?"

She shook her head, then hunched over slightly.  "Like this," and she walked
with the bent, dragging stumble that was all she had ever seen Zirak use.  His
foot had been injured once, long before she came, and the mine passages,
although plenty high for the orcs who never walked fully erect, caused him
constantly to have to bend over.  She supposed he had become used to it.   

Gildor nodded thoughtfully.  "And what else?  Is he dark like me or," and he
indicated the golden one, "fair like Haldir?  Oh, forgive me, this is my
partner, Haldir of Lorien."  The other one and Elwyyda both looked at Gildor as
though he was mad, to introduce her as if she was some kind of equal, but
neither commented.  

After a moment, Elwyyda shook her head slightly and answered his question.  "No,
not like you or him," she shot a look of irritation at Haldir, who was scowling
at her again.  "Zirak is . . . ", she sighed and looked about.  It was hard to
speak, to remember the words.  There had been few needed in the mines, and over
the years, one just forgot them.

"Like this?"  Gildor summoned another of the shining ones, this time with black
hair and eyes that gleamed.  "This is Lord Erestor," he added, smiling as he
introduced them.  Elwyyda wanted to ask him to stop doing that, as it was . . .
inappropriate somehow.  She was a mine slave, and an escaped one at that. 
Introducing her to people who wore fine clothing and smelled of spices and
flowers was . . . well, it was almost obscene.  She could not imagine what she
was even doing here, but Gildor's warm brown eyes were regarding her
expectantly, so she shook her head.  He did not seem upset, but simply called
over another elf.  

Elwyyda noticed that the door nearest her, by which the black haired one had
been standing, was now unguarded, but she did not try to run towards it.  She
did not know what lay beyond it, and did not want to anger these people.  She
had yet to see an orc, but they could be waiting outside to take her back if she
displeased the bright ones.  She had escaped by showing infinite patience,
always watching for her chance.  She could do so again.  In the meantime, why
not tell them?  What more harm could be done to Zirak by them or anyone else? 
In the mines, death was sometimes preferable to life, when the pain became too
great.  She had long thought that was the case for him, but he had been her
friend and she had refrained from saying so.  When he wished to die, he would.

"Like those."  She pointed at the robes worn by this latest addition to their
little group.  He was true zirak--hair and eyes and clothes--so bright that he
almost blinded her.  "Like that one."

"Silver?  Oh, but of course--Zirak, what else?"  

Elwyyda watched as the bright ones spoke together in their pretty language.  It
was strange, like singing instead of speech . . . She swayed slightly on her
feet, but did not fall.  Showing weakness in the mines would get you killed. 
Her mother had died because she fell over in her exhaustion, and the orcs had
simply kicked her off into a chasm.  Elwyyda had been only a child then, but she
remembered.  Through the years, she had learned to sleep standing up if need be,
but she wished her fatigue would leave her now.  She did not want to sleep only
to wake up and find that she was back in the mines.  She had slept very little
since her escape, for that reason.

"You are fatigued." Gildor put a hand on her shoulder, but his touch was gentle. 
"Come, I will show you where you can rest."

"And . . . ," she was too tired to think of the word, although it was a simple
one.      

Gildor did not seem to notice.  "And eat and wash and everything you want.  Come
with me," and he smiled at her again.  Elwydda thought suddenly that she would
follow this one anywhere if he continued to look at her like that.

*   *   *

Haldir finally managed to escape from the-meeting-that-would-not-end and
immediately headed for Elladan's rooms.  He had one more duty to perform that
day before he could, finally, manage some time with his lover, and he wanted to
get it over with as soon as possible.  He had been suffering from steadily
mounting frustration for several days and it had finally become extreme.  It
seemed as if the world was conspiring to keep him away from Gildor.  Every time
they tried to be alone, someone or something interrupted--often his lust-crazed
brother, who was going to get himself killed if he didn't find another object of
affection.  

Glorfindel hadn't seemed to notice the situation yet, probably because he was
frequently stuck in meetings, but it was only a matter of time.  And, of course,
he might not have to do anything in the first place, as Elrohir was well on the
way to finishing off Orophin all by himself.  In the last two days, Orophin had
been tripped, stepped on and almost tipped off the edge of a talan, and those
were just the incidents Haldir knew about.  The Valar alone knew what was
happening besides.  At this rate his stubborn brother would need to return to
the Northern Fences for a holiday--killing a few orcs would be positively
restful compared to his treatment in the city lately.
 
Haldir paused in the corridor, head cocked, listening.  High-pitched feminine
giggles echoed dimly from beyond Elladan's closed door.  Of course.  He should
have known.  Elladan had been here less than a day, much of which had been spent
greeting his grandparents, and yet here he was, already . . . occupied.  Haldir
should have nabbed him as soon as he showed up at the borders.  He hated to be
interrupted himself, especially as it had been happening all too frequently of
late, and therefore decided to return later, hoping to catch Elladan free for a
moment or two.  They really had to discuss their respective brothers before
something truly unfortunate happened.  

He was just turning away as the door opened and Elladan appeared, tunic awry and
a satisfied grin on his face, supported on each side by an elf maid in a similar
state of disarray.  Haldir's eyes narrowed as he recognized Celebrethil and
Ithilessar both of whom he had favoured with his attentions in the past.  Of
course, he had a permanent lover now, but still . . .  It was positively
indecent the way they were hanging all over Elladan, not that the elf seemed to
mind in the slightest.  It quickly became obvious that none of them was in any
condition to have a serious discussion, although they cheerfully invited Haldir
to accompany them to the baths.  He declined, watching with half irritation and
half amusement as the three headed slowly down the corridor.  The maidens did
their best to keep Elladan walking a somewhat straight line, but as they had
apparently been tippling a bit along with him, the three merely succeeded in
lurching in tandem down the hall.  They bounced off one last wall before
disappearing from sight, still giggling like maniacs. 

Oh well, Haldir thought, cheering up.  He'd try again after dinner.  Perhaps, if
he was quick, he could catch Elladan as he left the dining hall, assuming he
didn't drown in the baths and managed to sober up enough to attend the meal.  In
the meantime, maybe he could catch Gildor alone for a few minutes before someone
or something intervened.  He went off humming happily.  His good mood lasted
just long enough for him to return to their room; there he discovered his
companion busy attempting, of all things, to fix the hair of that ridiculous
dwarf Thranduil's spies had dragged in.  By the look of things, Gildor was not
enjoying the experience, but wore the expression Haldir had learned meant that
he intended to stay with something until he finished it.  Haldir had often had
reason to be very grateful for his persistence; this wasn't, however, one of
those times.  

Haldir watched Gildor struggle with the creature's severely matted locks for a
few minutes before crossing the room and taking the comb away from him.  "Go. 
Sit.  I'll do this."  If he didn't, any chance of some time alone would be lost. 
He was glad to see that Gildor had persuaded it to bathe at some point and had
dressed it in one of his tunics.  Unfortunately it was a new one--the bright red
about which he had very fond feelings as the last time they had . . . interacted
. . . Gildor had been wearing it.  Well, he wouldn't again, Haldir thought in
disgust.  The bath the creature had taken needed to be repeated--maybe a few
dozen times--and what WAS that in its hair?  He wrinkled up his nose at the
smell that wafted up from the stiff substance beneath his hands and saw Gildor
glare at him.  What was wrong with the elf today?  

Haldir, of course, knew the answer to that, which was why he tried to be as
gentle as possible while imposing order on the mess before him.  Gildor adopted
things--cats with only one leg, birds with broken wings, wounded
humans--virtually anything that looked helpless was impossible for him to
ignore.  Haldir had seen the menagerie of deformed creatures he had collected on
his travels and brought back to Imladris, where most of them made serious
nuisances of themselves thereafter.  He'd persuaded Gildor to leave his
collection behind, assuring him that they would be more comfortable in familiar
surroundings, so he supposed it shouldn't surprise him that his lover had found
a substitute.  Haldir rather thought he'd prefer another three-legged cat. 

The little dwarf sat stiffly under his hands while he worked.  Gildor calmed
down when he saw that Haldir intended to take good care of it and stretched out
on the divan, smiling at the two of them.  Haldir continued his work, but his
eyes were on his companion more than they were the dwarf.  Gildor looked
wonderful.  His tunic was wet in front from, Haldir supposed, the sopping hair
of the dwarf on which he'd been working, and it outlined a beautifully sculpted
chest.  He was wearing a faded green ensemble in soft, much washed cotton that
hugged every contour.  It also, Haldir thought dreamily, brought out the green
flecks in his eyes that were often not noticeable.  He picked up the pace a
little on his work, but tried to avoid pulling its hair in the process, as he
preferred to keep Gildor in a good mood.  Elbereth!  It would be easier just to
cut the mess off and let it grow again!

Finally, after what felt like half an age, Haldir managed to work through most
of the tangles.  Some few remained, but he would have liked to see anyone defeat
them.  Gildor checked his work and agreed--they would have some cutting to do. 
"But tomorrow, I think," Haldir said smoothly.  "The poor child is tired now. 
Let her rest.  I assume rooms have been assigned?"  Gildor agreed that they had,
and escorted the thing away, promising to return shortly.  Haldir smiled after
him, then hurried about, making preparations.  They still had an hour or so
before dinner, and he did not intend to waste it.  

By the time Gildor returned, Haldir had tidied up the room, changed into a sky
blue silk robe and reclined gracefully on the divan.  He smiled invitingly as
Gildor entered, but his lover didn't appear to notice.   Instead, he pulled his
damp tunic over his head and began to root around in the wardrobe for another,
delighting Haldir with the view of a well toned back tapering down to perfect
buttocks that were straining against his tight fitting leggings.  The day was
definitely looking up.

"I think they may be right, Haldir," Gildor commented, giving up on the wardrobe
and starting to look through his bags in search of something clean and
relatively wrinkle free.  "In fact, the situation may be even more grave than we
thought.  I had a chance to talk to Elwyyda some more and she described seeing
several of the "shining ones" as she calls us, at work in the mines.  As she was
restricted to only one area, there may be even more that she doesn't know
about."

Haldir sighed.  Gildor did not seem to be in the appropriate mood.  "That's
impossible.  If a large group of elves suddenly went missing, it would certainly
be noticed.  And I refuse to believe that any elves could be held captive for
any length of time by goblins--and as mine slaves at that!  They would have
found a way free or died trying.  No elf would, or could, live like that." 
Haldir moved over to Gildor, who was now rooting around under the bed.  His
lover had many good traits, but tidiness was not among them.  "Leave it," he
murmured.  "For what I have in mind, you won't need clothing."

Gildor shot him an amused look, but continued his search.  "Dinner is in an hour
and I have to look respectable."

"We'll skip it."  Haldir decided that he could see Elladan later; the elf
probably wouldn't be at the meal anyway, if he remembered his former companions'
talents as well as he thought he did.  

"We can't skip it.  What if they want to ask me about what else Elwyyda said?"

"Then they can come and find us," Haldir murmured, pushing him back onto the
bed.  

"But . . . this is important, Haldir . . . ," Gildor began, but his complaints
tapered off as Haldir let his robe fall to the floor.  He wore nothing beneath
it, and Gildor swallowed, looking torn.  Haldir didn't wait to see if lust or
duty would win out, but covered Gildor's body with his own.    

"So is this," he replied, turning his attentions full on his charming companion,
who squirmed into a more comfortable position on the bed but continued his train
of thought.  

"But . . . she said that Zirak had been there a very long time.  That an old
dwarf who had been caught years before told her that Zirak was there when he
arrived, so who can say how long ago he was captured?  Perhaps so much time has
passed that no one remembers."

Haldir nuzzled the base of Gildor's neck, savouring his spicy sent.  "Elves do
not simply go missing, Gildor.  Someone would have gone looking for any that
did, and recorded their loss if they could not be found.  It simply isn't
possible.  Besides, what kind of name is that for an elf?"

"But, do we not have to assume she is telling the truth?"  Gildor's voice became
a little breathless as Haldir began kissing a trail down his chest.  "We have to
investigate--can you imagine elves, perhaps lost for centuries, forced to work
deep underground?"  A shudder ran through him at the very thought.  Haldir
agreed--he personally could think of no greater torment for a lover of the stars
and wide-open spaces--but wished Gildor would not worry himself so over
something so unlikely. 

"Someone could have paid her to say these things," Haldir commented, tugging at
the lightweight fabric of Gildor's leggings, slowly revealing the beauty within. 
"It could be nothing more than an attempt to lure us into a trap. Besides, she
is a dwarf.  You cannot trust anything they say.  She could simply be telling
you what she thinks you want to hear."  He dipped his head to pleasure Gildor,
only to find his previously willing lover sliding out from beneath him to stand
at the bedside, regarding him in annoyance.  

"You can't really believe that."  Gildor had no idea of the sight he made,
Haldir thought dizzily, with his hands on his hips, his leggings around his
ankles, and his skin slightly flushed.  Haldir had never seen anything so
beautiful, or anything he wanted more.  He reached for him, but Gildor attempted
to move back, apparently intent on finishing their discussion.  Thankfully his
leggings tripped him up and Haldir quickly followed him to the floor.  

"I'll believe anything you like, lirimaer, but I would prefer to discuss it
another time."  Capturing Gildor's lips in an insistent kiss, he insured that
further debate was impossible.  He would never get tired of this, he thought,
sighing into his lover's mouth, while sliding a hand down his silky back to
caress his perfect cheeks.  The oil was on the bedside table, easily within
reach, and Haldir smiled as his fingers closed around it.  Finally!  

Suddenly, Haldir couldn't stand it any more and flipped Gildor over on the soft
rug beneath them.  "I need you now, melethryn," he growled, finding with ease
his companion's small entrance and gently pressing an oil-slicked finger within
it. As always, Gildor was warm and velvet soft inside.  As Haldir pushed a
little deeper, his lover's flesh clutched tightly around his fingers.  Perfect! 
It was all Haldir could do not to hurry things any further.  He had sworn to
himself never to risk hurting Gildor, however, and he kept his promise,
carefully preparing him until he could easily accept three fingers.  Oh, Haldir
thought as he finally positioned himself between his lover's thighs, how very
much he needed this . . . 

"Haldir . . .," Gildor was breathing heavily, "I think that was a knock at the
door."

"No, it wasn't."  Haldir had heard, but was determined to ignore it.  If it was
Orophin, he didn't think even brotherly affection would save him.  The knock
came again, louder this time, and Haldir could have cried with frustration.  NO! 
Not again!  "Ignore it," he told Gildor desperately, but his lover was already
sliding from beneath him.  

"Haldir, it could be from the council--Lord Celeborn or King Thranduil may wish
to see us."  Before he could stop him, Gildor had flung on Haldir's discarded
robe and opened the door, using his body to shield his lover from view. 
Erestor's amused black eyes nonetheless peered around Gildor's broad shoulder to
twinkle at Haldir, who was lying wretched and unfulfilled on the floor.  Haldir
was too miserable to care.  He must have offended some deity at some point, and
the Valar were amusing themselves tormenting him.  It was the only explanation.

"So sorry to, er, interrupt," Erestor commented, grinning like the fiend he was. 
"But your presence is requested in Lord Celeborn's chambers.  We'll be dining
informally tonight."  His eyes ran over Haldir's form appreciatively.  "Not
quite THAT informally, however . . . more's the pity."

"I don't suppose," Haldir commented wearily, "that you could stall them for,
say, fifteen minutes?"

Erestor laughed.  "My dear Haldir, is that all you need?"  He clucked his
tongue.  "How very disappointing."  Haldir glared at him, but it did not seem to
have much of an effect.  "In any case, I am afraid not.  Lord Celeborn was most
insistent that I fetch you right away.  Cheer up, young one--there will be time
for play later."   

Haldir did not bother to comment as he painfully hauled himself to his feet,
going to look for his loosest clothes.  After dinner, he promised himself, as he
tossed Gildor one of his own robes and met his partner's sympathetic gaze.  Come
what may--up to and including a massive orc invasion--he was going to take
Gildor to bed and keep him there, possibly for a week.


TBC   


Title: Wild Justice 4/? 

* * *

Glorfindel had long suspected some ulterior motive behind Thranduil's visit to
Lorien.  That had not been a difficult to surmise, as anything else would have
been out of character.  He had been prepared, however, to accept the king's
story, especially with the dwarf's evidence, at face value, as even the ruler of
Mirkwood could not fail to be moved by such a tale.  Thranduil's odd reluctance
to come to the point in recent discussions had also been explained, as he was
waiting to see if his spies could locate the dwarf again, having lost her after
hearing only part of her story.  Glorfindel agreed that Thranduil's reputation
would have almost insured disbelief had he not produced some type of proof; it
was difficult enough to accept as it was.  

His suspicions had all been raised again, however, by the king's apparently
casual advice that Elrond be brought from Imladris to assist with the medical
side of things, should anyone actually be recovered.   Celeborn had looked
impassive, but then, he usually did.  The length of time he took to answer,
however, made it clear that he, too, had his doubts.  Thranduil and Elrond were
no longer actually enemies, as the last five hundred years had seen a gradual
lessening of tensions between the two kingdoms following his long ago diplomatic
assignment.  But no one could call them exactly friendly.  Elladan had visited
Thranduil's court on his coming of age and had apparently made a good
impression, but for Thranduil to actually request Elrond's help in 
anything . . . well, it was odd.  Celeborn at length agreed, however, having 
no good reason to refuse, and the meal came to an end shortly thereafter. 
Glorfindel lingered as the others filed out, intent on finding out what
nefarious plans Thranduil might have in mind for Elrond.

The king looked well, he thought, attired unusually for him in blue, all velvet
and sapphires and delicately wrought mithril adornments.  Glorfindel had
marveled at the richness of Thranduil's attire since he arrived, as the king had
dressed much more plainly in his own land, but he seemed to be making extreme
efforts to look enticing in Lorien.  Of course, Glorfindel reflected, he
sometimes forgot how intimidating the Golden Wood could be to those not
intimately familiar with it.  Not that he seriously thought Thranduil was
unsettled by much of anything, but perhaps the adornments were a way of evening
the score a bit; in effect, he was saying that Mirkwood may not be as attractive
as Lorien, but it, too, has points of beauty.  One of which was currently
regarding Glorfindel with a little smile on his face.

Thranduil tipped the bottle in his hand slightly in Glorfindel's direction, but
he declined.  It was always best to be clear headed when dealing with the king.
It was also necessary to employ a little deviousness.  "I congratulate your
people on locating the dwarf.  Her evidence will be most useful in finding this
mine."

"They should never have lost her in the first place," Thranduil replied, leaning
against the mantel and regarding Glorfindel through half closed eyes.  They had
eaten in Celeborn's library.  It was thought best to discuss these events in
private, as their nature was sure to inflame the passions of the entire elvish
community should they become generally known.  Besides, nothing was as yet
proven.  Thranduil had explained that the humans had captured a dwarf who was
raiding their supplies and those of his people who lived near the borders of
Mirkwood.  They had turned her over to his agents at his request, and recounted
the tale she had told her gaolers of a mine run by goblins and orcs where
captured peoples of all races, including some elves, laboured unceasingly.   His
spies had thereafter lost the little creature, but at length caught her again
after drugging a wineskin that they left unattended near a house she had
recently raided.  They had swiftly brought her to Lorien so that the king's
story might be substantiated.  

Glorfindel had been pleased with the setting for their discussion, as the
library was one of his favourite places in all of Lorien, containing written
treasures from ages past as well as some of the most intricate wood carvings he
had ever seen.  It was impossible to tell where, exactly, the walls of the talan
began and the trunk of the huge mallyrn ended, as all were engraved with vines,
flowers and scenes from Lorien's history.  The huge fireplace was virtually the
only thing in the room that was not made of some type of wood. The library was
cavernous, as Celeborn had amassed quite a collection, but it seemed suddenly
much smaller than before, despite the fact that only he and Thranduil remained. 
The king looked casual, leaning against the stones as he drank his wine, the
firelight glimmering off the jewels at his neck and those embroidered into the
fabric of his robe and turning his hair to purest silver.  

Glorfindel did not like the way Thranduil's eyes roved over him, and wondered if
anyone had explained about he and Elrohir.  He supposed he should have mentioned
it, but it had been Celeborn who introduced his grandson to the king, and as he
made no mention of the relationship, it would have been awkward for Glorfindel
to do so.  It also seemed difficult to bring it up now, as it was more than a
bit of a non-sequiteur, and Thranduil had yet to make any type of advance. 
Still, Glorfindel felt the weight of that gaze on him, and shifted slightly. 
Only Thranduil could manage to make him feel young and somewhat uncertain.  He
noticed that the king's smile had grown somewhat bigger, and wondered what the
price for the information he wanted on Thranduil's plans was likely to be.  

*   *   *

Elrohir had just finished a very unsatisfactory meal, practically alone as,
although people had surrounded him on all sides in his grandfather's banqueting
hall, he had known practically none of them.  Celeborn, Erestor, Thranduil and
Glorfindel were all dining together, apparently on "state business" which did
not require his input.  Even Gildor and that annoying Haldir had gone missing,
although Orophin, as usual, had been at his side the whole meal.  Elrohir had
almost given up trying to get rid of him, as nothing seemed to work.  He had
settled for simply ignoring him.

Elrohir finished eating early as, although the food was excellent, his appetite
was poor, and he escaped from the hall as soon as he could.  He was intent on
finding Glorfindel even if it meant interrupting an important diplomatic
discussion.  He had hardly seen his lover in days, which had certainly not been
his intent on bringing him along.  Besides, he thought in high irritation, he
had been trained in diplomacy, too, and by Elrond of Imladris at that.  So why
shouldn't he be there?  He wasn't some elfling who could not be trusted to keep
quiet about a sensitive matter.  The more he thought about it, the more incensed
he became that he had been so casually excluded.  He was as much his father's
representative at Lorien as Glorfindel, even if he was actually less familiar
with it.  But how was he supposed to become knowledgeable if no one ever allowed
him to observe?  

By the time he made his way to his grandfather's library, he was quite
distressed and his colour was up.  Just outside the door was a sight calculated
to send his blood pressure even higher.  Orophin, propped against the door, arms
crossed over his broad chest, smiled gently at him.  "I wouldn't do that if I
were you." 

"Do what?"  Elrohir couldn't imagine how the annoying Galadrim had reached the
library before him, as he was certain he had left him behind, still eating, in
the hall.  

"Go into the library.  Of course, it is your decision, but don't say I didn't
warn you."  Elrohir glowered at him, not the least because Orophin's eyes had
started to wander over his body as they were prone to do.

"Get out of my way."

Orophin shrugged and moved aside, clumsily knocking into the door as he did so. 
How this one had ever made it onto the border patrol was a mystery; he had
probably slept his way into the position, Elrohir thought in disgust.  He slowly
cracked open the door to avoid interrupting any discussion that might be going
on, as his grandfather's displeasure was not something to be risked
unnecessarily.  He almost immediately had to put a hand to the wall to keep
himself from falling over.  Time seemed to stop--he couldn't even feel his heart
beating anymore--and he started to grey out.  Strong arms pulled him back and
quietly shut the door.  He was helped along the hall and out into the cool night
air, which did absolutely nothing to revive him.  He barely registered its
presence.  "Breath," a voice commanded him, as his head was pushed between his
legs.  He was going to be sick, he knew it, yet nothing happened as he sat on
what felt like an overturned log, and tried not to faint.

After a few minutes, the world began to coalesce around him again and he sat up. 
He and Orophin--of course, he thought resignedly, who else?--were in a small
glade.  The great talan could be seen only a little way away, but the
surrounding trees gave this area a feeling of privacy.  Elrohir vaguely realised
that Orophin was talking.  " . . . inevitable, really.  I mean, everyone knows
about their affair--how else do you think the fences were mended between your
realms?  But I didn't know how to tell you. I wasn't certain that you would even
mind.  After all, many would be pleased with whatever crumbs someone like
Glorfindel was willing to allow them."

"What?"  Elrohir still felt disoriented, and could not quite believe what he had
just seen.  But the image was seared onto his eyes, and even when he shut them,
there it was.  Thranduil, his beautiful body nude and glowing in the firelight,
and Glorfindel, holding him in a tight embrace . . . he WAS going to be ill.

"Relax," Orophin's voice soothed him, as a gentle hand caressed his hair.  "I am
sorry you had to find out this way, but you would have discovered the truth
sooner or later.  Isn't it really better to know?"

Elrohir wanted to scream that no, it most certainly wasn't.  But hadn't he
already known?  Hadn't he suspected as much from the first time he saw them
together?  The sun and the moon, he had thought then, and what was he?  Nothing,
nothing at all in comparison.  He tried to tear away from Orophin's grasp, as he
couldn't let someone, especially this arrogant Galadrim, see him lose control
completely.  But strong arms held him tightly and calming noises were made, and
Elrohir suddenly didn't want to leave this warm embrace.  Where was he to go,
anyway?  Back to his cold rooms, or to Glorfindel's, which would be equally
empty?  He didn't think he could bear that, not when it felt like his heart was
being literally torn from his chest.

Orophin was running a light touch down his back, but, for once, it did not feel
sensual.  Instead, his hands were soothing and sympathetic, and Elrohir found
himself leaning into them gratefully.  Slowly, the touch became a caress, and
the arms around him tightened as Orophin drew him into a kiss.  It was soft and
gentle at first, and Elrohir was surprised to find himself warming to it,
especially when Orophin slipped between his lips and began exploring his mouth. 
Here was someone who wanted him, who had wanted him since they first met. 
Elrohir hadn't wanted to admit it, but there was something alluring about
Orophin's feline sexuality, and the grace and controlled power of his movements.  

Why not, he thought suddenly.  Why should he be the only one in a cold, empty
bed this night--it was obvious that Glorfindel would not be.  So Elrohir did not
protest when Orophin began to slowly slide his robes from his shoulders, pausing
to explore with his lips the areas revealed.  He said nothing when Orophin
suddenly stood and divested himself of his own robes, just noticing in a
detached kind of way that the moonlight on his skin was attractive, and was so
bright that, where it fell through a gap in the treetops, it lit him almost as
well as day.  His arousal was obvious, as was his languid smile.  "Lle naa
vanima, Elrohir," he murmured, slowly removing the rest of Elrohir's clothes. 
"I have waited a long time for this."

*   *   *

Glorfindel broke away from Thranduil, his heart racing.  As usual in the king's
presence, he was feeling slightly off kilter.  He had not been expecting his
companion to suddenly put down his wine and, as if some type of invitation had
been offered and accepted, simply let his robes fall to the floor.  He should
have known never to underestimate Thranduil, but the quickness of the king's
actions left him momentarily stunned, and the feel of that satin skin on his
brought back some very attractive memories.  Thranduil lost no time in capturing
his lips, and Glorfindel briefly returned the kiss, his arms going automatically
around him to pull him closer.  Thranduil tasted of the wine, dark and sweet and
burning, and he was good; Glorfindel had forgotten just how good . . . A second
later, however, he broke away, remembering that his actions were no longer
solely his to decide.  

Besides, he didn't want this, he told himself, as he retreated to the far side
of the room, trying to put some much needed space between himself and the
beautiful creature who pursued him.  Thranduil waited until the bank of windows
behind him stopped Glorfindel's retreat, then followed.  His approach was slow
enough that Glorfindel had ample time to admire his perfect body, now clad only
in his shimmering jewels, as he came closer.  "Why do you run from me,
melethron?," Thranduil asked, reaching out to run a hand down Glorfindel's
brocaded robe.  "Your body disagrees with you, I think," he commented, as his
hand located the evidence of that fact.

Glorfindel drew away and turned to look out the window, trying to get himself
under control before anything excessively foolish happened.  It was in that
moment of confusion that he saw them, lit up as if on a stage by Ithil's light,
clearly visible from this far above the parting in the trees.  He stood, rooted
to the spot, hardly breathing as he watched Elrohir, who he had designated as
mela en' coiamin, leaning against a fallen log, his head thrown back in seeming
rapture as one of the Galadrim took him into his mouth.  

Glorfindel felt Thranduil's hand on his back, as the king came to stand behind
him.  "You see," he murmured, "some elves know what the night is for.  Come," he
coaxed, his arms going about Glorfindel to pull him close, "let us see if we old
ones remember, too, hmm?"

Glorfindel could barely hear him through the rushing in his ears, which sounded
as if a violent windstorm had suddenly blown up.  His vision seemed to narrow,
to the point where all he could see was the two figures in the glade, the one on
its hands and knees golden fair next to the dark beauty of his lover.  HIS
lover, Glorfindel thought savagely.  All of his high sounding conversations with
Erestor about letting his young companion stretch his wings a bit and gain some
experience went out the window as a violent shudder shook him.  He shrugged out
of Thranduil's hold and left the room, not bothering with the stairs but instead
sliding down a support cable to the ground below.

*   *   *

"The Valar preserve us!"  Haldir had taken advantage of Gildor's insistence on
checking up on the dwarf to slip back to the library, intent on retrieving the
bottle of truly excellent wine he had seen there for his planned evening's
entertainment.  Almost at the door, he managed to step nimbly out of the way as
it crashed open and Glorfindel came barreling out, a look on his face unlike any
Haldir had ever seen.  It told him as certainly as if someone had screamed it
that his brother had about two minutes left to live.

Abandoning caution and good sense, Haldir took off after Glorfindel, managing to
arrive in the little glade just in time to see the enraged Elda grab Orophin by
the back of the neck and lift him entirely off the ground.  His brother, not
inconsiderable in height or weight, dangled from Glorfindel's grasp helplessly,
a ridiculously dumbfounded expression on his face.  Orophin's lack of clothing
and obvious arousal told the tale without any need for words, which was just as
well as neither he nor Elrohir looked capable of speech at the moment.

"Glorfindel, no!"  Two voices rang out, almost simultaneously, and Haldir's head
whipped about to see Thranduil and Lord Celeborn stride into the glade behind
him.  Noting that their command had not even registered on Glorfindel, Haldir
moved forward to be ready in case more active interference was needed. 
Elbereth, but he hoped it wouldn't be, as he saw with dismay the fury that had
turned Glorfindel's usually bright blue eyes virtually black.  

"Put him down, seneschal, and explain yourself!"  Celeborn's tone of voice was
close enough to a shout to break through Glorfindel's rage.  Orophin was dumped
unceremoniously on the ground, where he sat, still apparently in a state of
shock, his eyes fixed on the wicked looking knife in his assailant's hand. 
Haldir hadn't even noticed it, but now his blood ran cold.  He gingerly reached
out to take it, but almost as if by magic, it was suddenly gone.  A second later
he noticed the edge of the carved hilt sticking out of the top of one of
Glorfindel's boots.  Haldir didn't wait for permission, but dragged his
dumbstruck brother out of harm's way.

"Perhaps we should discuss this indoors," Thranduil offered mildly, and Celeborn
nodded once, tersely.  

"All of you, in the library, now!," he stated, before turning and stalking back
to the talan. Haldir saw a look pass between his brother and Thranduil then,
almost one of warning on the king's part, but had no idea what it meant. 
Gathering up Orophin's scattered garments, he thrust them into his brother's
arms.  "Get dressed," he ordered, keeping an eye on Glorfindel.  

The fiery light was fading from Glorfindel's eyes, and he looked like someone
just awakening from a trance.  "Lle wethrine amin," he said softly, but he was
not addressing Elrohir as Haldir would have expected.  Instead, the words were
spoken to Thranduil, who merely sighed.  

"For your own good," the king commented, equally strangely from Haldir's
perspective.  He had the definite feeling that he had missed something, but
frankly did not want to know what it was.  At the look that passed between the
Eldar, however, he shivered.  He was profoundly grateful not to be King
Thranduil.

The scene that followed in the library wasn't pretty.  After a considerable
dressing down by Celeborn, Orophin reluctantly admitted that he had been drawn
into a plan by the king of Mirkwood to separate the two lovers.  Haldir closed
his eyes in embarrassed disbelief at Orophin's complete lack of judgment. 
Sometimes it was difficult to believe that they had the same parents.  He was
vastly relieved when Celeborn decided to blame the whole affair on Thranduil,
but his lord addressed the king in terms that made Haldir sincerely wish to be
somewhere else.  The least of them was "irresponsible troublemaker," and it went
on from there.  Thranduil sat quietly throughout the tirade, neither attempting
to comment nor visibly reacting.  Even his skin tone stayed the same, except for
a slight flush that could be blamed on the wine he had poured himself.  It was,
Haldir noted regretfully, the bottle he had planned to nab for his and Gildor's
enjoyment.  When Celeborn finally wound down, Thranduil still seemed
unconcerned.  

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?," Celeborn thundered.  

"Only that you will regret this, Celeborn," Thranduil replied, looking
undisturbed.  There was a thread in his tone that sent a chill down Haldir's
back, however, and the king's peculiar half-smile didn't help.  Haldir thought
suddenly that he was also very grateful not to be Lord Celeborn.  He reflected
on the honest, loving, beautiful creature who waited for him in their rooms, and
a bolt of love and desire flashed through him.  Ah, Gildor, he thought fondly,
how I will please you tonight!

A moment later and the object of his affection burst into the room, ending what
had become a very uncomfortable silence.  "She's gone!," Gildor announced,
highly agitated.  "Elwyyda's disappeared!"  

TBC

A/N: The translations for the elvish phrases follow.

Lle naa vanima--You are beautiful.
Mela en' coiamin--The love of my life.
Lle wethrine amin--You deceived me.


Title: Wild Justice 5/?  
 
*   *   *  
 
The cave was large and dank and, as usual, Glorfindel did not like the 
sensation of being under a large amount of stone.  Especially in this case, 
as there were signs that a cave-in had taken place recently, and he kept 
glancing up at the roof uneasily.  Erestor had pointed out that it was the 
best place to interrogate their captives, however, and he had to agree.  He 
stood by the entrance, where a slight breeze tickled his face and he could 
keep the late afternoon sun in view, while Erestor and his band of trainees 
did their job.  He preferred not to watch.  
 
Glorfindel had always found Erestor's abilities at information extraction 
impressive, but rather sickening to behold.  The fact that those currently 
under interrogation were slavers, and particularly harsh ones at that, did 
not much alleviate his distaste.  Violence in battle, which, ironically 
enough, Erestor always found unpleasant, seemed somehow more . . . 
honest . . . to Glorfindel.  He did not mind shrink from hacking an enemy 
to pieces, if  that enemy had a weapon and an equal opportunity to do the 
same to him.  But this sort of practised cruelty always rather unsettled his 
stomach, no matter how much he agreed with its necessity.  He tried to 
concentrate on the condition some of the captives they had liberated had 
been in when they found them, instead of on the steadily increasing cries 
from the inner areas of the cave.  
 
"Cheese?"  
 
"What?  Oh, no, thank you."  
 
Erestor came up beside him, continuing to eat his late lunch placidly, even 
as a particularly wrenching scream echoed through the air.  Glorfindel 
winced slightly, but made no comment.   Erestor settled himself on a large 
boulder near the entrance and looked him over pensively.  "You should eat 
something, you know.  You look awful."  
 
It was true, Glorfindel knew.  He'd accidentally seen his reflection in a 
stream that morning and hadn't bothered to look again.  The scene two 
nights before between he and Elrohir still made him nauseous to 
contemplate, and he had not helped the problem by getting very drunk in 
his rooms thereafter.  He had not seen Elrohir since as the search team had 
left at first light in pursuit of the dwarf.  
 
"I take it he found out about you and the king?"  Erestor looked 
sympathetic.  They had not really had a chance to discuss the issue before, 
as all their time had been spent on the trail.  It had been easy enough to 
find, but catching up to Elwyyda had proven more difficult, as she had had 
the intelligence to steal a horse.  They had finally tracked her to a well-
traveled road heading north, but then made the unpleasant discovery that 
someone else had found her first.  Well, it could be worse, Glorfindel 
thought; it could have been orcs, in which case there would be no chance 
at all of ever seeing her again, or of  
locating her mysterious mountain.  
 
"Orophin told him.  I tried to explain."  Glorfindel repressed another wince 
at the memory, instead running a hand through his already tousled hair 
until it stuck out wildly in every direction.  He could not stop seeing 
Elrohir's eyes, hot with outrage and yet filled with tears, as he asked him 
WHY.  Suddenly he wanted another drink.  
 
"I take it the explanation was not very helpful."  
 
"He hates me, Erestor.  He thinks I was toying with him, that he was only 
one of a string of lovers that I gladly threw over as soon as Thranduil 
appeared."  
 
Erestor smiled, and waved a flask under Glorfindel's nose.  This he 
accepted thankfully, noting as it burned its way down his throat that it 
definitely wasn't miruvor. "If he knew Thranduil better, he might feel 
otherwise," Erestor commented.  "The king is not accustomed to being 
denied what he wants.  And he wants you.  He made that rather clear in 
Mirkwood, as I recall."  
 
Glorfindel gasped, both from the alcohol--what WAS this anyway--and at 
a shrill screech from indoors.  "That was 500 years ago!  You would think 
he'd have forgotten by now."  
 
Erestor shrugged, looking philosophical as he casually glanced back in the 
cave.  "Be careful, Cam.  I want information, not a corpse."  He retrieved 
his flask and took a drink.  Its potency did not seem to bother him, but 
then, Erestor was a connoisseur.  He'd probably long ago become 
accustomed to it.  "Thranduil has lived a long time, Glorfindel.  He has 
learned to be patient.  There is a difference, however, between patience 
and forgetfulness.  I do not think Thranduil has forgotten you; you are not 
rid of him yet."  
 
"I'll never trust him again."  
 
Erestor looked surprised.  "I didn't know you'd trusted him before.  At any 
rate, your feelings are not the point.  Until you convince the king to leave 
you alone, patching things up with the young one will be difficult.  You 
may have scared off Haldir's brother, but there will be others . . . Elrohir is 
very fair."  
 
Glorfindel glowered at his friend.  "Is this supposed to be comforting?"  
 
"Oh, forgive me.  I was under the impression that you wanted advice, not 
comfort.  I can tell you that all will be well if it will make you feel any 
better.  However, unless you do something about this situation, I am not at 
all sure that it will be.  The problem is that you are not accustomed to 
thinking like Thranduil.  You have to be devious enough to beat him at his 
own game."  
 
"You think I can't be devious?"  
 
Erestor looked him over critically.  "It's hard to say--you aren't exactly at 
your best at the moment--but I have never known intrigue to be your 
forte.  My dear Glorfindel," he said calmly, as his companion flushed, "do 
please try not to become emotional.  I know you are upset and that I speak 
plainly, but I thought you wanted my help.  Otherwise, what are we 
talking about?"  
 
Glorfindel glanced around.  No one was within hearing range, especially 
not with the caterwauling going on within the cave.  "What did you have 
in mind?"  
 
*   *   *  
 
Elrohir spied on Thranduil from his hidden vantage point high in the limbs 
of a tree adjacent to the library windows.  The king was reading 
something, his long silvery hair almost covering his face as he bent over 
the leather bound tome before him.  He was dressed fairly plainly that day, 
in a light green cotton tunic and leggings with only a few mithril 
adornments.  One of the latter was a large, beautifully wrought hair clip 
from which his silken tresses cascaded over his shoulders.  
 
Elrohir had finally calmed down enough to examine the question logically, 
and had come to a few important conclusions.  First, Thranduil was far 
more attractive than he would ever be, was a king, was vastly wealthy, and 
was personally magnetic.   Second, he and Glorfindel had a previous 
relationship that Thranduil obviously wanted to continue; wanted it badly 
enough, in fact, to risk jeopardizing relations with Lorien by concocting a 
risky scheme to obtain his desire.  Third, Glorfindel obviously still felt 
something for the king; in spite of his protestations, Elrohir knew what he 
had seen.  Added all together, the situation seemed completely hopeless, 
and Elrohir knew he should just give up.  Thranduil always won--at least 
that was his reputation--and who was he to oppose him?  
 
The king chanced to look up from his reading at that moment, and locked 
eyes with Elrohir, green to brown, for what seemed an eternity.  There was 
nothing said, but some communication passed between them anyway.  
Thranduil was the first to look away, returning to his book as if nothing 
had happened, while Elrohir sat, stunned, clinging to his tree limb.  
Thranduil had not looked at him with contempt or even with pity.  Instead, 
there had been a challenge in that stare, as if he saw Elrohir as a 
formidable adversary.  It took a few moments for Elrohir to absorb that, 
and to understand what it meant.  When he finally slid down the tree some 
while later, it was with a fourth resolution in mind.  This time, despite all 
the odds, the king of Mirkwood would not win.  Elrohir went off in search 
of his brother, a determined look in his eyes.  
 
*   *   *  
 
Haldir waited until he sensed the last elf slide into place around the small 
camp.  It had taken the better part of the night to catch up with their 
quarry, even with the slavers' information.  It had started to rain heavily 
early in the evening, and the water had obscured the trail.  Thankfully, the 
family was in an old wagon with a wonky back wheel, which kept their 
pace slow and forced them to stay on the larger, firmer roads.  Finally, 
after managing to lose them three times when the road passed various 
likely looking junctions, the band of elves finally caught up with the 
purchasers of that annoying dwarf.   Two days and nights of ceaseless toil 
she had caused them.  Personally, Haldir would have preferred to let her 
stay with the family once she was questioned, as she couldn't possibly 
receive any worse treatment from them than she had in the mountain all 
those years, but he knew Gildor would never agree.  He closed his eyes in 
horror of the thought of a dwarf living in his family talan.  He would never 
live it down.  
 
The circle of elves began to close in silently, although with the sound of 
the rain and the decibel level of the snores coming from inside the little 
wagon, their caution was probably unnecessary.  Haldir reached the door 
first and cautiously reached for the handle, just as something bit him on 
the ankle.  "What the . . . ?"  He jumped back and peered under the wagon, 
but it was far too dark even for elvin eyes to make out much.  He thought 
he saw something moving--probably a rabid dog based on how his ankle 
felt--only to see it scurry across to the other side where Gildor nabbed it.  
 
"Elwyyda, it's me!"  Haldir heard Gildor's delighted tones and scowled 
even harder.  He should have known.  The next time he came anywhere 
near the creature, he was wearing armor.  And she probably WAS rabid . . 
.  
 
Their party retreated into the forest once Gildor had sawed through the 
stout rope tying the little dwarf under the wagon.  It was fortunate that 
they had arrived when they did, as she had already made good headway on 
freeing herself by rubbing the rope over a rough iron nail in the wagon's 
floorboard.  She struggled halfheartedly, but Haldir thought she looked 
almost glad to see them--or at least, to see Gildor.  She glared at Haldir, 
although why was a mystery.  SHE had bitten HIM after all, not the other 
way around.  He eyed the remains of Gildor's tunic which she still wore 
with a true sense of loss, and listened as his lover tried to worm 
information out of her.  Erestor volunteered to talk to her, but the look 
Gildor sent him could have curdled milk.  "Talk only, I assure you," 
Erestor said, amused, but Gildor was having none of it.  Finally, after 
nearly an hour standing under still dripping skies, they had enough 
information to go on with and set out again, Elwyyda riding behind 
Gildor, her small arms tight about his waist.  
 
*   *   *  
 
He awoke to darkness, as always.  Sometimes he thought he had forgotten 
what light--real light, from the sun or a star--actually looked like, for it 
seemed so very long since he had seen it.  Sometimes he was convinced 
that he never had; that all he had ever known was flickering torchlight, 
which was itself a rarity here.  The overseers needed very little light for 
their huge eyes, and often he was left to toil alone in the darkness, just as 
he awoke every day to blackness so heavy it was almost possible to reach 
out and touch it.  
 
It was in those moments before they came to get him, when the final wisps 
of the dream left his mind and he faced the start of another day, that he 
most often thought of death.  He had seen it come to so many over the 
years, to other creatures who had their strength and youth devoured by 
ceaseless labour, and at first he had pitied them.  In recent years, however, 
he had begun to look on them with envy, for at least theirs was an escape 
of a sort and an end to the constant pain.  He had begun to long for such 
release even more since his last true friend went away.  He had tried to 
persuade her not to attempt escape, for the penalty if caught was a harsh 
death, but she had been obdurate.  
 
In the end he had been unable to hold her back just for selfish reasons, 
knowing that, although the chance was slim, she nonetheless might make 
it.  His injuries and size would never have permitted him to take the route 
she had found, after giving up precious hours of sleep to prowl the tunnels, 
silently as a cat, walking the way he had shown her.  One night she had 
gone, slipping through the little crack she had located into an adjacent 
cavern that was not well guarded.  He hoped she had made a complete 
escape, but there was no way to know.  Still, he hadn't seen her dragged 
back, tortured and killed as an example to all the others, so a small hope 
remained.  
 
As pleased as he was at the thought of her escape, it deprived him of the 
last comfort he had known.  She had been kind and, occasionally, when 
the gaolers were careless, they had managed a few minutes' conversation.  
Other than for the dreams, those talks had been the only bright points in 
his life.  Without them, he had no reason to value continued existence.  
But despite the fact that he ate almost nothing, giving his meager rations to 
the other slaves whenever the overseers weren't looking, his body 
continued to cling to life.  Sometimes it made him despair, for what can 
one do when even death is denied?  
 
One can endure.  However, he had felt his strength beginning to fade in 
these last few days, and he smiled at the hope of release--if not today, then 
soon.  It was nice to feel himself almost floating, as if his spirit was trying 
to escape from the body, but could not quite manage it.  In the past week, 
as his strength ebbed, a strange thing had happened.  He had suddenly 
begun to see things in his dreams that had never come within sight before.  
At first, it had not been an appreciable difference, just a slight widening of 
his field of vision, so that he could see more dancers than before, as well 
as the edge of a table far to the left, loaded with what looked like every 
kind of delicacy.  But two nights ago there had been more.  
 
The presence beside him, always felt but never seen, had at long last 
resolved itself into the figure of a person--a beautiful male with laughing 
grey eyes and long, dark hair, who had leaned near to ask him something.   
He could not hear the question, but it did not matter.  He probably would 
have been unable to answer in any case.  He was mesmerized, not only by 
the beauty of his companion, but also by the knowledge, sure and clear as 
nothing had been in countless years, that he had once known that face, 
known it as well as he did his own.  That morning, yet another piece slid 
into place, as the sounds of the heavy footfalls of his goalers woke him 
from his uneasy rest.  One sound had risen above the light music and idle 
chatter of his dream--a name, spoken in a voice that was clear and 
powerful and not at all like his was now, but had once been his own.  
 
But he could make out no more.  Harsh hands grabbed him and dragged 
him to his feet, pushing him into line with the others.  A new cavern had 
been opened up, deeper than before, and there was much work to do.  He 
stumbled on the way to the passage, feeling disoriented and unsteady on 
his feet.  One of his gaolers stepped on his right hand when he extended it 
to break his fall, adding a new pain to a limb already raw and broken from 
past accidents.  He knew he would bear the pain long, for his body no 
longer healed itself as it had once done.  He was jerked back to his feet by 
a tug on the heavy collar around his neck, and forced back into line.  He 
barely even noticed, so captivated was he by the name that still echoed in 
his thoughts, almost obscuring the harsh curses of the overseers.  It was 
like music, he thought wearily, that charmed the ear as it healed the soul.  
 
"Elrond."  
 
*   *   *  
 
They rode the rest of the night and well into the next day before reaching 
the foothills of the Misty Mountains.  The dwarf gave them directions as 
well as she could, but she had escaped at night and had not been 
concentrating on anything besides getting away as fast as possible, making 
her a poor guide.  For three days they searched a number of likely looking 
caves that she thought might be the right entrance, but found nothing.   
Haldir refrained from making pointed comments about her uselessness, as 
Gildor had grown very protective of the little creature.  So much so that he 
even slept by its side--no, her side, Haldir reminded himself, having 
already received a lecture from his lover on the proper use of pronouns.  
 
Not that Gildor had been his lover any time recently, as there had been no 
opportunity for it on the mission and Haldir doubted that he had enough 
energy in any case.  Urgency, and a feeling that time was running out had 
overcome the whole group.  It was foolish, Haldir told himself for the 
hundredth time.  Even if the dwarf was telling the truth, anyone who had 
toiled in the mines as long as this Zirak and lived would certainly still be 
there whenever they managed to find him--if they ever did.  Still, he felt a 
constant urge at the back of his mind telling him to hurry, and he pressed 
on as unceasingly as the rest.  
 
The morning of the fourth day of the search dawned with little reason to 
hope that it would be any more productive.  However, as the company was 
eating their lembas and wishing that it was safe enough to make a fire to 
brew tea, they heard them.  Orcs can move silently when they feel 
threatened, but this group was large and must have felt secure.  As the 
elves looked down from the precipice on which they'd camped, the line of 
ugly, brutish creatures below pushed and jostled each other, spitting curses 
and making no effort whatever at silence, as they hurried back to their 
caves before the sun rose further above the horizon.  The line seemed to 
go on endlessly, but finally the last few passed, failing to notice that they 
had picked up a silent company of followers who stayed just out of sight.  
 
A few moments later and the line of orcs made their way into a narrow slit 
in the rock that could easily have been mistaken for a shadow cast by the 
sun.  The small company of elves were now kitted out in the garb, 
including facemasks, of the last twenty-five orcs, whose bodies were 
stashed in a nearby ravine.  They passed through the entrance 
unchallenged along with the rest of the company.  
 
Haldir tried not to breathe, as the stench coming from the garments he had 
liberated for his disguise was almost overpowering.  Eyes watering, it took 
him a few seconds to adjust to the almost darkness within the caves.  He 
then followed Erestor, who was leading the dwarf on a chain towards 
several lumpy looking guards.  Surprisingly, Erestor managed a 
convincing imitation of the black speech used by the orcs, including harsh 
vocalizations that Haldir would not have believed could have come from a 
elf.  What he said to the two huge goblins who stood near a tunnel leading 
downwards Haldir could only guess, but they seemed happy, slapping him 
on the back and grabbing for the dwarf's chain.  Jerking her cruelly 
forward, they attached a metal collar around her neck, then pushed her 
ahead of them down a steeply sloping passageway.  Erestor gave them a 
short head start, then followed.  
 
The darkness was overwhelming, and Haldir fought down panic as they 
kept going what seemed like a ridiculously long way underground.  At last 
the tunnel leveled out and a few torches in heavy iron sconces gave 
enough light to illuminate a cavern with dripping stalactites and a few 
pools of water that smelled strangely.  Passing through it, they emerged 
onto one of the most amazing sights Haldir had ever seen--a huge cave, 
seemingly a mile across, being worked by what had to be a thousand 
slaves.  Some were chipping away at the sides of the chasm with picks, 
while others gathered up the piles of rock into large containers that still 
more pulled and pushed along tracks in the floor.  What they were mining 
Haldir could not have said, but it was easily the biggest operation he had 
ever seen.  
 
Their party skirted the edge of the chasm along a narrow path, carefully 
pressing back against the walls as the light was too dim to see the way 
clearly.  Finally they came to a smaller cavern where a group of thin 
pallets were littered about the floor.  The dwarf was chained to a ring set 
into the stone above one, her guards having left her there for the moment.  
Erestor quickly crossed to her, pulling a huge bunch of keys from his 
pocket as he did so.  Seeing Haldir's look of surprise, he just winked as he 
flipped quickly through the bunch.  "One of these will fit almost any lock-
-a handy thing to keep around."  Apparentlly his boast was not an idle one, 
for a few moments later Elwyyda was free and guiding them rapidly 
through a maze of interconnecting caves.  
 
Haldir noticed slaves of almost every type as they hurried along--men, 
dwarves, halflings, even orcs who must have irritated someone--but no 
elves.  He was becoming seriously worried that the dwarf had led them all 
into a trap when they reached another tunnel going what seemed to be 
straight down.  Haldir almost balked, wanting some proof that this really 
was the way before he descended, but Erestor, Glorfindel and Gildor 
fearlessly followed Elwyyda into the darkness, making the decision for 
him.  Erestor's Noldorian apprentices crowded in behind him, causing 
Haldir to feel even more claustrophobic in the narrow passage, but he 
moved along at a good pace nonetheless.  
 
When Haldir had begun to feel certain that they were being led into the 
centre of the earth itself, the passage gave way into a tiny room.  At the 
end was a solitary, hunched figure who did not turn from his slow, steady 
digging even though he must have heard them enter.  It was impossible to 
tell in the dim light who, or what, he was, but Elwyyda gave a small shriek 
and launched herself at him, almost obscuring him from view as her arms 
went as far about him as possible.  This, Haldir could only surmise, was 
Zirak, although whether he was elf or no was impossible to tell.  
 
The trip back was much worse than the one in.  Haldir decided that, once 
this was over, he would try to put the whole laborious climb through 
murky darkness, constantly in fear of discovery, and jumping several 
times into adjacent caves to keep from being found out, from his mind.  At 
least Zirak was no trouble; after seeing the limping shuffle which was his 
best attempt at a walk, Haldir simply scooped him up on his back and 
carried him until his breathing grew laboured, at which time one of the 
Noldor assumed the burden.  They had traded off several more times 
before that nightmarish climb was over, but finally made it to the first cave 
again.  After incapacitating the guards by the simple expedient of lopping 
their heads from their ugly shoulders, Haldir felt much better, and was 
able to emerge from the darkness with some feeling of justice being done.  
Of course, it still remained to be seen if it had been worth it.  
 
They put a good distance between themselves and the cave before 
stopping.  A group of Noldor went after the horses while the rest turned to 
examine Zirak.  Haldir was almost sick at what he saw.  Now that they 
were once more in sunlight, it was undoubted that, as impossible as it 
seemed, the creature propped against a tree was actually an elf.  But it was 
an elf as Haldir had never seen one, and fervently hoped he never would 
again.  Whitish hair straggled about a haggard, cadaverous face, skin 
almost without colour, at least the little that showed under layers of filth.  
The creature was recognizable as one of the first born only because of a 
pair of hauntingly beautiful blue eyes.  He was dressed only in a few 
heavily soiled rags which bared his ribs, all of which Haldir could count.  
Countless bruises and half-healed welts covered his whole body.  Haldir 
could not imagine why they hadn't healed, but then, he had never seen an 
elf who had undergone this much trauma.  Perhaps there were limits even 
to elvin healing abilities.  
 
Haldir had been so appalled by Zirak's appearance that he had not 
immediately noticed the reactions of his companions until Gildor let out a 
bleat of distress.  Haldir glanced at him, only to see his big brown eyes fill 
with tears that shamelessly coursed down his cheeks.  The faces of the 
others were more reserved, but no less intense.  Most of the Noldor looked 
like they were wishing they had killed a few more orcs while in the caves, 
with several so flushed with rage that Haldir would not have been 
surprised if they had simply turned and headed back for the mine.  The 
reactions of Erestor and Glorfindel, however, were the most intriguing.  
Both were simply staring, not in pity or anger, but simply in openmouthed 
astonishment, at Zirak.  Erestor's hand had crept up to his throat and his 
eyes were huge.  Glorfindel was in little better shape, having lost all 
colour in his face, and one hand clenched and unclenched unconsciously.  
 
Suddenly, Glorfindel seemed to snap out of his trance, and with a terse 
comment to the rest of them to wait on the horses, he dragged a shell-
shocked Erestor into a copse of  nearby trees.  Haldir listened with all his 
might, as he suspected everyone else was doing except for Gildor, who 
had dropped to his knees before Zirak and was attempting to clean him 
with the aid of his handkerchief and some water from a flask at his waist.  
He continued to sob openly as he did so, something that did not seem to 
bother or, indeed, even to completely register with Zirak.  Elwyyda 
hovered about, offering her own, extremely soiled handkerchief, which 
Gildor accepted but did not use.  Haldir thought it could hardly make a 
difference, as it would be almost impossible for the elf to get any dirtier.  
 
He turned his attention back to the conversation taking place among the 
trees, but caught little of it.  He could see part of Erestor's face around the 
trunk of a large tree, and he seemed highly agitated, but his words were 
mostly unintelligible.  Haldir did hear him shout, "But that's imposs . . . " 
before Glorfindel clapped a hand over his mouth, and, presumably, told 
him to be quiet.  Haldir glanced at Zirak again, but saw nothing to explain 
their distress other than his lamentable state.  He noticed now that Zirak's 
left leg seemed twisted and his foot mangled, before he looked away, 
unwilling to see any more.  
 
Glorfindel and Erestor returned about the same time that the horses were 
brought up, and had a short argument over who should ride with Zirak.  
Haldir waited impatiently for them to decide the issue, which did not seem 
to him a point about which to contend.  Zirak actually stank--why would 
anyone want to ride with him?  Yet Erestor and Glorfindel almost came to 
blows over who would have the honour.  Eventually Glorfindel won, and 
an almost comatose Zirak was hauled up onto the enormous white 
stallion.  Gildor had managed to coax him into drinking a little miruvor, 
but it had not had any obvious effect.  Haldir seriously wondered if they 
would not soon be arguing over who had the right to bury him.  
 
He sighed and turned his horse's nose in the direction of home.  He hoped 
this Zirak did survive, not least because of the information he could no 
doubt give them about the mines.  If he had lived there long, there should 
be little he didn't know, and they would need all of it.  Haldir was certain 
that, as soon as Zirak's condition was seen in Lorien, they would be 
overwhelmed with volunteers to return here.  The Galadrim had much 
work to do.  
 
TBC


Title: Wild Justice 6/?

*   *   *

Elladan peered around the tree trunk and felt Elrohir's 
too-tight tunic pull across his shoulders.  He and his 
brother looked a great deal alike, but Elladan was slightly 
broader and a little taller, something that usually 
precluded them from sharing clothes.  There was good reason 
this afternoon, however, to break with custom.  "I can't 
believe I'm doing this," he said for perhaps the tenth 
time.  Elrohir paid him no attention, but simply hunkered 
down further behind a bush, waiting.  "How do you even know 
he's coming?"

"He'll be here.  I've watched him for three days--he always 
bathes here.  And at around this time."

Elladan sighed and leaned his forehead against the trunk of 
the tree.  He had to be insane.  He did owe his brother a 
favour, but this was well over the top as far as he was 
concerned.  "Just remember your promise," he commented, 
scowling.

Elrohir grinned.  "Afraid you can't take him?"

Elladan did not rise to the bait--he was in no mood for 
jokes.  "He's not a member of the border patrol for 
nothing.  I can take care of myself in most situations, but 
if this gets out of hand . . . "

"It won't."

"It had better not."  Elladan shifted and wished Orophin 
would just get on with it.  He was supposed to have been at 
the spring by now; it would be just his luck if today the 
annoying Galadrim decided he was already clean enough, or 
went somewhere else.  Then they'd have to repeat this 
ridiculous charade all over again another time, and he 
didn't want to think of the wear and tear on his nerves if 
that happened.

For lack of anything better to do, Elladan watched his 
brother, who had now all but disappeared under the bush.  
Elrohir was usually so level headed; this was not at all 
like him.  Ever since he had taken up with Glorfindel, 
however, he had been subtly changing.  Elladan personally 
felt that, were his younger sibling to lose out to the 
king, it might be a blessing in disguise.  He couldn't 
imagine what Elrohir saw in the elf anyway.  He supposed 
Glorfindel was attractive, if you liked males, but he was 
so cold.  Elladan still remembered with chagrin some of the 
cutting remarks his old tutor had made when he was 
inattentive in a lesson, and he was surprised he didn't 
still have bruises from some of the falls he'd taken in 
sword practice.  Even wooden swords hurt when wielded 
strongly enough, and he didn't recall Glorfindel ever 
holding back.

No, it was a mystery to him why Elrohir was practically 
frantic at the thought of losing Glorfindel.  But, it was 
not Elladan's place to interfere in his brother's affairs; 
he certainly would not have appreciated it had the opposite 
been true.  He could only hope Elrohir knew what he was 
doing.  Elladan, who had had a chance to get to know 
Thranduil somewhat during his stay in Mirkwood, seriously 
doubted that any plan Elrohir could concoct would fool the 
king even for an instant.  Thranduil was almost uncanny in 
the way he managed to stay three of four steps ahead of 
everyone else, and his intelligence was formidable.  
Elladan remembered a game of chess he had played with the 
king during which Thranduil had dictated two letters, kept 
up an involved conversation on politics with a visiting 
dignitary and dressed down his wine steward for the quality 
of the vintage served the night before.  And he had still 
managed to win the game.

If Elrohir liked males, it was a mystery to him why he 
wasn't following the king of Mirkwood about; there was, 
after all, nothing cold about Thranduil.  Elladan had been 
a good brother, however, and refrained from expressing his 
opinion on Elrohir's lack of taste or on the odds of his 
plan's success.  However, good brother or no and debt or 
no, Elrohir had better get this right because this was 
NEVER happening again.

"Stop looking so tragic.  It's not as if I asked you to 
sleep with him," Elrohir looked amused. "Although, come to 
think of it, that would broaden your horizons."

"My horizons are quite broad enough, thank you."  That was 
it--the only way this whole event could possibly get any 
more absurd was for him to be given sexual advice by his 
younger brother, who had been and probably remained little 
more than a novice.  Elladan, on the other hand, was widely 
experienced and thought he could be trusted to know what he 
did and did not like.

"You don't know what you're missing," Elrohir commented, a 
dreamy look crossing his features.  Elladan repressed a 
shudder at the image his mind suddenly conjured of Elrohir 
and Glorfindel . . .  Wonderful.  That was all he needed 
right now.

"Neither do you."

"Shush!"  Elrohir must have heard something, for he 
wriggled further under his bush after uttering his warning.  
A second later and Elladan heard it, too, a light tread 
through the forest undergrowth--the sound of an elf 
approaching with no concern about being overheard.  Well, 
he thought grimly, it's show time.

*   *   *

Gildor watched as Erestor fussed about Zirak, dabbing at 
him hesitantly with a tiny handkerchief, doing very little 
to improve the elf's appearance.  Gildor wasn't a healer 
himself, but he had gone through the basic first aid 
training that all Elrond's agents received, in case of 
injury to themselves or to a fellow operative.  He had also 
taken care of his share of sick animals from time to time, 
and even performed emergency repairs on a couple of trees.  
Which was why Lord Erestor's actions made little sense.

It almost looked as if Erestor was afraid of Zirak, or at 
least wary of hurting him further.  Gildor supposed that 
was understandable, as the elf was obviously in very 
serious condition, but doing nothing was not likely to help 
him.  They were still two days' ride from Lorien where, 
Gildor fervently hoped, Lord Elrond would be waiting for 
them.  Until then, they could only do a limited amount for 
Zirak, but even that small aid did not seem to be 
forthcoming.  Even Lord Glorfindel, who Gildor would have 
sworn was afraid of nothing, seemed strangely subdued, and 
did not seem inclined to interfere with Erestor's efforts.

Finally, Gildor could stand it no longer.  They had ridden 
hard all day, putting as much distance between themselves 
and the mountain as they could, but had paused as night 
fell to make camp beside a small stream.  Gildor tested it 
and the water, although only tepid, was certainly suitable 
for bathing.  It seemed obvious to him that the first order 
of business was to get Zirak cleaned up, as his feeble 
efforts earlier in the day had done little good, and to 
examine the extent of his injuries.  As Erestor was making 
little headway with the first and none at all with the 
second, Gildor offered his services.  To his surprise, 
Erestor seemed actually relieved, and Zirak's comfort was 
from then on Gildor's responsibility.

Bathing him was a somewhat traumatic experience, as it was 
not until Gildor removed his few rags that he realised just 
what a task Lord Elrond had before him.  Personally, he 
would not have known where to start, although he rather 
thought it would be with trying to bulk him up a bit.  
Gildor hated to see anything underfed--for some reason it 
had always upset him--and Zirak was practically a skeleton.  
It was strangely beautiful the way the skin was stretched 
over his bones, highlighting his elegant form.  It reminded 
Gildor of the delicate ivory carvings he had seen in an 
import shop in Gondor, but they had been artistic 
expressions and not meant to be representative of real, 
living flesh.  The sight of one of the abstract works 
seemingly come to life was not comforting to Gildor, who 
found it almost painful to look at him.  Fortunately, Zirak 
did not seem to notice his discomfort, but simply did 
whatever he was told without question.  Gildor doubted that 
he was even fully aware of what was going on--there was a 
vacant look in his eyes, as if he was seeing things from 
another place or time.  Gildor led him into the water, but 
had difficulty bathing him and holding him steady against 
the current at the same time.  Fortunately, Haldir noticed 
his problem and came to help.

Together they managed to finally get Zirak semi-clean, 
although, when they took him from the water, he was still 
dingy enough that any self-respecting elf would have headed 
back to the bathing chambers at once.  Some of the dirt 
embedded under his nails Gildor thought might be there 
permanently.  Still, he had the impression that the dull 
sheen of Zirak's skin was due less to dirt than to illness, 
and hoped Lord Elrond's attentions would be sufficient to 
help him.  Gildor had also washed his hair, although there 
was little that could be done for it.  He was afraid to be 
very thorough, as clumps of the strangely textured locks 
kept falling out whenever he touched them.  Haldir had 
seemed especially moved by that; Gildor had looked up to 
see his lover regarding a handful of Zirak's hair that had 
come out into his hand as he helped to bathe him.  Instead 
of repulsed, he looked stricken--rather the same way Gildor 
felt.

Finally, they put a spare tunic and pair of leggings 
borrowed from the slightest of the Noldor on him, and 
wrapped the fragile elf in a warm blanket.  He was 
persuaded to take more miruvor, although he did not seem 
interested in food despite Gildor's best efforts to tempt 
him.  Gildor put him between he and Elwyyda, who curled up 
alongside with no apparent revulsion at his appearance; he 
supposed she had grown accustomed to it.  Haldir spooned up 
behind him, and Gildor was grateful as always for his 
presence.  Haldir was always comforting--warm and solid and 
practical--and Gildor suddenly missed their usual intimacy.  
There was nothing to be done for it now, however, but he 
promised himself to arrange a quiet evening alone with his 
lover once they returned to Lorien.

He drew Zirak more fully into his arms to keep him warm, 
feeling the clammy temperature of his skin despite the 
proximity of the fire.  He forced himself to remain calm 
and not to think about how insubstantial the elf in his 
arms felt, almost as if he could dissolve at any minute.  
He hoped he managed not to communicate his distress to 
Zirak, but it was a long time before he could finally 
manage to sleep.

*   *   *

Elladan swallowed and stepped out from behind the tree as 
soon as he heard Orophin enter the pool.  Elrohir slithered 
off into the forest, presumably to put the second part of 
his plan into effect.  Elladan had about ten minutes, then, 
which suddenly seemed a very great deal of time, indeed.  
He mentally kicked himself--you've never been a coward, 
just do it--and walked as casually as possible towards the 
bathing Galadrim.

"Greetings, Orophin."  His voice sounded a bit high, and 
Elladan forced himself to calm down.  Why was he this 
nervous?  It wasn't as if there was time for anything to 
actually happen . . . He was so busy trying to remain 
composed, that it was a few seconds before Orophin's 
actions registered with him.  The Galadrim had retreated to 
the far end of the pool and was looking at him with a wild-
eyed expression.

"Stay away from me!"

Elladan regarded him bemusedly.  All right, this was 
unexpected.   And he had been worried about being wrestled 
to the ground.  "I just want to apologise for what happened 
the other night.  You shouldn't have been treated that 
way."  He tried to approach Orophin, as it would be a 
little difficult to set the scene if they were on opposite 
sides of the pool.  However, the Galadrim resolutely kept 
the width of the pond between them, circling slowly in the 
opposite direction.

"Fine, you've apologised.  Now go."   He pointed to the 
forest, and actually made little shooing motions with his 
hand.  Elladan blinked.  What in Arda was wrong with the 
elf?

"I thought perhaps we could talk for a while," Elladan 
offered, keeping his voice low and, he hoped, soothing, as 
they continued their strange dance about the pond.  Orophin 
was at a disadvantage there, as the water made rapid 
movements difficult, but Elladan did not want to scare him 
by attempting to rush things.  Besides, that would hardly 
give the right impression.

"I have nothing to say to you."  Orophin had circled around 
to where he had left his clothes on the bank, and he now 
climbed out and began to dress.  Elladan watched him, 
wondering again at his brother's lack of taste.  He didn't 
know Orophin personally, so perhaps he had flaws of 
character or a lack of wit, but there was certainly nothing 
wrong with him physically.  His body was long and lean and 
perfectly proportioned, and his silvery hair almost reached 
his buttocks.  Speaking of which . . . .Elladan shook his 
head and stopped admiring the way the water droplets clung 
to Orophin's tight skin.  Elbereth, but he had been 
spending too much time with his brother, lately!

"I just want a few minutes of your time.  We need to talk."  
Elladan knew his time was running out and Thranduil would 
be passing by at any moment.  He wasn't sure how Elrohir 
planned to arrange it, but it wasn't his problem.  His part 
in all this was simply to insure that, when the king did 
pass by, he saw an elf whom he would hopefully believe to 
be Elrohir, in a tight embrace with Orophin.  His brother 
had insisted that Thranduil would never drop his guard 
enough to be deceived unless he believed Elrohir had given 
up on Glorfindel and was no longer a factor.   So, step one 
in his brother's insane bid to keep his lover, was to 
pretend that an affair was taking place between he and the 
border guard.  Not surprisingly, it didn't seem to be 
working.

Elladan saw with irritation that Orophin had thrown on his 
tunic and was reaching for his leggings, showing no 
interest in even responding to his comment.  He was not 
accustomed to having prospective partners treat him this 
way, and the fact that Orophin was male and presumably 
believed him to be Elrohir did not lessen the insult.  It 
was also a factor that he was running out of time.   No, 
make that was out of time, Elladan thought, hearing 
approaching footsteps.  Abandoning words, he launched 
himself at Orophin, grabbed his head and pulled him into as 
passionate a kiss as he could manage.  To his surprise, he 
found that it was not that much different than kissing a 
female, although the body against his own was most 
decidedly male.

On the theory that anything worth doing is worth doing 
right, Elladan dropped a hand to one of Orophin's sleek, 
wet buttocks, which he kneaded gently, while keeping the 
other hand behind his neck to insure that he didn't escape 
from their kiss.  For a brief instant, Orophin responded, 
pressing himself hard against Elladan and winding one well-
muscled leg about him.  It felt surprisingly good, which 
rather worried Elladan who suddenly wondered what might 
happen if the king decided to stay for an extended show.  
But then Orophin wrenched himself out of Elladan's embrace 
and ran off into the forest, with no explanation and still 
half clothed.  Elladan frowned, hoping the king hadn't 
witnessed that, only to hear his brother's familiar 
laughter echoing around the glade.

"What is so funny?"  Elladan adjusted his tunic before 
turning, to make sure he didn't afford his brother any more 
amusement by allowing him to notice his current state.  It 
was nothing, he told himself--a normal reaction to any type 
of physical intimacy.  It didn't mean anything.

"The great lover is rebuffed at last!"  Elrohir was almost 
rolling on the forest floor in mirth, and he was alone.

"I thought the king was supposed to be with you?  This had 
better not be some type of joke at my expense, brother."

"No, no."  Elrohir made what looked like a genuine attempt 
to contain himself.  "He wasn't in the library.  Father 
just arrived and threw everything into a tizzy as no one 
was expecting him until tomorrow.  We'll have to try again-
-after you've worked on your technique!"

"Very amusing.  May I remind you, however, that I just 
fulfilled my part of this charade?  If you couldn't get the 
king here, that's your problem, not mine."

Elrohir regarded him narrowly.  "It seems to me that it was 
a good thing that I couldn't manage it, as that was hardly 
a convincing performance.  What did you do to him?  He fled 
like a whole band of orcs was after him."

"No, just one very enraged seneschal.  Elrohir, I really 
think you need to rethink this plan.  Orophin is scared 
witless of Glorfindel.  He isn't going to cooperate."

"But we only need a few minutes!"  Elrohir looked incensed.  
"This is just like him, you know.  When I wanted him to 
leave me be, he was constantly underfoot.  Now that I need 
him for one small favour, he can't bear to be in the same 
area!"

"Well perhaps you would have more success if you did this 
yourself.  I am, after all, not the object of his 
affection."

"No.  I can't.  I told you--after what happened, if I get 
too close to him, I'm likely to stick a knife in him!  He 
deceived me, and he'll pay for that--but Thranduil comes 
first.  And you WILL help me brother," Elrohir said, eyes 
flashing, "it is a simple thing I ask of you, and 
considering the number of times I have covered for your 
indiscretions . . . "

Elladan sighed.  Sometimes, having a brother was a great 
trial.  "What exactly do you want me to do?"

*   *   *

Celeborn was becoming worried.  Elrond and Thranduil had 
greeted each other like long lost friends, which they most 
certainly were not, and spent the majority of the afternoon 
engaged in a long conversation in the king's quarters, in 
which a series of supposed emergencies had kept Celeborn 
from participating.  Even more disturbing was the fact that 
those emergencies were obviously contrived, and he strongly 
suspected the hand of the king in at least some of them.  
So, Thranduil wanted to talk to Elrond, who was suddenly 
very friendly with his old enemy, without Celeborn's 
presence.  This did not bode well.  The only thing that 
somewhat comforted Celeborn was that his wife had had to 
remain in Imladris, as someone had to protect that fair 
land while its ruling family and chief officers were all 
away.

Celeborn finally gave up and, after dealing with yet 
another contrived problem, retired to his library.  It 
could be, he thought, settling behind his desk, that he had 
been a trifle harsh in a few of the comments he'd made to 
Thranduil three nights ago.  But then, the king's actions 
had been truly without precedent; really, one would expect 
more self-control than that from an elf of his age.  Still, 
he had perhaps been too hasty, as, after all, no actual 
damage had been done.  He decided that he would make an 
opportunity to speak with Thranduil after dinner, to patch 
things up somewhat.  He supposed he had better have a talk 
with Elrond, too, just to insure that his son-in-law didn't 
use this trip to Lorien to try to obtain revenge for that 
little incident in Imladris.  Yes, Celeborn decided, 
suddenly feeling somewhat more cheerful.  He would arrange 
a discussion tonight, and work everything out.

*   *   *

"All right.  THIS will work."

"That's what you said last time."   Elladan regarded the 
small vial in his hand dubiously.  "I don't like it.  What 
if it poisons him?  I know you don't like him, but . . . "

"It won't poison him.  Just remember, a few drops only!  
Any more than that, and the Valar alone know what it might 
do to him.  Just put it in his wine or something--it's 
supposed to be tasteless. Still, it's probably best to use 
one of the darker wines, like that Berdruskan Thranduil 
favours.  That's heavy enough to disguise anything."

Elladan put aside the fact that he had no idea if Orophin 
even liked Berdruskan--he personally found it too intense 
to accompany most foods--and kept to the point.  "I am not 
drugging Orophin until I know exactly what this is, where 
you obtained it, and if there are any risks."  Elladan 
glared at his brother who glared back.  After a moment, 
Elrohir gave in, as Elladan had known he would.  He needed 
his help, after all.

"Fine.  As I told you, it is a powerful aphrodisiac that 
will make it impossible for him to ignore you again.  All 
you have to do is get him alone in the library for a few 
minutes--say, half an hour after he's ingested this--and 
let nature take its course.  But," Elrohir added quickly, 
seeing his brother's expression, "I will see that the king 
is steered your way quickly, and once he is convinced that 
I am really involved with Haldir's brother and leaves, I'll 
rush in and rescue you.  Don't worry, everything will be 
fine."

Elladan seriously doubted that.  What concerned him more, 
however, was Elrohir's attempt to avoid answering his 
question fully.  "And you obtained this magic elixir 
where?"

Elrohir sighed.  "If you must know, I was worried about 
keeping Glorfindel's attentions, so I briefly experimented 
with various ways of . . . spicing up our relationship.  I 
never had cause to use this, though, so I can't actually 
tell you what its effects are."

Elladan crossed his arms and looked at him.  "Very well," 
Elrohir sighed.  "I bought it from one of the gypsies who 
visited Imladris--you remember Deya?"

Elladan repressed a smile.  Oh, did he remember Deya.  Now 
THAT had been an interesting evening.  "She gave you 
this?," he looked at the small vial with more interest.  
Anything Deya cooked up was bound to have possibilities.

"Gave?  Hardly.  It cost me a fortune.  Still, she said it 
would work, and that it is harmless, but she was quite 
insistent on not overdoing the dosage.  As I said, a few 
drops should be sufficient."

Elladan nodded.  If Deya made it, it probably was all 
right, although that meant that it would probably work, 
too.  Which led him to the prospect of spending his evening 
being chased about the library by a sex crazed Galadrim.  
He sighed.  Maybe he should have stayed in Imladris, after 
all.  "Very well, but I am warning you, brother.  This is 
the last time.  If anything goes wrong tonight . . . "

"It won't, at least not on my end.  You just make sure to 
get that in his glass."

Which had seemed easy enough, Elladan thought.  Until, that 
is, a servant had accidentally knocked over Orophin's wine 
glass before he could drink any of it, forcing Elladan to 
have to go to plan B.  Grabbing a nearby bottle of 
Berdruskan Dark, he managed to tip the little vial into it 
while seeming to be simply removing the cork.  He wasn't 
sure, but he thought the size of the bottle, which was 
substantial, should make the dosage about right per glass.  
He would just have to make sure no one else but Orophin 
drank any.

Disaster struck just as he put the drugged wine back on the 
table, making sure that it was close by Orophin's place.  
Before he could protest, Thranduil, seated a few places 
down from them beside Celeborn, gave a pleased cry and 
leaned over to grab the bottle.  Elladan sat frozen, unable 
to react in his surprise.  Later, he would wish that he had 
knocked the thing to the floor and, if necessary, stomped 
on it to insure that it would never be consumed, but at the 
moment he could think of no response that would not look 
extremely odd.  So he simply watched with horrified eyes as 
Thranduil began extolling the merits of this particular 
vintage to Elrond and Celeborn, and filled their glasses--
really big glasses, Elladan noted with dismay--with the 
deep burgundy liquid.

He had no idea what to do, and Elrohir was not around to 
help, as they had decided it would be a good idea that 
Orophin not see them together until the charade had been 
played out.  So, he simply sat, watching with steadily 
mounting concern as the three at the head of the table 
slowly emptied the large bottle.  He could only hope that 
the food they had eaten would retard the effects somewhat, 
although they surely had consumed several times the 
recommended dosage by the end of the meal.  Watching as 
Thranduil exited the dining hall after dinner, his arms 
flung affectionately about the shoulders of Celeborn and 
Elrond, Elladan began to seriously worry.  Oh, Elbereth!  
He had to find his brother.

TBC


Title: Wild Justice 7/?

*   *   *

Elladan was dragged into an alcove as soon as he exited the dining hall.  
"Where have you been?"  His enraged brother glowered at him out of the 
dim light of the corridor, his eyes reflecting the reddish glow of a nearby 
lantern.  "Orophin left FIVE MINUTES AGO!  I sent a servant after 
Thranduil as soon as Orophin passed me, on the apparently stupid 
assumption that you would be right out.  Where have you been?  No, don't 
answer that, just come with me."

Elladan found himself being pulled down the corridor at almost a run.  
"Listen, Elrohir, there's something I have to tell you . . . "

"Tell me later.  Thanks to you, we have almost no time to get you and 
Orophin in place.  He's in the library--I had a servant tell him that 
Celeborn wanted to see him there--but you're going to have a job to do to 
make this convincing in the time you have.  The potion should help."

"But, Elrohir, that's what I have to tell you.  The potion didn't . . . "  But 
they had arrived at the library door, and Elrohir shoved him through with a 
hissed order to make it look good.  Then he was gone, and Elladan was 
faced with a panic stricken Orophin, who immediately fled to the other 
side of the room on catching sight of him.  This was just going to be a 
great evening.

"Look, Orophin, I . . . "

"Why can't you leave me alone?  You're going to get us both killed!"

Elladan felt distinctly put upon.  None of this was his fault, yet here he 
was, having to sort out the mess that other people's lack of common sense 
had caused.  It was completely unfair.  He had managed affairs with three 
elf-maids at once and never had this kind of difficulty, yet his brother 
could not seem to have a relationship with just one person without causing 
all kinds of chaos.  Elladan would have preferred nothing so much as 
simply turning around and exiting the library, leaving all this behind him.  
And he would have, too, except for the really alarming amount of 
blackmail material Elrohir had amassed on him through the years.   Well, 
as long as he was here, he might as well go along with it.  In a few 
minutes, it would all be over and he could go sort out the other catastrophe 
they had hanging over their heads.

"If you're worried about Glorfindel, you needn't be.  He isn't even here."

"But he'll find out!  What are you trying to do to me?"  Orophin was 
regarding him with an odd expression, half hunger and half fear, backed 
up against the fireplace with nowhere to go.  Elladan smiled suddenly, and 
took a few steps forward.  Seduction was seduction, after all, despite the 
target, and he was a master at it.  Not to mention the fact that this could be 
an interesting experiment.  He'd been telling himself all through dinner 
that his attraction to Orophin that morning had just been a fluke.  He had 
thought the Galadrim looked good that night, in a deep turquoise tunic that 
matched his eyes, but no wave of lust had overtaken him at the dinner 
table.  But then, they hadn't actually been in contact, and Orophin had 
studiously avoided even looking at him the whole time.  This was a chance 
to put his fears to rest once and for all, and to take care of his debt to 
Elrohir at the same time.

Advancing on the quaking Galadrim, Elladan smiled reassuringly.  "I just 
want you to know that I feel terrible about how things turned out.  It was 
really unfortunate, because I had begun to think there might be something 
between us."

"You had?"  Orophin looked torn, and Elladan thought if he had another 
ten minutes or so, he could probably convince him with words alone.  But 
Elrohir had said time was short.  Deciding that actions were better than 
words anyway, he simply pushed Orophin against the unyielding rocks 
behind him, molding their bodies together as he pressed a kiss on the 
unmoving lips.  It was soft and gentle at the start, but didn't stay that way 
for long. His hunger began to get the better of him as the elf in his arms 
gave a passionate groan and parted his lips, yet tried to move away at the 
same time.  Elladan grabbed the Galadrim's wrists and forced them to the 
rocks on either side of his head, while deepening the kiss to help keep him 
in place.  He really wished Thranduil would hurry up, as he found 
Orophin's struggles strangely erotic.  Elladan was pressed so tightly 
against him that could not help but feel it when Orophin's body began to 
react, which meant that his own arousal was probably equally obvious.  
Elrohir, he thought in desperation, as Orophin gave up the struggle and 
began sucking on his tongue, what is taking you so long?

"Oh, my apologies."  Elladan broke the kiss when heard the king's mellow 
tenor behind him--he had needed air anyway--and glanced over his 
shoulder to see Thranduil standing in the doorway.  "I didn't mean to 
interrupt.  Ah, there it is."  He picked up a heavy book from a nearby table 
and tucked it under his arm.  "Please, continue . . . Elladan."  And he was 
gone in a swirl of grey velvet and flashing onyx stones.

"Elladan?"  The arms he had been holding against the stone were suddenly 
about him, and Elladan turned back to find a wide smile breaking over 
Orophin's face.  He tried moving back a step, but that just seemed to 
arouse his companion more, and his grip tightened.  "What an interesting 
development."

"Er, Orophin, you see . . . ," Elladan wasn't really sure how to begin to 
explain everything, but he needed to stall for a few minutes until Elrohir 
arrived as agreed and they could work something out.  He had known 
Thranduil wouldn't be fooled by any ruse his brother could invent.   With a 
combat maneuver Glorfindel had shown him long ago, he broke Orophin's 
hold and lunged for the door.  Orophin almost immediately tripped him up 
and tried to follow him to the floor, but Elladan rolled away at the last 
second and sprang back to his feet.  The only problem was that Orophin 
now lay between him and the door, and Elladan had no choice but to back 
up against what were, he saw with black irony, the same stones next to 
which he'd recently held the Galadrim captive.

Orophin apparently appreciated the humour, for he smiled even more 
widely as he slowly rose to his feet.  Elladan looked past him, frantically 
hoping to see Elrohir, but his cursed brother remained strangely absent.  
Orophin, looking like nothing so much as a large cat on the prowl, slowly 
approached, licking his lips in obvious anticipation.  "Now, where were 
we?"

*   *   *

Thranduil rejoined the Eldar in Celeborn's private study with a satisfied 
smile on his face.  A large book was in his hand, and Elrond glanced at it, 
noting the title with amusement.  "Ten thousand Flora of the Golden 
Wood?  I didn't know horticulture was a passion of yours, Thranduil."

The king shrugged and helped himself to wine.  It was an excellent 
vintage, Ithil's Tears he thought it was called, which suited its strange, 
light blue colour.  But it could not compare to the one served with dinner.  
That had been truly exceptional.  "Oh, I have many interests," he replied, 
arching a brow at Elrond.  Now?  The master of Imladris smiled, and rose 
to meet him, curling an arm familiarly about his waist.

"Then I propose a little midnight walk through the woods.  We can see 
how many of your book's examples we can find."  The words were 
innocent enough, but the tone was not, and Thranduil hid a smile behind 
his wine glass.

"Excellent notion," he commented between sips, and, strangely enough, it 
actually sounded like one.  He had become involved in this little farce 
because someone needed to take Celeborn down a peg or two, and with 
Elrond's help the odds of success were overwhelmingly in his favour.  
What he hadn't expected, however, was to be quite so . . . engaged by the 
prospect.   Well, this might prove to be a rather stimulating evening after 
all, he thought, admiring the way the rubies so cleverly worked into 
Elrond's velvet robes caught the light, just as his companion's laughing 
dark eyes were doing.  Strange that he had never noticed before just how 
attractive Elrond was.  Others had long praised his beauty, but Thranduil 
had never been able to see it, until now.  Suddenly, the prospect of a 
midnight stroll sounded enticing for more than one reason, and he 
practically pulled Elrond out the door, leaving a stunned looking Celeborn 
behind them.

*   *   *

Elladan had been trained by Glorfindel himself, and thus was no novice 
when it came to self-defense.  However, the Galadrim before him was 
centuries older than he, and had much more experience--much of it in 
actual combat fighting off orc incursions into the Golden Wood.  Orophin 
was also heavier and taller than he and, Elladan had to admit, had every 
reason to be seriously annoyed.  This was not good.

Cursing his brother under his breath, Elladan decided that his only chance 
was action, as Orophin did not look amenable to listening to a long 
explanation of how this was really all Elrohir's fault.  Elladan waited until 
Orophin was almost on him, then struck out with a feint to the right, 
followed by a fast lunge, low and to the left.  All he needed was to get 
around him; with just a few seconds he could cross the large room and 
escape into the corridor.  Orophin could hardly attack him in the hallways 
of the royal talan, leaving Elladan free to find his miserable excuse for a 
brother and deal out some much needed justice.

Unfortunately, Orophin was not fooled by his attempted ruse, and Elladan 
barely escaped being trapped a second time, hopping across the foot 
Orophin tried to hook about his ankle and spinning away, beginning to 
breath hard in rising panic.  Orophin recovered almost immediately and 
came after him, arms spread and body crouched low, ready to shift to 
either side depending on his prey's movements.  And that was what he felt 
like, Elladan thought wildly, some small animal being stalked by a master 
hunter.  He threw himself to the side in a twisting, diving motion, hoping 
to catch the Galadrim off guard, but it didn't work.  Orophin grabbed his 
arm as he passed, and wrestled him to the floor, his superior weight 
enabling him to counter every attempt Elladan made to break free.

Hunger and rage were at war on the face that loomed over him, but only 
for an instant.  Then a calm mask slid into place and a small smile 
appeared on the handsome features.  "Your family owes me," Orophin 
commented, almost casually as he settled himself astride Elladan's body.  
His thighs were tensed to prevent any escape attempts, while he gathered 
both Elladan's hands into one of his own and began searching around in 
his pocket for something.  "I have had quite a week, thanks to you and that 
arrogant brother of yours, and I claim compensation.  Care to speculate, 
pretty Peredhil, on what my price will be?"

Elladan had passed beyond panic at this point; when Orophin gave up his 
search and ripped his belt off to bind his captive's hands, he reached true 
terror.  This just could not be happening to him.  WHERE was Elrohir?  
Where was anyone?  This was a public room, for Elbereth's sake--why 
was there no one looking for a late night book or scroll to read?  And why 
was his treacherous body finding this whole scenario so terribly arousing?  
He briefly wondered if he'd drunk any of Deya's concoction by mistake, 
but was certain he had not.  So what was wrong with him?

"I have heard tales of the prowess of Elladan of Imladris," Orophin 
murmured, winding the remaining material of the belt slowly about his 
hand and drawing Elladan towards him in the process.  "I look forward to 
seeing if you deserve your reputation, cousin."

*   *   *

Celeborn watched Elrond and the king go with an odd feeling of loss.  He 
should be relieved, he knew, for it was obvious that he was the last thing 
on either of their minds this night, so his fears of incipient revenge had 
obviously been unwarranted.  Still, it was not relief he felt as he watched 
them leave, so obviously caught up in each other.  Was this why they had 
wanted to be alone all afternoon--some new attraction he knew nothing 
about, instead of making plots and schemes?  He supposed, now that he 
thought about it, that he had been a little vain to assume that two of the 
greatest living elves had nothing better to do than think of ways of 
torturing him.

He sat by the fire, drinking alone and feeling restless, nervous, and 
unsatisfied.  He should just go to bed.  Take a bath, get into more 
comfortable clothes than these stiff, formal robes, and perhaps read 
something . . . he picked up Thranduil's book, and idly flipped through it.  
He had commissioned it centuries ago, but had never actually read it.  It 
looked to be as dry as he had always imagined, and he wondered what the 
king saw in it.  Until, that is, a small paper fluttered out from between the 
pages and landed on the plush carpet at his feet.  It was in Elrond's 
handwriting--Celeborn would recognize that elegant script anywhere--and 
after reading the few sentences on it, he began to turn slightly purple.  
Within a few seconds he was out of his rooms and rushing down the 
corridor, a murderous expression on his face.  That they would dare . . . 
well, he thought grimly, beginning to track them through the woods he 
knew so well, we'll see about this.

*   *   *

Elladan had given up hope of rescue, and decided he would just have to 
deal with this himself.  Orophin was bluffing.  He would hardly take him 
unwilling--such was simply not done by the Eldar.  Of course, Elladan 
acknowledged with a good deal of chagrin, his body seemed determined to 
enjoy this, making it difficult for him to claim genuine reluctance.  It was 
that fact, more than anything else, which concerned him.  He had wanted 
to know the truth about his reaction to the handsome Galadrim, and now 
that he did, he had no idea what to do about it.  Well, he thought a second 
later when Orophin's lips touched his once more, perhaps he did have 
some notion . . .

The hunger he felt was matched in his captor's kiss, hot and bruising and 
violently satisfying.  It was a completely new experience for someone who 
thought he had done it all. Elladan struggled against his bonds, not this 
time in an attempt to be free, but because he suddenly very much wanted 
to feel Orophin's tight muscles under his hands, wanted to find out what it 
took to pleasure the powerful creature on top of him.  Perhaps his horizons 
could do with a bit of expanding, after all . . .

"Elladan!  I'm so sorry I'm late, but I had to . . . "

Elrohir broke off as twin sets of angry eyes met his.  "Do you mind, 
brother?"  Elladan inquired haughtily.  "We are rather busy here."

"But . . . but, don't you want . . . I mean, I said I'd rescue you . . . "

Orophin laughed, a rich rolling baritone, and Elladan felt like joining him.  
"When I need your help, LITTLE brother," he commented languidly, "I'll 
be sure to let you know.  Make yourself useful and lock the door behind 
you, would you?"  He turned back to Orophin, who was regarding him 
with wary amusement.  "Now, I think you expressed some doubts about 
my reputation, cousin?"

*   *   *

Celeborn crept closer to the little glade, having spent a good deal of time 
and effort tracking the two wily Elda through the silent forest.  They had 
certainly seemed to know where they were going, for despite his 
familiarity with the paths about Caras Galadhon, they had moved so 
swiftly that it had been a task to follow them.  When he came to the tree 
line ringing the small open area, he only barely managed to avoid an 
outraged yelp.  So, it had all been true.  Erestor had been running some 
type of . . . school of perversion, under his very nose.  His stunned gaze 
took in the various implements littering the field in awed disbelief; 
apparently Elrond's advisor did not believe in half measures.  Well, he 
would put a stop to this first thing on the morrow, and have words both 
with his son-in-law and with Lord Erestor when that presumptuous elf 
returned.  This might be normative in Imladris, but this was HIS realm and 
he certainly didn't intend to allow . . .

Celeborn's thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the two Elda in the 
glade, who did not seem at all outraged by the equipment on display.  
Thranduil, in fact, was slowly spinning the great wheel as if it held some 
type of fascination for him, and eyeing Elrond speculatively.  The master 
of Imladris merely laughed, his grey eyes sparkling in the starlight, which 
also sparked little flashes off the jewels worn by him and the king.  
Everything was tinted faintly blue under the night's veil, giving the whole 
scene a mystical, almost fey quality.  Elrond said something, but his voice 
was pitched too low for Celeborn to catch the words, so he circled 
carefully around to a position closer to their stance near the far side of the 
glade.

"Haven't you ever had a fantasy?"  Elrond was playing with some 
manacles that hung from a nearby tree limb, pushing them away and then 
catching them deftly on their return.

Thranduil shrugged, his eyes following the play of muscles in Elrond's 
back with what looked like extreme interest.  "Oh, yes, but he'd never 
agree to it.  You know Celeborn.  All talk, but when it comes to action . . . 
"

"I still think we should have made the offer."  Elrond looked pensive.  'As 
they say, nothing ventured . . . "

"I am telling you, he isn't that adventurous."  Thranduil moved from his 
wheel to come behind Elrond, pulling the Elda into a tight embrace.  "You 
and I, now, may rival him in age, but not in world-weariness.  Unless I 
greatly mistake matters, you have not forgotten how to feel.  And I can 
assure you that I have not."

Elrond smiled and relaxed back against Thranduil.  "So, you're saying we 
should forget the fair Celeborn, and leave him to his wine and books and 
chill, lonesome bed?"

"Absolutely."  Thranduil started to nuzzle Elrond's neck and the Elda did 
not seem to mind.  Celeborn was furious, with the number of his 
provocations rising by the minute.  It was bad enough that a haven of 
perversion had been erected within his borders, for instructing some of his 
people in who knew what twisted concepts, but now he was being 
dismissed as a doddering old fool who was not worthy of notice.  Was that 
why Elrond had not bothered to come after him?  Had he truly not 
considered Celeborn worthy of the effort?  This was too much to be borne.

"So this is where you ran off to.  Rather a strange place to seek out flora," 
Celeborn commented, emerging from the woods and masking his anger 
with a bantering tone.  "Quite an interesting area.  Strange, that I don't 
recall giving permission for it to be constructed."  He halted by the wheel 
that had so fascinated Thranduil and ran a finger down its smooth surface.  
It must have been newly made, but care had apparently been taken to 
insure that no splinters marred its even, satiny surface.

"Ask him," Elrond said, ignoring his comment as he moved to stand on 
Celeborn's right.  Thranduil came up along his left side.  Being trapped 
between them was to be caught in a cross current of powerful energy, and 
it left Celeborn slightly giddy.

"He'll just say no," Thranduil replied, trailing a hand over the worked satin 
covering Celeborn's arm.  "Positively no sense of adventure."

Celeborn repressed his steadily mounting outrage with extreme difficulty.  
He wished Thranduil would take his hand away.  It was not a particularly 
familiar gesture, but was irritating nonetheless, spreading what felt like 
little paths of flame along his arm.  Elbereth, and the elf wasn't even 
touching his bare skin!  Celeborn closed his eyes and decided that, maybe, 
they were right.  He really wasn't up to this.  He had tried letting someone 
else take control recently and it had been a disaster.  He preferred being in 
charge, yet he had made no preparations for tonight.  Better to leave while 
he still could.

"I think you underestimate him," Elrond was saying, a smile of dubious 
origin playing about his mouth as his hand trailed up Celeborn's thigh to 
his groin.  "He just takes a while to warm up."

A dark flush, whether of passion or anger Celeborn himself could not have 
said, spread across his face, looking vaguely blue in the twilight of the 
Lorien night.  "Did you drug me?," he demanded abruptly, as his blood 
pounded through his veins and his arousal grew, despite all attempts to 
contain it.

Elrond laughed, his eyes dark and smouldering.  "No, my dear Celeborn, I 
would not stoop so low.  Unlike you, I do not need . . . extra help . . . with 
my seductions."

"You know, Elrond, his eyes do look a bit glazed," Thranduil commented, 
peering deeply into Celeborn's face.  His proximity caused Celeborn's 
blood pressure to edge up another few notches. "Why just look.  His pupils 
are positively enormous.  One might almost think he was excited about 
something."

"Oh, he isn't really excited yet," Elrond whispered as, lazily possessive, he 
lifted Celeborn's wrist, noting the pulse rate with a little smile as he guided 
the hand slowly towards a manacle affixed to the wheel.  Celeborn could 
have resisted, he had time, but somehow it was impossible to move.  He 
felt like a puppet being manipulated by a master, or, more likely, by his 
body's own needs.  "But," Elrond added, his voice suddenly rough, "I do 
assure you that he will be."

*   *   *

Elladan decided that the library was going to be his favourite room in 
Lorien from then on.  He had really underestimated the potential of such 
areas, he thought, as he slid so deeply into Orophin that his stomach 
touched his back.  Oh, he is good, Elladan thought, his hand straying 
beneath his lover to find him hard and needful, sliding against the velvety 
softness of the carpet hungrily.   Taking him in hand, he squeezed gently, 
going on the instinctive assumption that Orophin would like to have done 
for him what his muscles were doing for Elladan, and by his reaction, it 
was the right move.  Elladan was strangely pleased that he could bring 
such pleasure to another male, and not, he hoped, let his inexperience in 
such matters show.

He had been nervous at first, when Orophin had suddenly stood to rip off 
his tunic and leggings, then dropped to his knees to scrabble about 
obsessively in the pockets of his discarded clothes.  Elladan had not 
immediately understood what it meant when he gave a triumphant cry and 
held up a small bottle, but when he began to drizzle its contents over his 
hand, he had figured it out. "If I had left this in the talan, I think I would 
kill myself," Orophin commented with feeling, and Elladan began to 
slowly back away.  Maybe he had been a bit precipitate.  It might be better 
to take things slow . . .

"Oh no, you don't."  Orophin stopped his retreat by placing a shining knee 
on the hem of his robe, grinning at him wickedly as he tugged one handed 
at Elladan's tunic.  "Get undressed and turn over, on your knees," he 
instructed, dipping his fingers again in the oil.

"I beg your pardon?"  Elladan seriously wondered if the Galadrim had lost 
his mind.  If anyone was going to do any taking around here, it would be 
him.  "You're already undressed.  It seems more logical for YOU to roll 
over."

"I'm not interested in logic," Orophin replied, at last succeeding in 
removing Elladan's too tight tunic.  "I'm interested in you, on your knees, 
now."  Somehow, using only his legs, the Galadrim managed to flip 
Elladan over, then began tugging down his leggings with his free hand.

"Now wait just a minute," Elladan began, before a well-slicked hand 
quested between his bared thighs, rubbing oil onto his skin, caressing his 
penis with practised ease and causing him to surge against him for an 
instant.  "I, er, . . . ," Elladan suddenly found that he had forgotten 
whatever it was he intended to say.

"Up," Orophin commanded, nudging him, and Elladan followed orders, 
almost disbelieving that this was happening.  More oil was rubbed 
between his cheeks before a finger was inserted, spreading him open and 
causing him to cry out from a combination of surprise and pleasure.  A 
night for new experiences indeed . . .

"You're tight," Orophin breathed in wonder, "so very tight . . . ," he slid in 
another finger and scissored them lightly, causing the elf under him to 
have to repress a squeal.  "Elladan," the voice in his ear sounded vaguely 
concerned, but Elladan couldn't concentrate on it, "You are sure you've 
done this before?"

"I think . . . I would know," Elladan replied breathlessly, thinking that his 
father's teachings on how to answer without actually saying anything were 
good for more than just diplomatic negotiations.  Orophin seemed 
satisfied, becoming ambitious and adding yet another finger within only a 
minute or so.  Surely, that couldn't be necessary, Elladan thought.  How 
big was he anyway?  He had his answer a second later, when an 
impossibly huge, hot length nudged his inner thigh.  All right.  Maybe this 
wasn't such a good idea after . . . "By the Valar!," Elladan could barely 
believe it when, somehow, Orophin pierced him with one long, powerful 
thrust.

He almost blacked out from the combination of pain--more than he'd 
expected--and pleasure, when Orophin nudged something within him that 
sent stars spiraling behind his eyelids.  The Galadrim gave him no time to 
try to decide which was greater before beginning deep, forceful thrusts 
and, after a few minutes, Elladan found the pain lessening while the 
pleasure grew in intensity.  By the time Orophin finished and collapsed 
hard enough against him to send both of them sprawling to the floor, 
Elladan had decided that maybe this new hobby offered possibilities after 
all.  After a few, dazed moments, he began feeling around on the carpet, 
hoping the little bottle had survived.  He finally found it caught between 
two wrinkles in the velvet pile beneath him.

Clutching a handful of Orophin's hair, he rolled over on top of him, his 
warm breath tickling the Galadrim's ear as he commented, "Your turn."

*   *   *

Celeborn could not believe he'd been trapped so easily or in such a 
humiliating manner.  Nude, he hung suspended from that evil wheel of 
Erestor's, as Elrond and Thranduil circled him, thoughtful expressions on 
their faces.  Celeborn's mind was working overtime, but he could think of 
no way out of his current predicament.  He was too proud to scream for 
help and be seen in such a manner by his guards, but it little mattered as 
this glade was too far away from the city to make rescue very likely in any 
case.  The worse part was that he had come here on his own, although he 
fully realised now that he had been led by cunning, strategy, and 
manipulation.

What he couldn't understand was his body's reaction.  Elrond had said that 
he had used no artificial means on him, and Celeborn could see no reason 
why he would lie, but it seemed impossible.  He was even more affected 
than he had been by his lovely wife's potion, and he had wondered for a 
heart-stopping minute if that was what Elrond and Galadriel had discussed 
at Imladris--perhaps the recipe for that torment in a bottle had been passed 
over?  But no, then the ring Elrond had almost immediately fitted him with 
would not be needed.  Besides, the potion had not caused arousal, just 
made it impossible for it to fade or be relieved until the effects wore off.  
This burning, aching need that consumed him was like nothing he had 
ever experienced before, but every fiber of his being called out for 
surcease.  He wished Elrond and the king would just get on with it.

"He seems a bit impatient," Thranduil said compassionately, allowing a 
finger to trail ever so gently around one of Celeborn's nipples.  It felt like a 
path of fire followed his touch, so highly sensitized had Celeborn become.  
"We should do something to help him."  Thranduil's idea of help 
unfortunately involved spinning him upside down and chuckling in 
apparent glee at the picture Celeborn made, helpless and spread out on the 
wheel.

"Oh, I agree," Elrond replied, sounding slightly breathless as he 
approached.  Celeborn found it impossible any longer to see the faces of 
his tormentors, as his eyes were roughly on a line with their shins and his 
hair had fallen all over his face.   He could certainly feel them, however, 
as two very different but equally talented sets of hands began doing 
strange things to him.  Thranduil--and the tingle that followed his touch 
made it unmistakably that of the king--began at one manacled ankle and 
slid slowly over his calf, lingered on the delicate skin behind his knee long 
enough to tantalize, before sliding on to his inner thigh, which he kneaded 
roughly.

Elrond was more direct, immediately moving to fondle his testicles, 
caressing their velvety softness all too briefly before something that felt 
like leather was attached to them.  Celeborn had no idea what this new 
sensation was, but he somehow didn't think it boded well for him.  A 
second later and he knew it did not, as heavy weights pulled his balls away 
from his body, where they had drawn tight from arousal, stretching them 
mercilessly.  "I like to start with the lighter weights," Elrond whispered in 
his ear, "and then move on."  Celeborn could not repress a slight whimper.  
"Be silent!"  Before he could promise to try to do so, a gag was slipped 
between his lips, the ball attached to it stopping any attempted sound.  
Celeborn couldn't understand why this was all so arousing.  He didn't like 
this--had never liked the rougher play--but his body apparently did, as 
attested by the throbbing ache in his groin.  The amount of blood that had 
rushed to his head caused a roaring in his ears but did not lessen his 
arousal at all, he noticed in irritation.

Thranduil had grown bored with his game and moved on to a new one.  
Celeborn had been too distracted by what Elrond was doing to notice until 
a light finger slid between his cheeks, stroking his opening gently.  As 
Celeborn comforted himself with the thought that Thranduil could hardly 
do anything to him in his current position, something large was pressed 
between his thighs.  He should have known, he thought in blind fury, as he 
tried to move away from it.  That perverse, depraved, wicked elf would 
just have to have a dildo with him, and by the feel of it, the biggest in 
Arda!  This was getting out of hand.  He bucked as much as he was able, 
but his movements were slow and uncoordinated, although whether that 
was due to the extreme state of his arousal or to his restraints, he could not 
have said.  In any case, his attempts were effectively useless, other than 
bringing a malicious smile to Thranduil's lips.  However, the king did 
pause momentarily, hopefully to locate some lubricant.

Elrond, meanwhile, had moved on, bringing his twisted imagination into 
play in the form of a little rubber suction cup that he was lovingly 
applying all over Celeborn's skin.  Wherever it rested, a mark resembling a 
love bite appeared.  Celeborn was more concerned with the king's actions, 
and shifted enough hair out of his eyes that he could see the large jar he 
carried on his return.  Unfortunately, he could also see the huge item 
dangling from his other hand, and began to squirm about in genuine terror.  
No.  Absolutely not.  There was no way that thing was . . .

"Celeborn seems a little agitated, Elrond," Thranduil said, his tone silky as 
he squatted down to get a better look at him.  The movement of his robes 
against his body allowed Celeborn to see that he wasn't the only elf with 
an distinct arousal in the glade that evening.  Thranduil gently removed 
the gag, and Celeborn gasped for air for a moment before the king's lips 
covered his in a searing kiss.  It was a little strange, to be kissed upside 
down, but Thranduil managed it handily.  "Did you want to say 
something?," he inquired when he finally broke away, just as Celeborn 
faced asphyxiation.  "Or shall I just go on with what I was doing?"   
Celeborn was momentarily speechless, mostly from lack of air but also 
from the sight of the monster toy in Thranduil's hand.  "Elrond, I think 
Celeborn wishes to say something," Thranduil offered, and Elrond 
squatted before his father-in-law, pushing more silver hair out of 
Celeborn's eyes as he did so.  Beside him on the grass he placed a tool kit 
with a number of finely made needles in it, ranging in size from quite 
small to huge.  Celeborn's eyes grew big at the sight and he gasped again.  
Thranduil looked pleased at the sound, a feral and sensuous smile 
spreading over his face.  Elrond, however, scowled and reached for the 
gag.

"No!"  Celeborn found his voice at last.  "Release me."

"An order?"  Thranduil looked, if possible, even more amused.  "My 
dearest Lord Celeborn, you are in no position to issue commands, or 
hadn't you noticed?"  He ran a finger along the length of the dildo sticking 
out of the grass beside him, and Celeborn gulped audibly.  He hated both 
of them, he really did.

"It's too soon," Elrond told Thranduil, his gaze roving hungrily over the 
unmarked areas of his father-in-law's creamy skin.  "Give me another 
fifteen minutes, and then we'll see."

"Wait!"  Celeborn stopped him as he reached once more for the hated gag.  
"What would you have me say?"

Elrond regarded him contemptuously.  "Oh, I don't know, Celeborn.  What 
did you want to hear from me?  I seem to remember something about 
wanting to hear me beg . . . although, I admit that my memory may be 
faulty.  I was not exactly myself at the time, having been tortured for three 
days and then bewitched."  His grey eyes snapped fire.  "You know, 
Thranduil, I really think I need another fifteen minutes . . . at the very 
least."

Thranduil laughed.  "I quite agree with you, Elrond, but I find myself in a 
bit of a quandary.  I seem to have become rather . . . excited by all this.  
More than I had expected, actually, and although I would dearly love to 
watch you play some more, I do have a somewhat pressing need of my 
own to satisfy."

Elrond looked thoughtful, but Celeborn could tell he was tempted.  "I will 
hardly be in the mood for much in another few minutes, Elrond," he 
added, hoping to swing the balance in his favour.  Of course, that was a 
lie.  In his current state, he couldn't imagine ever not being aroused again, 
but fortunately, Elrond didn't seem to notice the deception.

"You'll have to submit," Elrond told him, "and promise that this ridiculous 
one-upmanship ends here.  Too much more of this and none of us will be 
in a fit state to rule anything.  Besides, I promised your wife that, if she 
would take over for me in Imladris for a time, I would end this.  I meant 
what I said.  One way or the other, this ends tonight."

"Agreed."  At that point, Celeborn would have acceded to almost 
anything.  Apparently realising this, Elrond frowned at him.  "Your word, 
Celeborn."

"All right, you have it!  Now let me go!"

"Should we trust him?"  Celeborn could barely believe that Elrond was 
asking this of Thranduil, whose word everyone in Arda knew better than 
to believe.  However, the king came to his rescue in this case.  "Oh, I think 
so.  And if not, well," Thranduil smiled evilly, "I can always be persuaded 
to return for a second round."

"Fine.  Then I will release you," Elrond informed Celeborn, snapping his 
little tool case shut with a look of regret on his face, "just as soon as you 
beg me."  Celeborn quivered with outrage, but his position hardly allowed 
him another course of action.  Elrond just squatted there, one eyebrow 
arched expectantly, as he waited for his father-in-law to accept the 
inevitable.  "Or," he commented, after a few moments of tense silence, "I 
could do to you what you did to me, and leave you here, alone and 
unfulfilled, for some of your Galadrim to find in the morning."

The image this conjured up was enough to make Celeborn force himself to 
say the words.  Anything was worth it that ended this torture and avoided 
a scenario like that.  Elves had long memories--he would never live it 
down.  "All right!"  He gritted his teeth, but after a moment, continued.  
"Elrond, Thranduil, I beg you to release me."

"I don't think that sounded very sincere," Elrond said thoughtfully, but it 
must have satisfied Thranduil, who moved immediately to loosening the 
restraints.

"It was good enough," the king growled, as Celeborn, finally released 
from his fetters, collapsed bonelessly onto the cool grass.  He was allowed 
no reprieve, however, as Thranduil's hands were immediately on him, 
spreading him and applying lubricant in rather excessive amounts.

"I was not aware that an order of precedent had been established," Elrond 
noted, amusement running through his tone as Celeborn's attempts to 
comment dissolved into incoherent moans.

Thranduil ignored him, too busy hiking up his robes and falling on top of 
Celeborn to reply.  Celeborn suddenly found himself sandwiched between 
the two of them as Elrond moved under him, apparently deciding to show 
pity at last and remove that infernal ring.  He then slowly drew Celeborn's 
neglected flesh into his warm mouth, and slid a practised tongue about 
him.  At that moment, Celeborn forgave him everything.  If he just kept 
doing that, for a year or two . . . He was so engrossed in the throes of his 
own passion that it barely registered when Thranduil slid fully into him, 
although he did pause to wonder why the king bothered with his toy.  He 
seemed more than up to the task all on his own.

Celeborn pulled Elrond up for a lengthy kiss when he was satisfied, his 
tongue gliding against the roof of the Peredhil's mouth as he reached down 
to caress his impressive erection.  Thranduil distracted him momentarily, 
biting down on the spot where Celeborn's neck and shoulder met and 
thrusting harder as he angled his strokes to hit his prostate.  Realising that 
the king intended to take his time, Celeborn resorted to a new, more 
pleasant type of quid pro quo to relieve his son-in-law. Elrond, as always, 
tasted sweet--of spices and some, indefinable sunny flavour that reminded 
him of miruvor--as his mouth engulfed him.  Elrond grasped his shoulders, 
sliding along Celeborn's sweat slicked skin as he came, just as Thranduil 
thrust massively against him from behind in his finish.  After a moment, 
they collapsed into a sated pile, the glade still echoing with their cries.  
Celeborn thought, when his mind cleared enough to allow him to do so, 
that, all things considered, he could get used to late night strolls like this 
one.

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 8/?

*   *   *

Elrond had not slept in two days.  He had been feeling edgy even before 
his arrival at Lorien, but had put it down to the situation with Celeborn.  
He had promised Galadriel to sort it all out, but the attitude of Lorien's 
lord would ultimately decide whether or not he could keep that promise.  
Finding that, as Galadriel had promised, Thranduil was more than willing 
to join forces on the project had been both a relief and somewhat 
unnerving; being allies with Thranduil on anything, even something this 
frivolous, took an adjustment.

After their session in the glade, which had ended up taking most of the 
night but been very satisfactory to all concerned, Elrond assumed that the 
tension that had followed him about like a cloud for weeks would 
dissipate.  In fact, the opposite was true.  It was almost as if the recent 
upheavals in his personal life had allowed him to ignore something else, 
an elusive but growing anxiety that suddenly had his full attention.  Yet, 
however much he concentrated on it, the cause of his restlessness 
remained just out of reach.

He had finally given up trying to sleep, settling for resting instead, but 
there seemed to be something preventing even that.  The mattresses here 
were as good as those at Imladris, yet he could not get comfortable; the 
wine he drank at bedtime to try to calm his nerves had the opposite effect; 
supposedly soothing nighttime noises--rain dripping off the edge of the 
talan, for instance--maddened him.  It almost felt as though someone was 
trying to drive him insane, as nowhere he went could he find peace.  He 
visited the hot baths, but as soon as he arrived he wished to be somewhere 
else.  He sat down to eat, and was hungry, yet it was almost torture to 
remain in his place long enough to finish the meal.

The constant restlessness was wearying, and he knew it was depleting his 
reserves of strength just when he needed to be at his best.  He tried to tell 
himself to rest, eat and rejuvenate before the scouting party returned, for 
no one had any idea what they might bring with them.  But he found it 
absolutely impossible to do so.  He had finally requested Celeborn to 
provide several of his own healers to assist him, in case he could not focus 
enough to be of much use.  When the Galadrim reported the immanent 
return of the scouting party with only one member in need of aid, his 
anxiety level should have decreased, as one patient with three healers was 
sure to receive more than adequate care whether he was at his best or not.  
Yet he looked down to see his hand shaking, just slightly, and by the speed 
of his pulse and the shallowness of his breathing,
it might almost be thought that he was ill.

It was not until the party actually arrived at the talan that Elrond felt it: his 
nervous anxiety was transformed into a crashing, thundering deluge of 
genuine terror.  He managed to hide his emotions well enough that he did 
not alarm the others, and could only hope they would recede after a time.  
Instead, the feelings grew even stronger, vibrating through him like a bolt 
of lightening under his skin.  As Glorfindel mounted the last of the stairs, a 
bundled figure in his arms, Elrond had never been so frightened in his life.

*   *   *

Gildor was extremely glad to see the Golden Wood.  The trip back had 
seemed endless, and he had felt completely frustrated at not being able to 
do anything substantial for Zirak.  The elf was very weak but had 
consented to eat only once on the journey, and then only after almost an 
hour of wheedling by Gildor.  He needed more aid than anyone in their 
company could provide, and Gildor had almost cried in joy when the 
border party who met them assured him that Lord Elrond had been waiting 
for them for four days.

Gildor saw the Galadrim give interested looks at the bundled figure riding 
before Glorfindel, but none were ill bred enough to enquire why, on a 
perfectly sunny day, he was muffled up as if against winter's chill.  Gildor 
knew that Zirak's body temperature remained lower than normal, but 
thought the amount of swaddling Erestor had wrapped him in that morning 
was excessive.  Still, it did have the bonus effect of preventing the 
Galadrim from becoming too shocked at the sight of his physical 
degeneration.

Erestor rode beside Gildor, strangely silent as he had been ever since Zirak 
was found.  He looked a little pale, Gildor thought, but then, they were all 
tired after a very hard week's work with no breaks.  The party reached the 
outskirts of Caras Galadhon, where the horses had to be left behind, and 
Glorfindel easily swept Zirak into his arms; he carried him as if he was 
weightless, which unfortunately was not far from the truth.  They 
proceeded in a line up the spiraling staircase of the royal talan, finally 
reaching the main hall where a large number of elves awaited them, 
including several healers.

Erestor and Glorfindel exchanged a glance, then Glorfindel kept walking 
with his burden while Erestor posted some of Galadriel's Noldoran 
servants at the hallway's entrance to insure that no one followed them.  
Gildor and Haldir slipped by easily enough, however-- as members of the 
party they had, after all, already seen his injuries--while the rest of the 
waiting elves were turned away.  It took about a minute for Gildor to wish 
he had been so as well.

Elrond moved like an old man, jerky and abrupt, as he approached the 
bundle Glorfindel so carefully laid on the examination table.  He stretched 
a trembling hand toward the hood covering Zirak's face, but then snatched 
it back as if burned.  He squeezed his eyes closed and moaned--a low, 
despairing, lost sound that seemed to go on forever--then folded up and 
would have struck the floor if Glorfindel had not caught him.

Gildor shivered involuntarily and glanced at Haldir, who looked as 
stunned as everyone else.  The two healers surged forward, one to each of 
the collapsed elves, and Gildor moved also, knowing he wasn't needed but 
feeling strangely drawn to Zirak anyway.  He had been his responsibility 
for the whole trip back, and he couldn't just abandon him now.  So he was 
at Celeborn's elbow when the hood was drawn back, and the Lord of 
Lorien saw the face it concealed.  Celeborn took one look, then staggered 
as if struck, putting a steadying hand to the edge of the table before he, 
too, ended up on the floor.  Glorfindel uttered a warning, nothing coherent 
but apparently enough to convey some sort of meaning to Celeborn, who 
clamped his teeth hard on his lower lip for a long moment, then hoarsely 
ordered everyone from the room besides the healers, the stricken elves, 
himself and Glorfindel.

Gildor caught Haldir's eye and nodded.  He had been about to protest, as 
he did not want to leave Zirak alone, but his lover's expression was 
eloquent, and he followed him out of the room.  Haldir knew his lord 
better than Gildor; if he thought it imprudent to argue with him it would be 
well to heed his warning.  They passed by the guards at the door and went 
down the corridor a good way before stopping.  "What happened in 
there?"

Haldir shook his head.  "I am not sure.  But it is not wise to defy the lord 
when he is in that mood.  We will no doubt find out soon enough."

*   *   *

Elrohir was greatly relieved to see the return of the travelers, as he 
desperately desired to speak with Erestor.  After the disastrous attempt to 
deceive Thranduil, Elrohir had given the matter some more thought.  He 
had managed to briefly pry Elladan away from his "new hobby," as he 
called his latest infatuation, and probed for any and all information about 
the king, but his brother was little help.  He simply stated over and over 
again that Elrohir's odds of deceiving Thranduil about anything were slim 
to none.  Elrohir had nonetheless concocted and rejected a number of 
plans, before finally deciding that what he really needed was expert help.  
Fortunately, he knew where to find an expert.

Unfortunately, Erestor was not looking all that helpful at the moment; 
indeed, Elrohir could not remember ever seeing him this agitated.  
Walking down the corridor after the rest of the party, he was fussing with 
the high collar of his robe as if it choked him.  Still, Elrohir could not wait.  
That brief glimpse of Glorfindel had been enough to decide the issue--he 
couldn't lose him to the king; he would die if he did.

"Erestor?"  His old mentor acted as if he hadn't heard, so Elrohir tried 
again.  "Erestor!

"What?  Oh, greetings, Elrohir."  Erestor still did not look at him, his eyes 
on the door into the healing chambers, which had just snapped closed.  
Two of the Noldor took up guardian positions in front of it at only a raised 
eyebrow from Erestor.

"I need to talk to you.  It's important."

"Yes . . . " For some reason, Erestor seemed unwilling to enter that room.  
He kept staring at the door, but did not draw any nearer to it.  Elrohir 
didn't bother to question providence, but simply towed him into an alcove.  
One of the Noldor, he noticed, was watching them with a funny expression 
on his face, but Elrohir decided to worry about that later.

"It's about Glorfindel . . . and the king.  I need your help."

Erestor still appeared distracted, but at least he focused on Elrohir's face.  
"What?  Oh, I wouldn't worry about that.  Everything will be fine."

"No.  It won't."  Elrohir sighed.  He wondered how to explain the situation 
to Erestor, who had probably never known burning desire in his life.  He 
wished for someone closer to his own age to talk to, but the only such 
person with whom he had any type of intimate relationship was Elladan, 
who had been completely useless so far.  It was Erestor or no one, so he 
tried again.  "Thranduil will try again.  I have to stop him, but I don't know 
how.  I was hoping you might have some ideas."  Anything, Elrohir 
pleaded silently, I'll do anything, just don't patronize me and tell me 
everything will be fine.

Erestor seemed to realise his young companion's silent agony, for he 
smiled reassuringly as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind Elrohir's ear.  
"You worry too much, young one.  Thinking has its place, but it can be 
over done.  Try going on your feelings instead."

Elrohir fought the desire to scream.  This was not what he needed!  He had 
come after devious, detailed strategy, not platitudes.  "I don't . . . "

"Hush."  Erestor placed two fingers on Elrohir's lips and smiled, with a 
gentle, sympathetic look that effectively quieted him.  "I promise I will 
take care of the king for you.  However, I cannot work matters out 
between you and Glorfindel--that must be your affair, young one, and I 
suggest you do it soon.  Never is anyone so vulnerable as when their heart 
is broken."

Elrohir looked at him, surprise and hope dawning on his face.  Glorfindel 
heartbroken . . . over him?  It didn't seem likely, especially with someone 
like Thranduil making his interest so obvious.  On the other hand, Erestor 
was Glorfindel's oldest friend, so he should know . . . "What should I do?"

Erestor just shrugged.  "In these matters, young one, I think you know 
more about his tastes than I!  Just remember, he DOES love you.  Trust 
that, and your feelings, and you will do well."

Elrohir hugged his former tutor tightly, feeling all his old affection for him 
come rushing back.  All right, so Erestor had some . . . unusual . . . 
personal interests.  That wasn't any of Elrohir's concern.  He was a friend, 
and that was all that mattered.  He doubted, of course, that Erestor could 
deal with the king as he'd said, but if all went well with Glorfindel, maybe 
it wouldn't matter.  Elrohir hugged him again, then ran off down the 
corridor, feeling lighter than he had for days, and with plans to make.

*   *   *

Camthalion stood guard beside the door as he had been ordered, and 
watched as Erestor followed the young one down the corridor.  He knew 
who the elfling was, of course, and although he remained as stony faced as 
usual, inwardly he seethed.  It was not enough for this one to have so 
infatuated Imladris' seneschal that he would actually attack a member of 
the border guard--a thing simply unheard of, which had been the cause for 
much quiet discussion on their recent excursion--now he was openly 
flirting with Lord Erestor!  It had taken all Camthalion's self-control to 
stand quietly as Erestor stroked and patted and fussed over the brat, 
murmuring words to him in a voice too low for him to hear, but they were 
words of love, no doubt, and possibly words of passion.

He repressed a growl and consciously lowered his heart rate to prevent any 
telltale flushing of his pale skin.  It had been a shock at first, back at 
Imladris, when he'd realised his reaction to Elrond's counselor was more 
than just casual admiration for courage, beauty and a jaded wit that 
slightly shocked Camthalion even as it enthralled him.  The attraction had 
been almost instantaneous, a twist in his stomach, a tingle in his groin 
when he awoke weeks ago to that strong, masterful voice, and found that it 
provoked in him desire and obedience rather than outrage and anger.  
When Erestor strode back and forth across the attic, his open black tunic 
whipping about his dark leggings, his midnight eyes flashing as he berated 
them for causing so much trouble to his well run household, Camthalion 
had wanted to kneel before him and beg forgiveness.  Instead, he had done 
what his pride and lineage demanded, and defied him, informing him in a 
voice, which he had been surprised to hear remain level, that he had 
merely obeyed the orders of his mistress and would do so again.  Then he 
had insisted on being released.

He could still feel the thrill that had coursed through him as Erestor had 
slowly, oh so slowly, walked over to where Cam lay trussed hand and foot 
alongside Elros and for some reason sopping wet.  The impressions 
flooded back now in quick profusion, causing Camthalion to have to shut 
his eyes to keep them from showing: the charisma that had radiated from 
Erestor; the way his long fingers had stroked the leather flail he carried; 
how his nipples had been visible against the thin black silk of his shirt; the 
flash that had shown in his ebony eyes, enhanced by the sable brows that 
lowered to frame them, as his mouth hardened.  In a few short minutes he 
had flailed Camthalion--with words alone--until he felt raw and aching, 
yet needful, too, as those wonderful eyes swept disdainfully over his form.

Soon, he and Elros had found themselves kneeling, heads bent, wrists still 
bound behind their backs, and although Cam could tell that his cousin 
resented everything being done to them, he himself had never felt so 
stimulated.  He remembered the heat of Erestor's body when he came up 
close behind him, explaining that they would be taught a new set of rules 
as they had apparently never managed to learn the old ones.  His voice 
went on and on, caressing, authoritative, disturbing, but not so much so as 
the soft touch of his long, unbound hair when as a strand fell occasionally 
against Camthalion's flushed face.  Cam's robes were chill and wet, but he 
felt hot, consumed by burning need and desperate desire.

He had been lost from that moment, drunk on the strong, masterful, 
beautiful one who almost immediately became an addiction.  He had tried 
to tell himself, as he told Elros, that it meant nothing--a quick romance 
that would soon be forgotten when they returned to Lorien--but he had 
known all the while that he lied.  When he was finally allowed to tangle 
his fingers in Erestor's hair--long and sleek and black as the night--he 
marveled at its contrast with his pale skin, and knew.  When he shuddered 
at the feel of those silken tresses soft against his back, completely unlike 
the hardness thrusting deep inside him, he knew.  When they kissed until 
the entire world narrowed to that one exquisite sensation, and Erestor 
wrapped his legs around him, holding him with his entire body, he knew.  
He could not say it, especially with those impenetrable dark eyes on him, 
but there had never been, would never be, anyone else for him.

He had defended his dynamic lover from Elros' planned revenge, once 
Glorfindel freed them, but had quickly learned that Erestor needed no such 
aid.  Camthalion had never before been taught how pain could so greatly 
enhance pleasure, or how submission could bring such dizzying freedom, 
but he and Elros had absorbed the new knowledge greedily.  When they 
dutifully followed their new master back to Lorien, they were taught even 
more.  Camthalion had tried not to tremble when Erestor brushed against 
him or to become aroused merely by his voice, as he did not want to seem 
overly possessive and scare him away.  He gave off none of the usual 
signals of infatuation, forcing himself not to lean towards him whenever 
he came near nor to lick his lips when speaking to him, and fought down 
the urge to rush to his side every time he discovered some new technique, 
like an elfling wanting approval, but it took all his concentration.

He knew Erestor did not feel anything for him, other than as a favoured 
student, and so far he had kept his pride and his dignity by not seeking him 
out.  But whenever he closed his eyes, he felt again those talented hands 
sliding over his body, those lips warm and unexpectedly soft on his, and 
that weight pressing him down.   It was becoming more and more difficult 
to hold onto his icy facade, and he truly did not think he could manage it 
were Erestor to take the young Peredhil as a lover.  Another of the Noldor 
would not have been so bad, for he had known them so long that they were 
all like brothers to him; they were everything to each other, had had to be, 
for the other elves regarded them as different, untrustworthy, unclean.  
And such a liaison would not have excluded him from Erestor's presence, 
any more than Elros had done.  But Elrond's youngest was another matter.  
Camthalion stared down the hallway where Elrohir had disappeared, 
fiercely envying his effortless conquest of one who was far too good for 
him.  Yes, something would have to be done.

*   *   *

As soon as he tried making the most tenuous of connections to the injured 
elf, white-hot fire erupted behind Elrond's eyes, and he staggered under 
pain such as he had never known.  He neither knew nor cared when he was 
caught and lowered gently to the floor, for he had been drawn into another 
reality filled with nothing but blistering, incandescent waves of agony.  It 
flooded his mind, ripped at his consciousness, tore at his control, until he 
knew nothing else but the pain, saw it as an almost living thing, possessing 
him, consuming him.  Every nerve was fire, every breath agony, but 
behind the rushing, reverberating screams that filled his mind, was a voice, 
long unheard but never forgotten.

Deep within his mind it echoed, and he could not shut it out.   He could 
not understand it at first, but slowly, over long minutes, he wrestled back a 
tiny portion of his emotional control, and focused on the distant echo, 
consciously willing it closer.  Suddenly, another presence was inside his 
mind; every part of his being flooded by that disembodied voice and by a 
spirit that felt so alien and so familiar all at once.  It was as if someone, or 
something, long imprisoned had been set free, although was so warped 
and twisted by its experiences as to be almost unrecognizable.

But Elrond knew it.  Abruptly, he was transported back to a time before he 
was master of Imladris, when he had not been the wielder of vilya or a 
leader of the elves.  When his name had not been renowned for daring 
deeds in battle or exceptional ability at healing.  When he had been 
content to be known for only one thing--the beloved of a legend.  His 
voice rough, its tone unsteady and trembling, Elrond finally uttered the 
name they had all been afraid to say.

"Gil-Galad."


TBC




Title: Wild Justice 9/?

*   *   *

Haldir was as fractious as he could ever remember being 
without cause.  Of course, in truth he had a cause, just 
not one he could admit to anyone.  He regarded his lover 
through slitted eyes and decided that Gildor was being 
deliberately cruel.  The fact that he looked incredibly 
enticing this morning, fine dark hair escaping from his 
usual messy braids to frame his sculpted features, did not 
help.  He had spent most of the previous afternoon looking 
after that cursed dwarf, who he insisted must see a healer 
regardless of the fact that she'd been with them half a 
week and shown no ill effects from her foolish escape.  
Then he wasted an entire evening finding clothes to fit 
her, commenting that she could hardly continue to wear his 
spare tunics, and then insisted on accompanying her to 
dinner to make sure she ate.

Haldir had simply not been able to believe that Gildor was 
spending their first day back with the dwarf, and had 
become so incensed over it that he packed his belongings 
and moved from Gildor's guest room in the royal talan back 
to his own quarters.  Upon arrival, however, he found 
Orophin and Elladan enjoying themselves in the main room, 
and they had continued to do so most of the night, keeping 
him awake as the partition walls were thin and they did not 
bother to attempt to be quiet.  Then, on top of a very long 
week and a sleepless night, he had to endure Gildor's 
performance at breakfast, which went beyond all bounds.

Haldir did not make it a habit to frequent the communal 
tables kept by the lord and lady.  Technically, as part of 
the border patrol, he was free to avail himself of his 
lords' hospitality whenever he was in Caras Galadhon, but 
he disliked the needless formality of it, preferring the 
more boisterous company, if less elegant cuisine, available 
at the barracks.  He had inherited his family talan, so had 
no reason to live with the other guards in off duty 
periods, but he could and often did eat with them.  This 
morning, however, he had shown up at the royal banqueting 
hall to give Gildor, who as a guest of the lord and lady 
would certainly eat there, a chance to apologise.

Unfortunately for his mood, Gildor did not seem to 
understand that he had done anything requiring an apology, 
just greeted Haldir lovingly as usual, then turned his 
attention back to the miserable excuse for a creature at 
his side, to whom he was explaining the contents of the 
dishes being served.  Haldir sat and fumed, yet part of him 
could not help but admire the way the sun's rays, slanting 
through the high windows of the chamber, limned every 
feature of his lover's face with an outline of gold.  
Gildor didn't seemingly notice his agitation, but he must 
have sensed something for, innocent brown eyes still on 
Elwyyda as he promised to take her for a tour of the city, 
he began to run a warm foot under Haldir's leggings.

It was all Haldir could manage to remain seated quietly 
across from him, and to content himself merely with a 
glare.  He had never, in all his life since entering 
fenneth, been this long without physical intimacy, yet his 
lover was promising the whole day to that ridiculous 
creature instead of making plans to spend it with him, and 
then TEASING him with it, and in such a very effective way.  
Haldir shifted position, but it only made things worse, as 
Gildor's probing foot left his calf only to slide 
sensuously up his inner thigh, as a mischievous twinkle lit 
his eyes.  By the Valar, he was laughing at him!

Haldir jumped up from the table, murmured an apology to the 
servant behind him who he almost sent sprawling in his 
hurry, and fled.  Oh, Gildor was going to pay for this, he 
thought grimly.  Two could play that game, and he was 
better at it.

*   *   *
Elwyyda was having a wonderful time.  The previous evening, 
she and Gildor had gone to the shopping district of Caras 
Galadhon in search of new clothes for her and a surprise 
for Haldir.  She couldn't imagine why Gildor wanted to buy 
the elf a gift, for he never did anything except scowl.  
She personally thought Gildor needed to find a new friend, 
but did not know him well enough to say so.  She did not 
want to risk annoying him by commenting on his personal 
life, as he was the only thing keeping her from running 
away again as fast as her feet could carry her.

Elwyyda was extremely uncomfortable in the royal talan.  
Having been brought up from childhood in the mines, she 
felt very uncertain of herself in other surroundings.  Her 
first night in Lorien had been a nightmare, beginning with 
the elf maid who brought her dinner and watched in 
horrified fascination as she ate.  Elwyyda had known 
something was wrong, but could not think what that might 
be: she had eaten most of the strange food, much of which 
she did not recognize, without complaint, and had even 
thought to wipe her hands, which had become rather sticky 
because of the strange substance glazing the meat, on her 
tunic rather than allowing them to soil the elegant 
furnishings of the guest room.  This had not seemed to 
please the maid, however, who looked at her strangely 
before finally taking the tray away.

Her open disdain had been only the first of many shocks for 
Elwyyda that night.  She had spent years underground in 
almost complete darkness, sleeping on a thin pallet wedged 
underneath a stone overhang in the slaves' chambers.  She 
had preferred it that way, as it was better that the orcs 
not be reminded of her presence, and the shadow of the rock 
had effectively hidden her.  Zirak had had no such refuge, 
being too large to fit under the small shelf, and the 
goblins had sometimes amused themselves torturing him just 
for amusement when they noticed him trying to sleep.  Now 
Elwyyda could not feel comfortable lying on top of the 
large bed with only the high ceiling of the room above her.  
She also did not like the candles that burnt in large 
sconces everywhere, making the room dazzlingly bright to 
her eyes, but she was afraid to snuff them out as she had 
no permission to do so, and anyway, wasn't tall enough to 
reach them.

The food and sleeping arrangements had been of small 
import, however, next to the lecture she received from the 
outraged servant who discovered that she had relieved 
herself in a large bucket in which a small tree was 
planted.  It was a pretty bucket, made of molded bronze, 
but she could not see that she had harmed it, and at least 
she had not used the floor.  She had thought about tipping 
its contents off the edge of the talan, but had been afraid 
to hit someone below with it and the tree made it too heavy 
to lift.  In the mines, she had always known what to do.  
Slaves had a cave that was used for such things, and 
garbage was dumped there as well, into a crevasse that cut 
so far into the earth that no one knew how far down it 
went.  But there was no such cave or room here, at least 
not that she had seen, and she had been in extreme 
discomfort . . . Nonetheless, apparently it had been the 
wrong thing to do, as the elf had taken the bucket away 
after scolding her in broken Westron that she was glad she 
could not fully understand.

She had seen reflected in the eyes of all those about her 
nothing but disgust.  That was true especially of Haldir, 
who had fixed her hair at Gildor's insistence, but made it 
obvious that he did not like touching her.  She had not 
seen those emotions in Gildor's eyes, but he was the only 
one who could seem to tolerate being around her.  At the 
first opportunity, then, she had run away, and, once 
recaptured, had shuddered at the thought of returning to 
the great elvin city.  She had hated the mines, but at 
least she fit in there.  There was no place for someone 
like her in this perfect world of theirs.

Gildor asked, once they found her again, why she had left, 
and reminded her of his promise not to let anything happen 
to her.  Elwyyda had not been able to answer his question--
she did not have the words, and it made her uncomfortable 
to think that he would afterwards think less of her.  
Somehow, though, he seemed to have guessed, because he was 
now making every effort to help her fit in.  He brought the 
strange tools used for eating to her room and showed her 
how to use them before they went to dinner, then stayed by 
her side while she ate, helping to correct her so subtly 
that no one even seemed to notice.  She did not mind eating 
in the hall, even surrounded by so many beautiful 
creatures, if Gildor was with her.  She thought she had 
done fairly well, only dropping things a few times, and 
she'd remembered to use her napkin instead of her tunic to 
clean her hands.  The tools made eating less messy, she had 
to agree, but she still thought them a bit silly, as they 
took much more time than just using hands.

Gildor had also shown her about the royal talan, a multi-
story edifice supported by the largest tree Elwyyda had 
ever seen.  The floors were paved, with some inlaid with 
tiny bits of coloured glass and stone made into amazing 
designs; in one room, it looked like the floor was covered 
by a forest of leaves, but none of them were real. Weavings 
in cool shades of blue and pale green covered many walls, 
providing decoration and an extra layer of warmth not given 
by the reed screens. The details were astonishing: niches 
casually set into walls, holding alabaster urns filled with 
silken flowers so well made as to convince Elwyyda that 
they must have scent; gossamer hangings were everywhere, 
looking beautiful on their own, but when the light shone 
through them, whole scenes were revealed to be woven into 
the fabric; carved inscriptions ran around the top of the 
walls, so high that, she supposed, only elvin eyes could 
make them out.  Gildor told her that, taken together, they 
told the story of the founding of Lorien.  Elwyyda had not 
taken the time to notice these details before, and they 
delighted her now.

Gildor also showed her the area beside the baths where the 
elves relieved themselves.  There was a place like it in 
her quarters, but she had not even noticed the little room, 
or the container that flushed with clear water.  It ran 
out, Gildor said, into pipes painted to look like the bark 
of the trees onto which the talans were built, and was 
carried away to fields beyond the city where it fertilized 
the fallow ground.  Every few months, the field so used was 
changed, and when the old fields were planted with crops 
again, the soil was very rich.  Elwydda had looked at him 
doubtfully, "But wouldn't it be easier just to use a 
bucket?"  For some reason, Gildor found this very funny. 
She liked the fact that other pipes brought clean water 
into her rooms, though.  It meant that she could bathe 
whenever she liked, as the water was pumped from 
underground springs that seemed to be inexhaustible.  She 
had never had the luxury of being clean before, and this 
was one new experience she thought she could learn to like.

Gildor had then taken her to find clothes that fit properly 
and, although she couldn't understand what was wrong with 
the tunic he had already given her--it was quite the nicest 
garment she had ever had--he seemed to think she would feel 
better in clothes of her own.  They had climbed down to 
ground level as the shops, Gildor explained, were almost 
all located there.  "It would be too difficult to keep 
lifting new stock up into the trees," he told her.  "The 
Galadrim live in the heights, but they do much of their 
daily activities on the ground."  Elwyyda was pleased to 
hear this, as the high rope ladders, seemingly so thin and 
frail, made her nervous, especially in winds such as those 
that tugged at Gildor's cloak and ruffled his hair.  But 
Gildor assured her that he had never known one to break.

The weavers had their shops all together, on a small street 
paved with smooth white stones.  Their houses reminded her 
of the talans, for they were made of the same material--
thick reed screens stretched over a wood frame--and were 
strung with strings of small lanterns that swayed in the 
evening breeze like the ladders did above.  They entered 
one of the first of the little shops only to find it 
stacked floor to ceiling with bolts of all types of cloth, 
with some even tucked into the wooden rafters overhead.  A 
placid looking young elf sat in front of a large loom, 
working on a piece of material unlike anything Elwyyda had 
ever seen.  She had to touch it to believe it was cloth, 
for it looked like nothing so much as a huge golden mallyrn 
leaf, complete with veining and spots of light green and 
brown in places, that had somehow been strung onto the 
loom.  She vaguely remembered her mother weaving, in the 
years before they were captured and taken to the mountain, 
but she had never made anything like this.

Gildor spoke in the pretty elvish language to the young 
shopkeeper, who looked up from his work when they arrived.  
Elwyyda would have been nervous, for they were no doubt 
discussing her, except that she was too busy marveling at 
the fabrics so casually lying about.  Every colour of the 
rainbow was represented, and each bolt seemed more 
beautiful than the one before.  She had to put her hands 
behind her back, otherwise she would have no doubt 
embarrassed Gildor by running her hands all over them.  But 
they did yearn to be touched, those soft fabrics the names 
of which she didn't know . . .

Gildor purchased something while she wasn't watching, and 
before she knew it, they were off again, this time taking a 
short walk down the street to where a house, almost 
completely overgrown by a flowering vine, stood near a 
large fountain.  They entered to find two smiling female 
elves chatting with each other as they plied their needles 
so quickly that their hands were a mere blur.  They looked 
up as Gildor entered and spotted Elwyyda, peeking out from 
behind him, almost at once.  They gave a cry and descended 
on her in what would have been a frightening way except 
that both were smiling delightedly.  She found herself 
being measured by expert hands, and then Gildor's package 
was handed over and they were pushed out the door.  It had 
taken maybe two minutes.

Gildor laughed to see her expression.   "They're always 
like that.  Don't worry--you just made them very happy.  
They've wanted to try out some new designs for a while now, 
and you've provided them with the excuse!"  Gildor then 
took her on a brief tour of the area while he explained the 
layout of the city, which was roughly in a large cross 
formation with the royal talan at the center.  "Just keep 
going uphill if you ever get lost, and you'll run right 
into it," he explained.  Elwyyda didn't bother to tell him 
that she had no intention of venturing out without him.

They returned to the tailors' after what seemed like far 
too short a time to Elwyyda, but nonetheless a perfect 
little kirtle and matching shirt were waiting for her, and 
wonder of wonders, it was of a piece of material that 
looked almost identical to that on the weaver's loom.  This 
one was more green than gold, however, and had carved 
wooden buttons on the shirt that looked like tiny ladybugs.  
The clothes fit perfectly, and Elwyyda proudly wore them 
out into the darkening twilight.  "We'll get you shoes and 
other things tomorrow," Gildor assured her.  "Other than 
for the taverns, the shops all close at night.  I have to 
pick up a few things myself tomorrow, though, so if you're 
free, we'll go shopping again."

Gildor had kept his promise, and as soon as breakfast was 
over they proceeded to another part of the city where 
different sorts of shops were located.   Their first stop 
was a bone and antler carver's shop, where Elwyyda was 
again entranced at the fine workmanship on the wares.  One 
long wall held nothing but knives, their hilts of etched 
bone worked in runes and symbols she could not read; 
another wall was taken up with horn drinking vessels of all 
shapes and sizes, their rims carved to look like braids, 
their bodies showing scenes from elvish lore.  The shop had 
a festive air about it, for a profusion of lanterns hung 
from the rafters, their bodies of carved wood but their 
side panels of thin cut horn giving off a warm amber light 
when lit.  She examined with delight a small display of 
horn combs, buttons and cloak toggles as Gildor waited to 
pick up his order.  It was amazing that the Lorien carver, 
a kindly looking female with elaborate golden braids, could 
make the hard bone look so much like the petals of a living 
flower.

The shop owner brought out a package from a small back room 
that must have contained her workshop, and unwrapped its 
linen covering.  It contained an exquisite set of ivory 
chess pieces carved to look like an elvin army.  There was 
only one set, although Gildor assured Elwyyda that the 
other pieces were waiting at their next stop.  It turned 
out to be a woodworker's shop where Gildor picked up a 
polished playing board to go with the pieces, made of 
contrasting squares of rosewood and oak.  He also claimed 
the other half of his army, which was of rosewood and 
carved differently from the other set--Gildor had designed 
the figures himself, giving sketches to each carver to use 
as a guide, along with size specifications.  It was truly a 
unique gift, Elwyyda thought admiringly, too bad it was for 
that Haldir.  All of a sudden, Elwyyda found herself in 
possession of the set, which Gildor quickly threw his cloak 
over.  She understood why when she saw Haldir's head 
outside the shop door, and the next moment he was peering 
into the gloom of the interior.

*   *   *

Haldir had been tracking them for some time, and finally 
caught up with them at the woodworker's shop.  What in Arda 
did the dwarf need in there?  She was looking decidedly 
furtive, and attempting to hide something under her cloak.  
A cloak that looked to be much too long for her--it had to 
be Gildor's.  So what could he possibly have bought for her 
that she didn't wish Haldir to see?  Curiosity, always 
Haldir's failing, caused him to momentarily forget his 
original plan to seduce his beloved away from that 
creature.  Instead, he attempted to sidle around to where 
he could "accidentally" knock the cloak off her arm and 
perhaps catch a glimpse of what lay beneath.  But it was no 
good, for the nimble little thing slipped right past him 
and out the door, and Gildor took the opportunity to trap 
him next to a display case.

"Aren't these incredible?"  Gildor asked, staring with 
apparent rapt interest at the case's contents.  Haldir had 
no idea what it contained, for the same moment Gildor, who 
was standing slightly behind him, nudged his knee between 
Haldir's thighs, audaciously pressing their bodies 
together.  As always whenever Gildor stepped within a foot 
of him, Haldir's nerve endings all woke up and began to 
hum.  It was almost tangible, this connection between them, 
which was not lessened when Gildor began to move, very 
slightly against him, all the while commenting on whatever-
it-was in the case.   Haldir was soon reduced to a semi-
delirious, quivering puddle of arousal. He couldn't 
understand how Gildor managed to do this to him, and so 
effortlessly, when he'd always been able to control his 
reactions around others.  It had something to do with the 
innocent pleasure Gildor evidenced in every thing they did, 
making each encounter unique, exotic and so very alluring . 
. .

Haldir was about to suggest, as soon as he was capable of 
speech once more, that they continue this somewhere more 
appropriate, but suddenly, Gildor was gone.  Haldir turned 
to see his lover walking down the street away from the 
shop, sunlight on his dark hair, sleek muscles sliding 
under his short tunic.  Haldir finally found out what was 
in the display case--a collection of combs--as it was some 
minutes before he was in any position to leave the shop.

*   *   *

Their next stop was a music store containing a variety of 
instruments: horns, trumpets, whistles, bells, and drums of 
all types hung about the walls.  A harmonious background 
sound came from the shop owner's tuning of a lute of 
polished wood, which had mother of pearl inlay in the form 
of musical notations on the front.  An entire counter was 
covered in boxes of musical scrolls.  While Gildor browsed 
through the latest compositions, Elwydda wandered through a 
connecting door into a leather worker's shop where the elf 
in charge immediately began measuring her for shoes.  
Elwyyda was frantic, not knowing if this was what Gildor 
wanted or not, but he poked his head in the door a few 
seconds later and smiled to see the hides the leatherworker 
was showing her.  Elwyyda liked the elves she met in the 
shops better than the servants in the royal talan.  Like 
the tailors the night before, the leatherworker seemed 
fascinated at the challenge of making something that would 
fit her.  Elwyyda didn't really see the point of shoes, as 
her feet were as tough as leather themselves from years 
carrying heavy loads over rough stone floors, but Gildor 
insisted and she soon found herself in possession of both a 
stout pair of boots and a soft pair of slippers.

Gildor indulged her by allowing her time to browse through 
the displayed items at a jewelry shop they passed, where 
amber and smoky topaz armlets gleamed on a peach coloured 
cloth, and at a glass blower's, where a clever elf was 
adding a decorative line of liquid blue to the outside of a 
fragile frosted wine glass.  It was almost time for lunch, 
however, so she could only glance at the wares sitting 
outside a potter's establishment, and at the beautifully 
made weapons stacked beside a metal worker's house.  
Elwydda thought she could have spent all day just looking, 
but her stomach was rumbling by the time they reached the 
tavern where Gildor assured her they would get a good, if 
somewhat late, lunch.  It was actually beyond the city 
walls, overlooking a small stream, and a water wheel turned 
beside the covered wooden porch where they were seated, 
slowly grinding grain from the surrounding fields into 
flour for the excellent bread served with their meal.

Again Elwyyda was startled by the variety of food 
available.  The menu, which Gildor read to her, was printed 
in a curling elvish script on the side of the tavern wall.  
It included all sorts of roast meats--red deer, lamb, 
goose, wood pigeon, black grouse, golden plover, pork and 
rabbit--some of which could be seen through the door of the 
tavern, cooking on spits over a huge fireplace made of the 
same white stones that formed the streets.  Somewhere they 
had an oven, too, for Elwyyda could smell bread baking.  
Gildor paused as they settled themselves at a long wooden 
table to wave at several elves fishing in the stream a 
little way downriver.  Some of their contributions might 
have been available for ordering, as fish of all 
descriptions were featured prominently on the menu.  Gildor 
read her many varieties, the fresh ones including pike, 
bream and perch, with salted ones also available from the 
sea far away.  Other offerings were vegetable soups filled 
with carrots, parsnips, turnips, spinach, cabbage and 
potatoes; and fruits such as she had never seen, available 
plain or baked into a custard or pie and topped off with 
hazelnuts and walnuts.

Elwyyda let Gildor choose their lunch, as all they had had 
to eat in the mines was a coarse type of bread and whatever 
they could dig out of the garbage in the refuse room before 
it began to rot and was dumped into the ravine.  As that 
was the remains of the goblin's food, it had rarely been 
cooked--they preferred meat raw--and was of dubious origin.  
Elwyyda therefore ate her soup and thick soft bread with 
butter and cheese gratefully, but was scandalized at the 
waste when Gildor threw the remains of his lunch to some 
geese in the stream below.   He just laughed at her, and 
scooped her up to ride on his shoulder back to the city, 
for the beer that was served with lunch had made her sleepy 
and it was a long way to climb uphill.

She was glad she had accepted his offer, as her new vantage 
point allowed her to see all the wares for sale in the 
large open-air market situated near the city walls, through 
which they passed on their way back.  Stalls sold all types 
of cheeses, made into fat rounds that piled one on top of 
each other in golden hills, fresh meat and meat pastries, 
bee's wax candles, mountains of multicoloured soaps, fine 
woolen rugs heaped under a large tent, and so many other 
things it made her head spin to think of them all.  She was 
almost glad when they returned to the talan and she was 
able to get some sleep, as the day's experiences had been 
exhilarating but exhausting.

*   *   *

Haldir watched through narrowed eyes as Gildor hiked back 
to the talan, carrying that infernal, ever present, 
bothersome creature with him, cradled against one shoulder 
as if she was made of glass and might break if not handled 
carefully.  Haldir really thought he could have lived with 
it, in time, had Gildor decided to throw him over for some 
other elf, but to make it clear that he preferred to spend 
his time with such a creature . . . it was more than could 
be borne.  He waited until Gildor had taken her to her room 
before confronting him, however, as he did not wish an 
audience for the conversation he planned to have.

"Gildor."  He watched as his one time lover carefully shut 
the door to Elwyyda's room, and turned to face him, a 
stunning smile breaking out over his face.

"Wonderful! And I thought I would have to go looking for 
you."  Before Haldir could say a word, Gildor backed him 
into the corridor wall and, heedless of anyone who might 
happen by, kissed him passionately.  His lips were petal-
soft as always, but hungrily insistent, and he tasted of 
honey and spices and all good things . . . "I don't have 
everything ready yet, so you'll have to wait," Gildor 
commented enigmatically, bright eyed and laughing when he 
finally released him.  "Come to our room in an hour," and 
he was gone, again leaving Haldir breathless and awed 
behind him.

*   *   *

Gildor looked about the room and wondered if everything was 
all right.  Haldir was an incredibly sensual, sensitive 
person and on this of all days, he could not disappoint 
him.  He had tidied up, but caught sight of a lone shoe 
sticking out from under the bed, which he hastily kicked 
out of sight.  He took the tall tapers off the table, 
afraid that they would catch the flowers on fire, then 
reconsidered and returned them.  His hand shook slightly as 
he lit them, and he had to almost forcibly restrain himself 
from checking his appearance in the mirror yet again.  He 
was already attired in the new tunic he had picked up at 
the tailor's when getting Elwyyda's garments, and he 
stroked a hand down it lovingly.  He wondered if Haldir 
would remember . . . He shook his head, tried to stop 
grinning, failed, and gave it up.  He was nervous and happy 
and almost deliriously excited . . . he straightened an 
edge of a napkin on the elegant table for two near the 
balcony to give himself something to do, then jumped at a 
knock on the door.  That couldn't be dinner already--it 
would get cold!

When Gildor opened the door, he was surprised to see Haldir 
standing there, looking uncertain, with ill-concealed inner 
turmoil showing in his eyes.  "Haldir, why did you knock?"  
Gildor towed him inside and had to remind himself to keep 
his hands off him until they had had their celebration, but 
oh how difficult it was!  Haldir was taking in the table, 
with its huge bouquet, cheerily burning tapers and 
sparkling settings, and the gaily-wrapped package Gildor 
held out to him.  "You didn't think I would forget, did 
you?"

Haldir looked bemused, but took the gift.  He merely 
regarded it for a moment, one finger stroking the soft 
paper of the wrapping but not attempting to open it, before 
he looked back at Gildor, his eyes running over the deep 
orange of the silky tunic he wore.  "But that can't be . . 
. "

"It's a replica," Gildor told him, feeling suddenly shy.  
"I wore the old one until it was nothing more than a rag, 
but I remembered every line of embroidery, every animal . . 
. I think I almost memorized it!"  He laughed, thinking 
regretfully back on all those long nights, curled up with 
only the tattered remnants of Haldir's gift to remember him 
by.  If only he hadn't waited so long to approach him once 
more!  It had surprised the tailors when Gildor insisted, 
as soon as he returned with Haldir to Lorien two weeks ago, 
on their following his diagrams exactly, even when they 
pointed out to him ways in which the design might be 
improved.  He had merely smiled, "No, it's perfect the way 
it is."  And seeing Haldir's expression, he knew that he 
had been right.  He was just glad that they had made it 
back to Lorien before tonight--he would have hated to spend 
this of all evenings somewhere on the road, sleeping on the 
ground amidst too many companions.

Another knock interrupted and Gildor let in the happily 
smiling elves with the dinner he had chosen so carefully 
that morning with the cook.  They were efficient, and soon 
had the small table piled high with all Haldir's favourite 
delicacies, but it seemed to Gildor that they did not move 
nearly quickly enough.

"Open your gift."  Gildor demanded eagerly, when the 
servants had finally arranged things to their liking and 
departed.  Haldir just continued to stand there, however, 
looking completely nonplussed.

"This is where you were all day?  Making these 
arrangements?"

Gildor smiled as he opened the wine.  Thranduil was going 
to howl when he discovered this was gone.  It was, the wine 
steward had informed him last night, the very last of the 
Berdruskan dark, and a particularly fine year at that.  No 
matter, it was Haldir's favourite, and tonight everything 
was going to go as planned for a change.  "It was a bit 
rushed, getting everything ready--I didn't think we would 
be away so long."

Haldir still wasn't opening his gift, but just stood there, 
blinking at it.  Gildor handed him a glass and took the 
package from him impatiently.  "Drink that, and I'LL open 
it.  I'm dying for you to see them--I designed them 
myself."  Gildor had always loved to sketch things, a 
talent which came in handy for making maps of new regions 
for Lord Elrond, but this was the first time he had tried 
to use his talent to create something artistic, and he 
truly hoped Haldir would like it.  He couldn't give him 
anything to compare with the riches his lover already had, 
so designing him something that he could not buy had been 
the only possible option.  Especially for a night as 
important as this.

Gildor presented the closed, polished wood case to Haldir.  
His lover sat his untouched wine glass down and accepted 
the box as reverentially as if it had been carved of 
mithril.  Opening it slowly, his expression did not change 
as he took one of the small, carved pieces into his hands.  
The ivory players were elves, their armor an exact 
duplicate of that worn in the Last Alliance.  The wooden 
pieces were, however, Gildor's favourites, and he was 
surprised that they didn't elicit at least a small smile 
from Haldir.  Tiny crystals glowed in the eyes of the 
miniature dragons, their scales, teeny horns and even the 
miniscule veins in their wings were all perfectly rendered.  
The pawns were dragons still in the egg, just their long 
snouts sticking out, whereas the other pieces showed them 
in different stages of growth and activity.  Gildor had 
thought only to remind Haldir of their early adventure 
together, but seeing no expression, at least none that he 
could name, cross those handsome features, he began to 
worry.

What if Haldir took it the wrong way, and thought Gildor 
was trying to remind him of something else entirely?  
Gildor suddenly felt extremely gauche, having never 
contemplated how his sensitive lover might interpret the 
gesture.  He wanted to say something, do something, to make 
things better, but fear clutched at him and made it 
impossible.  Oh, how could he have been so stupid, and he 
had actually been looking forward to Haldir's reaction!

*   *   *

"I don't deserve you."  Haldir looked lovingly into 
Gildor's eyes, where dark anxiety was soon replaced by that 
beautiful light he loved.  Warm arms moved to twine behind 
his neck and tugged him across the few inches that 
separated them, into a soft kiss.  Gildor's capacity for 
forgiveness and love never ceased to astonish him.  "It's 
perfect."

Gildor smiled, eyes liquid as he tightened the embrace.  
"Happy anniversary, Haldir."

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 10/?

*   *   *

"Ah.  I thought I might find you here, Cam."

Elrohir paused at the entrance of his chambers, surprised to hear his 
companion addressing an apparently empty room; then he noticed one of 
the Noldor crouched behind his door.   He looked between the two of 
them, wondering why Camthalion would be seeking Erestor in his rooms, 
of all places.  Elrohir had caught up with his old tutor after dinner, wanting 
to discuss his plans for Glorfindel, and they had walked back to his suite 
together.  But Camthalion could not have known that would be the case, 
could he?

Erestor smiled, a little oddly Elrohir thought, as Camthalion stood.  "You 
have five minutes, beginning now," he informed him.  Yet, strangely, 
Camthalion did not wait to speak to Erestor, but exited the room swiftly, 
after only a minute hesitation.  Perhaps, Elrohir thought, he had decided he 
needed more time than that with him.

"What was that all about?"  Elrohir watched, confused, as Erestor casually 
picked something off the floor and tucked it into a pocket in his robes.

"Oh, nothing, Elrohir.  Glorfindel will be back soon.  Don't you have 
preparations to make?  By the way, I will be . . . otherwise occupied . . . 
this evening.  So I shall wish you success and good fortune now."

"Thank you."  Elrohir hoped, he really did, that this was going to work.  
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he hardly noticed when Erestor 
disappeared, merging into the shadows of the corridor without a sound.

*   *   *

Camthalion felt his blood throbbing in his ears as he ran, full out and 
heedless of the danger, pounding through the forest as easily as if it had 
been day.  Despite the fact that Lorien was never completely dark, away 
from the lanterns of the city it could be quite dim at night, but that little 
mattered to one who knew these paths as well as he.  Normally, 
Camthalion never ran--it was unnecessary and undignified, and why 
would he need to do so in the course of his usual duties?  But tonight, he 
pelted through the underbrush until his heart felt as if it would seize up in 
his chest, until he was certain that he had traveled so far that Lord Erestor 
could not possibly find him.  Then, finally, he stopped, leaning against a 
tree, breathing hard, and wondering just how far he had come.

He listened, after he quieted his breathing enough to allow him to do so, 
but heard no sound of following footsteps.  He waited, but minutes passed 
and still there was nothing.  Camthalion knew he should feel comforted, 
but he did not; instead, the bright glow that had suffused him--partly fear, 
partly excitement--at the thought of what price might be exacted for his 
actions, faded, leaving him cold and alone.

He wondered what to do.  The logical thing, of course, would simply be to 
go back, as there was nothing that could be proved against him.  Nothing 
had happened to the young Peredhil, after all.  Camthalion wondered in 
grim amusement what exactly he would have done had Erestor not 
interfered.  He was no kin slayer, no matter what others whispered, and 
would not become one now.  It had seemed reasonable that Erestor would 
take the opportunity to spend the night with his young lover, however, and 
Cam had waited for him, in the hopes, he now realised, that he would be 
caught.  And not only to keep him from his vague plan of kidnapping the 
elfling--for what would he have done with him once he had him?  Keep 
him perpetually confined?  And if so, where?  And how would that have 
won him what he desired?

No, Camthalion thought, facing the truth with more equanimity than he 
would have thought possible, he had WANTED to be stopped; more, he 
had wanted to be punished.   Still did want it in fact, he acknowledged 
ruefully.  Erestor brought out something in him that, until they met, he had 
never recognised in himself.  Their times together were exhilarating; the 
pain, the fear, the subjugation, led to a rush to his head and throughout his 
body that he could not explain.  It was almost like being in battle, only 
better, more intense somehow.  And the feeling after the excitement faded 
was immensely pleasurable in itself; he had felt happier, more loved, and 
more secure in Erestor's company than anywhere else he had ever known.  
True punishment was being denied his drug of choice as he had been this 
past week.  True pain was to think that he would never feel that way again.

He resigned himself to returning to the city, something that would, at a 
normal pace, probably take several hours or more, and then he heard it.  It 
was faint and far off, but Camthalion knew the usual sounds of the forest 
at night, and could differentiate the songs of the trees and the wind from . . 
. others.  As the slight rustling came closer, he permitted himself a small 
hope.  His brain tried to argue that it was probably only an elf on a late 
walk, but why would anyone be out this far, and in this direction?  There 
were no homes here, no farms, no attraction to tempt a wanderer away 
from the city.  But, as the sounds grew closer, he knew they were without 
question the footsteps of an elf, and one not bothering to conceal his 
approach.

Camthalion could not speak as Erestor, still dressed in his evening robes 
of glittering black velvet, stepped into view, awful in his beauty.  He had 
something in his hand, and a glance told Camthalion what it was--the rope 
he had dropped in Elrohir's quarters.  He wondered now if that, too, had 
been on purpose.  It was strange, this feeling that his own mind was 
conspiring against him.

They exchanged no words, but none were needed.  He knew what Erestor 
wanted, it was clear in the dark eyes, in the proud tilt of his chin, and in 
the slight smile that lifted the corners of his mouth when he saw the elf 
before him remain standing, eyes and head unbowed.  The challenge was 
issued and accepted, silently.  Camthalion didn't know what rash impulse 
was prompting this, but he found that he really didn't care.  The old feeling 
was coming back, a faint tingle now, but soon, he knew, it would be 
roaring through his veins.  Erestor had taught him that, along with so 
many other things.

His master wore black gloves, Cam noted, for no reason that he could see, 
as the night was not that chilly.  He suddenly felt his own palms sweat, but 
almost a paralysis kept him from moving as Erestor walked forward.  He 
was so casual, that Cam never saw it coming.  Or maybe he did, but that 
part of him, that daredevil, adrenaline-loving, risk taking aspect of him 
that wanted--needed--this, didn't care.  It was over before he realised it, 
and he found his wrists bound with his own rope.  He stood quietly as the 
line was tossed over the tree limb above him, then tied off.  Nothing was 
hurried--indeed, Erestor's movements were almost leisurely--yet he could 
not resist.  Part of him wanted to fight against what he knew would 
happen, but instead he stood still, watching with almost detached interest 
as his master pulled a knife out of his belt and caressed the blade.

*   *   *

"A bonding?  Already?"  The king seemed bemused.  "Don't you feel that 
is a
trifle . . . precipitate?"  Thranduil was a vision that evening, the rich, 
antique gold of the twisted torque he wore almost exactly matching the 
velvet of his robes, the fire's light helping to gild him from head to foot.  
This was never going to work, Elladan thought weakly.

"No," Elladan pulled Orophin closer against him, keeping a firm arm 
about his waist.  "We don't think it is too soon at all."  Orophin's arm 
tightened about his shoulders, and Elladan took comfort from the gesture.  
"We are both past our majority and free to choose, and we choose each 
other."

Thranduil regarded them over the edge of his wine glass, his emerald eyes 
slightly narrowed in what Elladan hoped was not suspicion.  "Then I wish 
you well, although I must wonder why you come to me with this.  Is your 
own sire not here?"

"Y-yes, of course."  Elladan took a steadying breath, then continued.  "But 
father is . . . preoccupied . . . as you know, and very weak.  Healing 
injuries of that magnitude takes a great deal of strength, and I do not wish 
to add this to the other burdens he carries.  Who can say how long it may 
be before he can once more concern himself with such things?"

"Your grandsire then," Thranduil waved a lazy hand, its emerald signet 
catching the light.  "Cannot Celeborn perform this ceremony for you?"

"No, your majesty," Orophin broke in smoothly, for which Elladan could 
have kissed him.  "My own sire passed beyond the sea many cycles ago, 
along with my mother.  Lord Celeborn has been kind enough to say that he 
will stand by me in father's place at the bonding, and he cannot fulfill two 
roles."

"So you wish me to do it."

Elladan nodded, hoping that he gave off the proper impression of an eager 
young lover.  "You did foster me for a short time, your majesty, so it does 
seem appropriate.  And your rank being what it is . . . it would be a 
compliment to our house, to have you perform our bond."

Thranduil smiled, and lifted his glass slightly as if in salute, although 
Elladan had no idea what he was complimenting.  "Very well, my dear 
Elladan.  I will be most honoured to officiate at the bonding.  Indeed, I feel 
quite flattered."

Elladan smiled, a little feebly, as the firelight danced in Thranduil's 
amused eyes.  For some reason, he had the feeling that Elrohir was in for it 
again, and he along with him.

*   *   *

Erestor admired the way his knife caught the moonlight, then allowed 
himself the luxury of insuring that he cut Camthalion's clothes off slowly, 
following along the seams so they could be easily repaired.  He could 
afford such generosity, for tonight there was no pressure of duties to 
perform or problems to solve.  He had all the time he wanted, and he 
intended to fully enjoy it.  As the last piece of cloth fell to the grass he 
kicked it aside, not wanting to see it stained.  Blood was so very hard to 
wash out, especially of fine fabric.

Erestor paused, listening to Camthalion's suddenly laboured breathing.  
The elf almost vibrated with need.  Indulging himself momentarily, for 
after all, there was time, Erestor slid a hand down the heaving torso before 
him and fondled Cam's erection roughly, twisting his balls as he did so, 
smiling when he heard him moan.  Oh yes, Camthalion wanted this, had 
wanted it for days, but not nearly as badly as Erestor wished to give it to 
him.  So responsive, this one, and so unusual; Cam trembled at a glance 
but withstood beatings that would kill a human without complaint.  A rare 
and precious find.

Erestor tossed aside his cloak and stepped back, unhooking his whip from 
his belt.  A flick of his wrist sent the strap slicing through the air, to land 
almost gently against the perfect skin of his captive's back.  He smiled to 
see the annoyance in Cam's eyes at its mildness.  The next stroke was 
heavier, the sweet sound of its snap and thud echoing around the glade, 
and it left a welt behind that looked almost black against the pale, Ithil-
kissed flesh.  Camthalion leaned into the blows that followed, and they 
soon criss-crossed his back and sides with a tracery of thick weals.  When 
Erestor moved on to similarly decorate his stomach, Cam trembled 
slightly, but still did not cry out.  That did not surprise--it was too soon, 
and he had only begun to warm up.

Removing a flask from his cloak pocket, Erestor paused to admire the 
abused torso in front of him before pouring some of the liquid into his 
leather-covered palm.  He doubted Cam was experienced enough yet to 
understand just why he was wearing gloves, so this night would serve two 
purposes--pleasure, and an addition to his education.  Erestor briefly 
pinched the tightly furled nipples before allowing the burning oil to slowly 
trickle over the raw flesh on Cam's chest, cherishing the bone deep 
shudders that his subject was powerless to hide.  He must be on fire with 
pain by now, yet still he did not cry out.  Oh yes, this one begged to be 
pushed, to discover his true limits.

Erestor returned to his cloak and removed the thick coils of his cat.  He 
rarely had the opportunity to use it, as there were so few who appreciated 
its kiss, but he had the feeling that this might be such a one.  Camthalion 
did not disappoint, bracing his legs as well as he could in his stretched 
position, tensing his buttocks as he waited patiently for this next stage in 
his training.  Erestor had been called an artist with the lash, capable of 
finding the perfect spot time after time, building a hypnotic cadence until 
his subjects screamed with the gratification it brought.  He was especially 
careful now, insuring that the stinging bites were perfectly placed to send 
his subject soaring into sensual, beautiful pain.  Camthalion began to hiss, 
the breath forced through clenched teeth, as repeated blows lacerated his 
already battered back and left new weals on his buttocks and legs.

Erestor pushed him more than he usually allowed himself, more than he 
could have done with anyone at Imladris, who played the game but 
always, always stopped short.  They did not understand the release that 
came only with time, the all-consuming tide of pleasure that was the 
reward and the aftermath of great pain.  He often wondered why his 
playmates at Imladris bothered--for they never achieved that kind of 
release, would not go on after they began to gasp and jerk away form the 
blows, ending the dance just when it was truly about to begin.  No, they 
didn't understand.  They were children playing at being "bad," searching 
for some new thrill to enliven their dull routine, but missing the artistry of 
the sport, at which they would never have the courage to become anything 
more than amateurs.  But this one, oh, this one.  He might be different.

*   *   *

"Thranduil agreed, Elrohir, but I really think you should . . . "  Elladan 
paused, halfway through the door of his brother's rooms.  "What the . . . ."

Orophin, from behind him, gave a low whistle.  Elrohir scowled at them 
both, turning from the mirror where he had been finishing his final braid.  
"Why are you two here?  I told you he'd fall for it, didn't I?"  Seeing that 
they were still standing in the middle of his rooms, mouths agape and 
looking quite foolish, Elrohir gave a sigh.  Really, and to think he had to 
rely on such help!  "Don't you have somewhere else you need to be?"

Elladan said nothing, just began to walk around him, eyes wide in 
amazement.  "You look . . . good . . . brother," he finally managed to say.

Elrohir preened slightly under his brother's admiration--a rare enough 
thing to be sure--but it did not greatly mollify him.  "You have to go--now.  
He'll be here soon and you'll spoil the mood."

Elrohir watched as Elladan's eyes took in the room, and Orophin suddenly 
laughed.  "He doesn't stand a chance!  You don't do things by halves, do 
you?"

"Will you two just leave?"  Elrohir finally lost patience and literally 
shoved them out the door.  "Go!  Find something else to do!"

"It might be more instructional to stay here," Orophin replied, with a 
distinct leer.

Elrohir glared at him, then turned his best, pleading gaze on his brother.  
"Elladan, please?"

The two in the hall exchanged a glance.  "If you insist brother," Elladan 
murmured.  "Come, Orophin, let us go . . . find something else to do, as 
my brother suggests."

Finally, Elrohir thought, closing the door on them gratefully.  Now, to 
business.

*   *   *

Camthalion was flying so high on the sensations pulsing through his veins 
that he almost didn't realise it when the scourging ended.  His first 
indication that something had changed was the water, cool and clear and 
unlaced with anything, that poured over his heated skin.  So hypersensitive 
had the beating made him that even this was tortuous.  It was followed by 
a gentle touch along his stinging back, as slender, strong hands traced the 
network of cuts, welts, and bruises marring his flesh.  He bit his lip, his 
teeth tearing deeply into the skin, as he clenched his eyes shut and fought 
not to scream.   Somehow, the gentle caress was almost worse than the 
whipping, forcing him back into himself, insuring that he felt every line, 
every mark, before moving downward to briefly tease his sac. Camthalion 
groaned aloud then, the combination of pain and pleasure so strong as to 
almost overwhelm, and he craved more, so much more . . .

Erestor's exploration went on and on, his feather light touch its own form 
of torment, and he missed nothing--delicately exploring Cam's hands, 
arms, legs, and feet, occasionally pinching without warning, but mostly 
barely touching him, cataloguing his reactions.  Cam wanted to scream 
then, wanted to beg him to do something, anything, but just stop this 
gentle torment, but he bit down harder and remained silent.  Erestor finally 
finished his inspection, standing close enough to Cam that he could feel 
his breath on his torn lips, and the warmth that radiated from his body.

"I love your silence, and I hate it," Erestor murmured, rolling a bruised 
nipple between his fingers.  "Tell me," he said lightly, trailing the coils of 
the whip along Cam's back, the roughness of it grating his skin, "what 
would it take for you to lose control?  To make you scream?"  Cam 
thought about telling him--he was truly tempted, but some instinct, 
perhaps the same one that had brought him here, held him back.  "Still so 
silent?"  Cam wondered if it was his imagination, or if Erestor really did 
sound pleased as he stroked a thumb over Cam's swollen lower lip, raw 
sensuality in his voice.  Yes, he had liked it.  Suddenly Cam understood--
Erestor preferred him defiant, he actually enjoyed the challenge.  Slowly, 
he raised his eyes to his master's face, saw how his breath came quickly 
through the red, parted lips, and how his eyes were almost glazed behind 
his long lashes.  He swallowed thickly, knowing in that second that he 
loved his master, loved him more than life itself, more than he had thought 
he could care about anyone.  Then he laughed, more of a croaking sound 
than the rippling tone he had intended, but the impression was conveyed 
nonetheless.  Erestor's eyes lit with the knowledge that, even now, 
Camthalion was not bowed.  Yes, Cam thought, feeling pride so strong it 
approached bliss, you will have to do better than that.

With part of his mind appalled at his audacity, Cam moved quickly to 
twine his legs about Erestor's, trapping his master against him as he leaned 
forward to suck hard at his lips and tongue, claiming him with a passion 
that was almost rage.  Then he suddenly pushed him away and contorted 
his body, trying to find enough purchase on the ground to propel him 
upwards.  If he could manage to swing just one leg over the tree branch, 
he could free himself of his bonds in a few seconds, and then they would 
see . . .

Of course, he failed.  Erestor had fallen to the ground with the force of 
Cam's blow, but was on his feet again almost immediately.  Instead of 
approaching his captive, however, he moved to the tree trunk and swiftly 
untied the rope.  Camthalion, not expecting the move, crashed to the 
ground and, before he could regain his feet, Erestor was on him.  The 
beautiful mouth he so longed for was hard as it crushed his, the teeth sharp 
as they tortured his lacerated lips, the tongue that forced its way into his 
mouth possessive and demanding as it matched Camthalion's anguished 
desire.  Those talented hands that could inflict such torment, dragged 
down his bare back and fondled his buttocks, a single finger probing along 
the cleft until it found that most intimate of spots.

"Please!" Camthalion finally broke his silence, gasping as his tightly 
clenched opening was breached. Then came burning pain as a rigid finger 
went suddenly deeper, his flesh closing hot and soft around it.  Erestor's 
other hand reached around his body to stroke his stiff organ, bringing him 
to the point of climax with practised ease.  Then both hands were gone, 
and Erestor stood over him, dark and terrible and exquisite in the night.

"Undress me."  It was a command, but this one Cam could not resist.  He 
moved quickly to stand, but Erestor's hand on his head kept him from 
rising further than his knees.   His hands still bound, he used his teeth, 
undoing the silken knot of his master's belt with difficulty, but at last it 
slipped free.  The velvet robes were soft against his skin, although the tiny 
jet beads that decorated them, which had been faceted to catch the light, 
scratched his face as he burrowed among the folds, trying to find the 
hidden catches.  The garment was fiendishly complex, and he wondered 
briefly if Erestor had worn it on purpose.

Had he known he would find him?  Cam decided it was likely.  The 
thought that Erestor had watched him carefully enough to be able to 
surmise his plans sent a warm rush through him, and he redoubled his 
efforts.  At last, the luxurious garments slithered down over the glowing 
golden skin, leaving his master clad only in a brief loincloth.  Cam paused, 
looking up for permission, but received only a raised eyebrow in return.  A 
brief tug and the final garment fell away, allowing the evidence of 
Erestor's attraction to him to spring free.  Before Cam could give it the 
attention it deserved, he was pushed to the ground, his bound hands 
trapped beneath him, Erestor's weight coming to rest between his legs.

"You will scream for me," his master's voice promised, but Cam bit down 
on his tongue and buried his face in the grass, refusing to comply.  What 
followed immediately was no tender assault, no gentle, slow seduction. 
Instead, Cam felt himself spread wide, and the next second, his master was 
imbedded in him balls deep, stroking deeply, demanding with every thrust 
Cam's complete compliance, his utter surrender.  Cam saw lightening 
burst across his vision, as the tide of his desire and sweep of emotions 
long repressed were at last allowed voice.  It brought him to ecstasy, and 
finally he submitted, screaming out Erestor's name as the elf's hot seed 
burned him from within as his own soaked the ground beneath him.

Erestor slowly withdrew, and Cam could hear the sounds of him dressing.  
Camthalion had never felt so at peace in his life, as he lay on the ground at 
his master's feet.  Then soft hands were rubbing a soothing cream on his 
back and over his abused thighs, as a sweet voice praised his beauty.  
There was an edge of ice in the tone, however, when he was ordered to his 
feet.  "Pick up your things," Erestor commanded, and Cam quickly went to 
gather the heap of cloth that had once been his clothing.  As he returned to 
his master's side, he found Erestor regarding him critically.  "We'll discuss 
your lack of respect later," he promised, a bite in his voice that Cam both 
dreaded and hungered to hear.  After straightening a few minute wrinkles 
out of his robes, Erestor walked off in the direction of the city.  Cam 
watched him go with a feeling of abject loss stealing over him.  He could 
not follow unless commanded, so he stood there forlornly, holding his 
ripped clothes in his still bound hands.  Had he been found unworthy?  
Had he not pleased him?  Was this his real punishment, to remain here, 
alone and abandoned, as Erestor returned to his young lover?

"Come along, Camthalion," Erestor's tone was impatient as it drifted back 
over his shoulder.  Cam felt his heart give a leap, and he gratefully 
obeyed, following the mind numbingly erotic creature through the trees.  
His master.

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 11/?

*   *   *

Elrond sat, as he had for two days, watching . . . him . . 
. sleep.  The lanterns about the talan had been lit not 
long before, but there were none very near his window. Yet 
thin particles danced on beams of Ithil's light, slipping 
easily through the loosely woven curtains, illuminating the 
room well enough, perhaps too well. The silver fingers that 
caressed the aquiline features of the elf on the bed showed 
him not as the robust hero of a past age, but as a fragile, 
withered being that scarcely resembled an elf anymore--a 
living ghost. Kneeling beside him, Elrond lifted an 
emaciated arm, carefully cradling the narrow wrist where 
translucent skin revealed a network of fine azure veins. 
His hands slid around to support the slender neck as he 
vainly scanned the shadowed eyes for some sign of 
improvement.  The face before him was barely recognizable, 
composed only of angular planes and gaunt, hollow cheeks, 
its expression listless, as if all emotion had been burned 
away along with the flesh.  Elrond felt a hundred things at 
once as he regarded him--distress, protectiveness, pity--
none of which he had ever thought to feel for one who had 
been so strong.

After tucking the blankets more securely around the frigid 
form, Elrond resumed his seat and his vigil, rubbing 
tiredly at his eyes.  He had ceased to notice the shivers 
that racked his own body or the iciness of his skin, but he 
did notice that he was tired, so very tired.  But he would 
not rest, could not.  He had not been there the last time . 
. . he . . . needed him--had left him to run after Isildor, 
thinking his king already dead--and he would not make the 
same mistake twice.

He couldn't have rested anyway.  The dim light, the creaks 
and groans of the talan as it moved slightly in the night 
breeze, the almost imperceptible sound of the rise and fall 
of his companion's breathing, all conspired to deny him 
sleep.  Worst of all, however, was that cursed song that 
kept running through his head, like a minstrel who had 
drunk too much wine at a summer festival and wouldn't shut 
up. It lingered over him like a sinister echo, causing a 
pulse of despair to shudder through him.  He pushed aside 
his thoughts, dismissing them as unhealthy and futile. 
Dwelling on the past would not aid the future. He had 
learned the hard way to focus on the present, to release 
the past and to trust the future to care for itself.  But 
still that endless, annoying, juvenile rhyme continued . . 
.

Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sings . . .

And they had.  There were songs composed in tribute to 
others, even some to himself, and ballads written of lovers 
and as praises to Arda's beauty.  But those that were 
invariably sung at important occasions, all, all were about 
. . . him.  It was partly his status as a hero, yes, but 
also because there had been no closure--not for any of 
them.  No body to mourn and properly bury, no eulogies to 
praise his many accomplishments.  So they sang their 
tributes, and continued to sing them as the centuries 
passed, striving, he supposed, to make sense of the 
incomprehensible.  Yet not one of those ridiculous, long-
winded, pretentious ballads had ever got it right.

A bitter taste filled Elrond's mouth. His usual control 
eluded him, as it had for weeks, like a delicate spider's 
web that tore when he clasped it too tightly.  He still 
couldn't say it.  He could hear his own voice, echoing the 
name just a few days ago, but he couldn't make himself 
utter the words now.  He knew he should feel joy, but what 
he actually found running through his veins was a sort of 
horror, and a disbelief that he had left his king to such a 
fate.  He had stood by while they wrote songs about him, 
mourned him, painted murals of his last moments . . . and 
had spent countless days trying, and failing, to forget. 
Some foresight, some prescience should have warned him, but 
it had not.

The last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.

He let the heels of his hands press into his eyes, yet 
still he saw the arched marble halls and swaying golden 
leaves of a city that had since crumbled to dust.  And 
there, on the steps of the palace, a tall and strikingly 
good-looking elf, with a sun-kissed complexion and glorious 
body under a dazzlingly white tunic emblazoned with stars.  
One look in the brilliant lapis eyes, so serene yet so 
joyous, and he had been lost.  When those sensual lips 
curved into a sudden smile on seeing him, he found the 
expression contagious and had smiled for days.  Crush, 
infatuation, whatever it was--it had been instantaneous and 
overwhelming.  He had never before or since loved so 
quickly or so completely.

Elrond let his head fall back against the hard wood of the 
chair, heedless of the pain in his stiff neck.  He still 
marveled at the delighted laughter and almost perpetual 
good humour of the one who had so easily captured his 
heart.  The king had been generous and kind to the anxious 
new arrival at his court, and what a court it was!  None of 
them now could touch it, not Mirkwood or Lorien or even his 
own Imladris, for Lindon the great had also been Lindon the 
fair, with its natural beauty enhanced by every art known 
to elf, dwarf or man.  He could still almost hear the 
singing fountains that gave the realm its name, their 
delicate metal and crystal plates quivering with a thousand 
soft songs as water cascaded over them, setting a multitude 
of rainbows dancing on the air, while blossoms from the 
flowering trees blew with random beauty over polished 
flagstones.  Whenever anyone praised the "perfection" of 
Imladris, he smiled, but it was always tinged with sadness, 
for he could call nothing fair after that lost home.

Even more fascinating than the material attractions, 
however, were the elves, who had dwelt in Lindon in 
countless throngs unknown these days, and in a mix not seen 
since. The survivors of Beleriand, Sindar from Doriath and 
the Falas, Noldor from Gondolin and the houses of Fingolfin 
and Fëanor, and Laiquendi, the early settlers of the area, 
as well as Numenorian visitors.  Elrond had felt at home 
there, despite the uneasiness between Sindar and Noldor, as 
he never had anywhere else.  Perhaps it was because all the 
varied strains in his family line were represented: Noldor 
from his father's line, Sindar from his mother's, and men 
from both.  But to the young Peredhil, having just chosen 
to live as an elf rather than a man, none was more stunning 
than his host, the last of the High Kings of the Noldor.  
Soon Elrond had found many excuses to spend all the time he 
could with his kinsman.

Idly fingering a lock of dark hair that was woven around 
part of a silken banner, Elrond allowed himself the 
indulgence of remembering.  The small token had long been 
his talisman, and he regularly wore it pinned within his 
robes, especially when faced with a difficult decision or 
task.  It brought him comfort and a measure of serenity, as 
if his old mentor was standing beside him, guiding his 
actions.  He remembered clearly the day he acquired it.  He 
and the king had ridden out beyond the city walls with a 
party of other elves and stopped near a small stream to 
partake of their midday meal.  His liege had insisted on a 
game of skill to amuse them all after lunch, and Elrond had 
successfully passed along the swaying rope stretched across 
the stream more times and faster than any other in the 
company.  Laughing, the king had asked him what he would 
choose as a reward.  It had taken all Elrond's self-control 
not to tell him, despite the presence of many others, what 
he would truly like, and after a brief inward struggle he 
had simply said that he would think on it.  He had assumed 
the king would forget, but that night after dinner he 
caught Elrond as he was leaving the great hall and asked 
again.

Elrond could still recall the warmth of the king's light 
touch on his shoulder, and the great effort it had taken 
not to lean toward him.  He had wondered then, in a panic, 
if his lord had noticed how often Elrond had made an excuse 
to touch him, brushing against him at every opportunity, 
passing too closely when going through a doorway, his hands 
lingering a bit too long as he helped him onto his horse.  
He had raised his eyes to meet the shining blue ones of his 
lord and then quickly looked away before he betrayed 
himself, his chest tightening as he dared not even breathe. 
He had been afraid his king would somehow learn of the 
burning desire that had been building in him for so long.  
Elrond was highly conscious of his mixed parentage and the 
suspicion that his years with Maglor still caused in 
others' eyes, and had not wanted to see shock, 
embarrassment or, worse, revulsion in that beloved gaze.  
But the king had not allowed him to slip away; instead he 
dropped his hand to Elrond's elbow and steered him into a 
nearby room.  It was an empty antechamber to the main 
dining area, dark except for the flickering shapes a few 
low burning tapers sent dancing along the walls.

"What is wrong, Voronwer?  You have been avoiding me all 
night." The smooth, rich voice was mesmerizing to Elrond, 
who found it impossible to speak.  He noticed, though, how 
the king's very presence seemed to bring the room to 
shimmering life--he carried so much light within himself 
that darkness could not survive when he was near.

"I . . . nothing, my liege, I . . . did not mean to 
offend."

The king regarded him with a somewhat bemused look, his 
dark head tilted slightly to the side.  "You have not 
offended me, young one.  But you promised to think on your 
reward."  The king absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair 
behind his ear as he spoke, and Elrond suddenly knew what 
he wanted.  Before he could think how presumptuous it would 
sound, he blurted out his request.  The king's usual 
unflappable manner and elaborate courtesy had not faltered; 
without so much as a minor hesitation, he pulled a knife 
from his belt and cut a lock of his shining hair.  "A small 
thing, surely," he had commented, handing it over with a 
slight bow.  "But if it pleases you . . . "

Elrond had looked at him silently, unable to tell him what 
would truly please him, but somehow the king seemed to 
know.  "Vanimle sila tiri, Elrond."*  There was no mockery 
in his eyes, no sarcasm in his voice as he lifted the young 
elf's chin and regarded him searchingly.  Unlike others, 
who had been known to treat Elrond as if he were somehow 
tainted because of his human blood, the king's manner 
showed nothing but admiration.  Before Elrond fully 
realised what was happening, he found himself being kissed 
by lips that knew how to prolong sensation, and tasted by a 
tongue that coiled provocatively about his own, sending 
flames all the way to his fingertips. Elrond had stood 
breathless and somewhat alarmed at the strength of his 
feelings, when at last they parted.  "It cannot surprise 
you to hear that I find you exceptionally appealing."  The 
king smiled warmly as he passed a thumb lightly over 
Elrond's lower lip.  "I would consider it a great honour to 
take you to bed."

"I . . . " Elrond was a mass of conflicting emotions, with 
fear being uppermost.  He could hardly believe he was being 
offered his heart's desire so casually, when he had barely 
managed to that point to speak coherently in his king's 
presence.  It was all too much, too soon.  "Thank you, my 
liege, but I don't . . . that is, I'm not . . . "

The king had taken the garbled refusal with good humour.  
"Perhaps another time, then."  He stepped back and, with 
another warm smile, left Elrond standing in a room that 
suddenly seemed dim and cold without him.

Elrond had clutched his prize to his chest.  "Amin harmuva 
onalle e' cormamin,"** he whispered, but the king had not 
heard.  He had afterwards carefully hidden away the lock of 
hair, so close to his own shade, and much later wrapped it 
in a torn banner . . . He winced, as less pleasant memories 
tried to engulf him, but he pushed them away.  They weren't 
what he wanted to remember now.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;

Slowly, over many years, the king brought his young 
relative into prominence as a trusted advisor.  That such a 
wise, accomplished elf would rely so much on his advice had 
caused Elrond to blossom from a somewhat shy and nervous 
youth into a confident, outgoing adult.  Many had 
complimented him on his charm, loyalty and diplomacy, but 
it had all been because he wanted to keep his king's high 
regard, needed to see approval in those eyes.

The king had never referred to their conversation in the 
anteroom, nor had he repeated his offer.  He was as gentle 
and patient with Elrond as if with a favoured child, 
teaching him all that he knew about managing a large and 
diverse realm.  Elrond had absorbed the lessons and enjoyed 
being so often in his king's company, but the almost 
paternal fondness with which he was treated caused him to 
worry that perhaps his liege saw him as a substitute for 
the son he had never had.  The thought had driven him 
almost to distraction, for Elrond's feelings towards his 
king were anything but filial.  But his gratitude and 
deference had long kept him silent.

Elrond supposed it was a combination of many things that 
had finally brought the situation to a head: his exhaustion 
after a long series of debates which had attempted, and 
failed, to heal the widening gap between Sindar and Noldor 
in Lindon, his frustration at the king's perfect serenity--
which he was far from feeling himself--and the sheer beauty 
of his liege as he carefully collected a group of scrolls 
and prepared to reshelve them with his usual 
meticulousness.   The late afternoon light had poured over 
him as he stood by his desk, gleaming white robes a perfect 
foil for his dark hair, his deep blue eyes as beautiful as 
they were tranquil. Whatever the cause, Elrond's control 
had finally snapped, and before he could stop himself, he 
had pressed his king back against the wall and kissed him 
hard.  His mind was screaming at him for his abject 
stupidity, but the hunger he had felt building for so long 
at last overpowered his resolve.  "A'maelamin, how long 
I've wanted . . . lirimaer, you shine so brightly . . . the 
sun pales beside you . . . " He knew at some point in the 
babble that followed that he was becoming incoherent, but 
he didn't care.  All that mattered was the warm, willing 
elf in his arms, who did not protest at all as he pinned 
him against the wall and proceeded to ravish him.

They had not openly declared their love, for to do so would 
have been to forfeit any chance in the ongoing negotiations 
with the Sindar, who regarded Elrond as their champion at 
court.  Had he been formally the king's consort, he would 
not have commanded the same respect nor been able to 
attempt to be a bridge between the sundered groups in 
Lindon.  Still, by the time of the Last Alliance he had to 
assume that most people knew.  It hardly mattered by then, 
anyway, as the negotiations among the elves had largely 
failed, with various companies leaving Lindon to form 
communities of their own, and Sauron rising as more of a 
threat than division could ever be.

The countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.

And so Elrond's thoughts came back, as they always did, to 
Mordor.  It had been dim and dreary that day, the last in 
the siege of Barad-dur, but their banners had whipped 
almost cheerfully in the high wind, the glistening silver 
backgrounds and pure white stars adding beauty even to that 
diseased landscape.  The king's eyes, usually so calm and 
gentle, had gleamed with a fierce light as he and Elrond 
positioned their troops.  Elrond had had little time for 
contemplation in the midst of battle, but he remembered 
noting with pride that his lover shone as brightly in that 
ravaged land as he always had in Lindon, wielding Aeglos 
with a power and skill that carved a wide path all about 
him.

Then the battle had closed about Elrond and he had been 
forced to concentrate on survival as wave after wave of 
enemy ranks crashed into them.  Something had caused him to 
pause, however, and glance back over his shoulder a few 
moments later, to see his lover, eyes narrowing to dagger 
slits, impale an orc on Aeglos then turn in one fluid 
motion to bury his sword in another.  His king had not seen 
Sauron come up behind him, and Elrond had no time even to 
call out a warning before a tortured scream of burning air 
hit him like a slap in the face, practically lifting him 
off his feet.  He had had burns for weeks thereafter that 
refused to heal, and he had not even been that close to the 
dark lord.  His king had been barely a hand breath away.

But long ago he rode away
and where he dwelleth none can say;

Elrond recalled trying to gather his wits as he and the 
survivors of Sauron's attack dragged themselves back to 
their feet, but his thoughts had scattered like leaves in 
an autumn wind and he had never been able to build a 
complete picture of what followed. The fragmented scenes 
that chased across his vision formed a cruel enough 
kaleidoscope, however.  He remembered a red streaked sky 
looming over that horrible, blackened plain; frantic 
searching among the scorched bodies, desperate to find him, 
desperate not to; pain that welled up dark and 
overwhelming, tearing at his soul; sitting among the ashes, 
sobbing like a baby one minute, then screaming the next, 
furious with him for leaving, for turning the joy of 
victory to dust; being told that Isildur had gone, taking 
the one ring with him; leaving behind that nightmare scene 
to track him down and force him to end it, desperate to 
wrench something good from the black despair that flooded 
him, yet failing even in that.  The images crowded in until 
Elrond fell to his knees beside the bed, acid burning his 
tongue, even the memory of that pain overwhelming.

He had been foolish enough to hope that his king's radiance 
could defeat even Sauron's dark power, and that somehow he 
would come back to him.  But centuries passed and still 
there was nothing, nothing but the voice and the face that 
haunted his dreams.  During the immediate aftermath of the 
war, when Sauron's minions had to be rounded up and 
destroyed, Elrond managed to function.  He had found that, 
if he stayed awake long enough, was tired or drunk or 
battered enough at the end of the day, he could manage a 
restless sleep, and the next day's pain would sublimate the 
memories enough to allow him to do what he must. He had 
hoped for some time that he would be killed in combat, and 
had often led his forces, even outrunning them at times, as 
they chased the last of the resistance to ground.  He had 
lusted after death, wanting never to have to see any more 
tomorrows dawning cold and drear and alone; but on the day 
the war finally ended, he still lived.

Yet, in his mind, he had continued to exist on a 
battlefield, in the midst of a war that never stopped.  
When the armies packed up and went home, when the grass 
grew in patches over the old scarred plains, when time 
passed and others forgot, in Elrond's mind the world was 
still gloomy and bleak and a cold wind swept across its 
barren fields.  The war had never ended, because his king 
had never come home.

For into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.

Yes, the star of radiance had fallen, but Elrond went on, 
despite the fact that he had wanted nothing so much as to 
die with him.  But that was a luxury he could not afford.  
His king had left him responsibilities and a people who 
needed heroes.  The real hero was dead, or so he had 
believed, yet they required someone to rally around, 
someone to guide them, and there had been no one else.  The 
mantle had fallen to him naturally, for he was the last of 
that line and everyone knew how close he and the king had 
been.  Or they thought they knew.  Elrond would never talk 
about it, but he thought many must have guessed.  Celeborn, 
for instance, had never asked him the obvious question, why 
he steadfastly refused to take the title that could so 
easily have been his.  Had not asked even on the eve of 
Elrond's marriage to his daughter, a union neither had 
desired.

Elrond had, indeed, never been asked that query outright by 
any elf; perhaps they could guess the answer.  How could he 
take the title, and thereby pretend to the nobility that 
had surrounded . . . him . . . so naturally?  Elrond had 
never had his king's charisma, his easygoing humour even in 
the worst situations, his effortless assumption of the 
cares of state.  The high king had never seemed plagued by 
doubt or burdened with worry, had never apparently doubted 
his decisions, or given a thought as to what right he had 
to guide the fates of so many.  The cloak of authority that 
weighed so heavily on Elrond's shoulders, he had worn as if 
it was the lightest silk, not a burden at all but just 
another frame for his beauty.  Besides, to take the name 
meant that its owner was not coming back, and that was 
something Elrond would never say.

For centuries, Elrond had watched and waited, hoping his 
king would come back to him, and had remained the faithful 
lieutenant, holding Imladris as a haven for all who wished 
to come, just as his king had bade him.  The souls that 
fell to Mandos did not remain there forever, but were born 
into new bodies and sent back to Arda, for elves were 
destined to live as long as earth remained.  Elrond had 
believed with a fierce devotion that, someday, his lord 
would return to him.  But, in recent years, doubts had 
begun to nibble at the edges of his certainty, as fewer and 
fewer elves were born.  Elrond had made certain to inquire 
into all that were, but never had there been any sign of . 
. . his . . . soul being reanimated.  Elrond's own children 
had been the last elves born into Arda, and since then he 
had worked very hard to accept that he was well and truly 
alone.

Then this.  To discover that his king had not returned for 
the simple reason that he had never left.  With that 
realisation had come the crushing burden of guilt that 
still paralyzed him.  As he had sat, warm and complaisant, 
waiting for his return, his king had lived and suffered, 
and he had done nothing to aid him.  A cold barrenness that 
had settled beneath his breast now spread throughout his 
limbs.  All the mental defenses that remained to him 
collapsed, and he cried, terrible, wracking sobs that 
echoed off the walls and deprived him of whatever dignity 
he still possessed.  And still he could not say the name.

TBC

*Your beauty shines bright.
** I shall treasure your gift in my heart.



Title: Wild Justice 12/?

*   *   *
"I'm telling you, I have to see this!" Elladan's eyes 
sparkled mischief up at him, but Orophin refused to be 
seduced so easily, especially into an act of supreme folly 
that could end up getting him killed.

Perhaps his insane lover could be shamed into deciding on 
another way of passing their evening.  "Well, I learn 
something new about you every day.  I never realised you're 
a voyeur!"

Elladan sighed impatiently.  "I'm not.  I just have to see 
old Glorfindel's reaction to this--I'd never forgive myself 
if I missed it."

"And if he just happens to look out the window and see us 
sitting in a tree, spying on him?"

"He won't.  Didn't you see what Elrohir was wearing?"  
Orophin had to smile at the memory.  Elrohir had been a 
picture of seduction: surrounded by what looked to be 
hundreds of burning candles, he had been wearing 
practically nothing, and that which he did have on was . . 
. Orophin's vocabulary failed him.  It wasn't quite a 
tunic, for it only covered one side of his torso and had no 
arms, showing off part of a well-muscled but slim chest and 
a tightly defined stomach.  Orophin had never seen a tunic 
that short or that loose before.  It was silk, a seductive 
honey colour that, in the flickering candlelight, almost 
exactly matched that of Elrohir's lightly oiled skin.  Gold 
armlets had encircled his biceps, golden strands wove their 
way through his elaborate braids and jeweled sandals 
decorated his high arched feet.  No, Orophin decided, 
Glorfindel was not going to be looking out any windows.  
"And," Elladan promised, "if by some strange chance his 
eyes do wander, I'll say this was all my idea."

"Which it is!"

"Exactly.  So what are you worried about?"  Elladan's eyes 
were bright with laughter.  "I thought you Galadrim were 
fearless."

Orophin shook his head in defeat.  "That word is not 
synonymous with stupid."  Or at least it hadn't been, 
before two brown haired imps from Imladris complicated his 
life.

Grinning delightedly at his obvious capitulation, Elladan 
caught hold of the bottom limb of the nearest tree. "I 
never thought it was.  Come on--what could happen?"

*   *   *

Glorfindel made his weary way towards Elrohir's chambers.  
He was not looking forward to this.  A servant had 
delivered a note to him, when he failed to show up for 
dinner, in Elrohir's hand, asking him to come to his rooms 
for a talk.  Having spent two days supporting Elrond 
through something very close to a nervous breakdown, 
Glorfindel was in no mood for another stressful 
conversation.  Especially after the talk with Lord Celeborn 
he had just had.  As he was accompanying a party setting 
out at first light for the mountain, Glorfindel would have 
preferred a good night's sleep, which he had yet to get 
after the wearying week's hunt they had had and the 
emotional whirlwind since.  No, he could definitely have 
done without what was almost certain to be a long, intense, 
and probably highly draining debate.

"So how is he?"  Thranduil's voice stopped him just as he 
reached the stairs leading up to the guest quarters.  
Glorfindel had not seen the king since his return and had 
no desire to speak with him.  However Thranduil had shown 
amazing restraint in staying away until now, knowing that 
Celeborn and Elrond, as one-time vassals of the high king, 
had more of a stake in the matter than he.  Yet naturally 
he was curious; Glorfindel could hardly blame him for that.

He turned to see the king coming towards him from the 
shadows of the hallway.  His attire was unusually simple--a 
satin robe in a deep red colour, but lacking embroidery or 
other adornments--and his hair was pulled into a simple 
club at his neck.  Somehow, his appearance reassured 
Glorfindel that a seduction wasn't foremost on Thranduil's 
mind that night. "Not well.  Lord Elrond is doing what he 
can, but . . . the damage is extensive."

Thranduil cocked an eyebrow at him.  "Considering that he 
is supposed to be dead, that is hardly surprising," he 
commented dryly.  "Has there been any word as to why he 
lives, what happened to him?"  Glorfindel paused, and 
Thranduil looked slightly insulted.  "You forget, I was 
there, Glorfindel!  I did not see what happened, but I 
mourned him with the rest.  I have a RIGHT to know." The 
king's hand grasped the polished banister in front of him, 
barring the way up the stairs.  It was more his words than 
his posture that restrained Glorfindel, who put a weary 
hand to his head before he thought about it.

"You are exhausted."  Thranduil glanced over his crumpled 
blue robe--had he changed it today, Glorfindel wasn't 
certain anymore--and his mussed hair.  "Your pardon--I 
should have noticed.  Come with me."  He paused as 
Glorfindel shot him a look, then shook his head ruefully.  
"No, seneschal, this isn't part of some elaborate plot.  I 
simply want to ask you a few questions without having you 
pass out on me.  Just for a moment?"

Glorfindel never knew exactly why he went.  Part was his 
disinclination to face Elrohir, and the scene likely to 
ensue, part was Thranduil's undoubted persuasive ability, 
and part was simple exhaustion--he was just too tired to 
argue.  The king led him to the impressive set of rooms set 
aside for his use.  No one else seemed to be about, which 
was odd considering the number of attendants Thranduil had 
brought with him.

"Wine?"  The king gestured with a bottle towards the 
comfortable chairs near the window and Glorfindel settled 
himself in one, unconsciously relaxing weary muscles 
against the soft cushions.  He was so tired that it was a 
struggle to keep his eyes open.  "Someone nabbed the last 
of the Berdruskan," Thranduil was saying, "so we will have 
to make due with a lesser vintage."  Glorfindel found a 
glass pressed into his hand and he sipped its contents 
gratefully.  It was good, whatever it was, but that was not 
surprising--Thranduil knew wine.  Among other things, 
Glorfindel thought grimly, as the king moved behind him and 
began to gently knead his shoulders.

"Thranduil . . . "

"Shhh.  Just relax.  This isn't a seduction--I rather 
prefer my partners conscious.  Talk to me."

The tone, as much as the hypnotic motions of the hands, was 
very persuasive.  Glorfindel complied, not that there was 
much to tell.  "He IS Gil-Galad--there's no doubt about 
that.  Elrond is certain."

"He should know."  Glorfindel stiffened, but there was 
nothing disrespectful in Thranduil's tone.  He assumed the 
Mirkwood ruler had heard the rumours about Elrond and the 
high king, but he apparently had no issue with them.  Odd, 
how well he and Elrond seemed to be getting along lately.

"The king does not seem to remember anything, not even who 
he is.  We have no idea why he is alive, or how he came to 
be imprisoned.  Should his condition improve, Elrond hopes 
to restore at least some of his memory, and then perhaps he 
can tell us . . . something."

"But you are not planning to wait for that."

Glorfindel sighed, and despite himself leaned further back 
against those gifted hands.  He hadn't realised how many 
kinks there were in his muscles until Thranduil began 
working through them.  "We leave in the morning."

"How many?"

"Lord Celeborn, Erestor and I, one hundred of the Galadrim, 
and a group of specially trained Noldorin servants of the 
Lady."

"Appropriate that it should be Noldor, under the 
circumstances."

Glorfindel smiled.  Thranduil was easy to talk to--nothing 
ever had to be spelled out with him, nothing explained.  
The king missed so very little.  "The Lady seemed to know 
even before we journeyed here that her servants would need 
training for a special task."

"How convenient."  Glorfindel laughed, the king's wry 
humour really was contagious.  He almost wished he could 
stay here, drinking wine and relaxing under those talented 
hands, instead of facing the harangue that would surely 
occupy most of his night.  Again, Thranduil seemed to 
understand his thoughts without being told.

"Another glass."  The king plucked the slender flute 
Glorfindel had not even realised he'd drained from his 
fingers and moved to refill it.  "Oh come, seneschal," he 
teased, seeing Glorfindel's uncertain expression.  "You 
need to rest, and I enjoy your company.  Surely, a few more 
minutes will cause no harm?"  Thranduil held out the 
crystal goblet, once more filled with seductive ruby red 
wine.

Glorfindel knew he should go, knew Elrohir was waiting for 
him, but perhaps it would be best if he did not see him 
under the circumstances.  He was so tired and his usual 
calm was in tatters; he could not be certain not to say 
something that would make things worse.  Perhaps they both 
needed a bit more time before having that particular 
discussion.  Slowly, his fingers curved about the glass 
Thranduil held out so temptingly.  As he said, just a few 
more minutes . . .

*   *   *

"What do you see?"

"Nothing, and you're on my foot."  Orophin shifted 
slightly, but there wasn't a great deal of room on the 
narrow branch.  Still, it had been the only one close 
enough to allow them to get within viewing distance of the 
guest rooms.  There were only a few with lighted windows, 
but they were easy enough to see through.  Orophin made a 
mental note not to engage in any private activities near 
the palace windows, as the diaphanous curtains did 
practically nothing to conceal the interiors from prying 
eyes.  Of course, there weren't supposed to be any eyes at 
this level.  He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, 
especially when he noticed that the room directly below 
them belonged to Gildor, and that both he and Haldir were 
clearly visible.  VERY clearly . . .

"I don't think this is such a good idea . . . "

Elladan had apparently also noticed the two just below 
them.  "Well, I suppose that's ONE way of having dinner, 
although I personally have always preferred to keep it on 
the table."

Orophin felt an insane urge to giggle.  Not that it was 
unusual for him to come across Haldir in the midst of an 
assignation, but this was a bit embarrassing.  Licking 
desert off your lover might sound very erotic, or even be 
so if you were involved in it, but it did look rather silly 
from a distance.  But not that much of a distance, some 
lucid part of his brain reminded him, and he suddenly 
wondered just how much trouble he would be in if he 
interrupted Haldir once again.  It really didn't bear 
thinking about.  "Be quick," he urged.  Orophin was fairly 
sure that they were well concealed in the darkness beyond 
the palace windows, but Haldir's eyes had always been 
sharp, and he didn't want to prolong this insanity any 
longer than necessary.

"There he is."  Elladan squinted through the intervening 
limbs, trying to see into his brother's room, which was 
still some distance away and to the left.  "I don't see 
Glorfindel, though."

Orophin could not see much of anything from his position 
behind Elladan, but that concerned him less than the 
slimness of the branch under their feet.  He had enough 
experience with trees to know that this one was not happy 
bearing the weight of both of them, but he could not fully 
understand the little moans of protest it was making with 
Elladan chattering away.  ". . . imagine where he could be.  
Elrohir seemed so sure he would be coming."

"Maybe we just can't see him from here.  Come, Elladan, 
let's leave your brother to his privacy."  Orophin thought 
he could live without irritating Imladris' seneschal again, 
assuming he was there, and he shrank back a bit more 
against the tree's trunk.

"I'll try to get closer," Elladan said, and before Orophin 
could caution him, he'd slid down perilously close to the 
end of the limb.  The tree groaned louder and Orophin 
grabbed his lover's ankle, just in case.

"Elladan, I really think . . . " Orophin's protest was 
interrupted by a shout of indignation from the palace, and 
he closed his eyes in dread as Elrohir's heavily braided 
head suddenly appeared sticking out of a window, outrage on 
his features.

"What are you doing out there?   Elladan, are you SPYING on 
me?"  Elrohir did not wait for an answer, but grabbed his 
brother's arm and tried to drag him into the room.  Elladan 
instinctively pulled away, but Elrohir was not willing to 
let him go and climbed out after him.  "I can't believe 
you're doing this!," he hissed.  "This is all YOUR fault!," 
he added, glaring at Orophin, who only managed to repress 
an indignant rejoinder because of the sight that met his 
eyes over Elrohir's shoulder.

Oh no.  This couldn't be happening again.  Having had to 
press back against the trunk of the tree and stand up to 
allow Elrohir sufficient room to join the party, Orophin 
was faced with the appalling sight of Glorfindel being 
slowly undressed by the king.  The two were perfectly 
visible in the light of the lantern that hung just outside 
their window.  Orophin managed to stop the stifled scream 
that threatened to escape him, but something of his horror 
must have shown on his face.  He reached out to stop him, 
but it was too late; Elrohir looked back over his shoulder, 
following the direction of Orophin's stare, and froze.

*   *   *

"I am certain you can protect yourself from my lascivious 
urges," the king was saying as he removed Glorfindel's 
outer robes to more effectively continue his impromptu 
massage.  Glorfindel sighed.  In truth, he doubted he could 
be seduced by anyone that evening; he was too exhausted, 
and the king's hands did feel wonderful.

"I should be going."  His voice held no conviction at all, 
and he really couldn't blame Thranduil for laughing at him.  
He did, however, protest slightly when his tunic was tugged 
over his head.  The king ignored him and soon his shirt 
followed the tunic to the floor.  The latter had been a 
poor barrier anyway, composed of an especially thin silk, a 
gift from Elrohir . . . Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably at 
that thought, and briefly tried to rise.  He couldn't help 
but wonder how his young lover would view this particular 
scene, innocent though it might be, could he see it.  
However the king's hands pushed him back down.

"I will let you go," Thranduil promised, "just as soon as 
the rest of those knots come out of your muscles.  Besides, 
I think we should talk."  Glorfindel groaned, partly in 
pleasure--the king made an excellent masseur, and the hands 
on his bare skin felt divine--but also at the thought of 
having been maneuvered into one of those conversations 
after all.  The king's next words surprised him, however.  
Glorfindel smiled slightly to himself--he should know by 
now never to underestimate Thranduil.  "You should not take 
such a small company with you.  Oh, I know the skill of the 
Galadrim," the king assured him, seeing Glorfindel's 
expression in the almost mirror like surface of the window, 
"but one hundred twenty is not an impressive number, 
especially when you do not know what you might be facing.  
I can have five hundred expert archers here in less than a 
week."

"Your majesty . . . "

"I lost people at Barad-dur, too, Glorfindel," Thranduil 
reminded him, his hands stilling momentarily as if to 
punctuate his words, then beginning their rhythmic stroking 
once more.  "If there are other elves in the mines, some 
may belong to me.  Celeborn did not bother to consult me 
about his plans, but you cannot deny the truth of my words, 
or my claims."  As usual, Thranduil had phrased things in 
such a way as to make it impossible for Glorfindel to deny 
his logic.

"The decision was not made to insult you, your majesty.  
Imladris, too, would like to contribute to the rescue 
party, but the only ones of our realm going along are 
myself, Erestor and one of our operatives who chances to be 
here at the moment.  We simply do not wish to tarry any 
longer than necessary."

"Then my people can meet you on the way.  This mountain of 
yours is, I understand, closer to my realm than Lorien?"  
Glorfindel did not bother to wonder how Thranduil knew 
that.  His silence was taken as acquiescence, and the 
king's voice had a smile in it when he spoke again.  "Good.  
Then it is settled.  Five hundred of my archers will meet 
you on the road."

Glorfindel found his desire to argue evaporating, 
especially when Thranduil began digging into the tense 
muscles lower down his back.  By the Valar, that felt 
glorious!  "But we will travel quickly.  It may be 
difficult for your people to prepare themselves to meet us 
in time, and I fear Lord Celeborn will not wait.  Even if 
you send a fast rider tonight, it will take . . . "

Glorfindel stopped at the king's rich laughter.  Warm arms 
circled him, pulling him back into a sudden embrace.  "My 
dear Glorfindel," Thranduil told him in amused tones, "I 
sent word two days ago!"

*   *   *

Orophin was able to say exactly what happened later, as the 
whole thing played out almost in slow motion.  Elrohir 
stared at the erotic picture made by the two blond Eldar, 
the lamplight gleaming off their shining hair and causing 
every caress of the king's hands on Glorfindel's torso to 
be visible, as was the delight on their faces when the 
sultry massage ended in a close embrace.  Orophin actually 
ached for Elrohir.  Despite everything, no one deserved to 
have to see something like that, and the pain in the 
elfling's eyes was eloquent.  Then something in him seemed 
to snap; every line in his body tensed, his face drained of 
colour and his lips twisted furiously.  Suddenly he looked 
like a warrior's son.

There was no time to say anything, even had there been any 
words worth uttering, however, as the branch beneath them 
finally gave a massive shudder and cracked, tumbling all 
three towards the ground.  Orophin grabbed at another 
branch above them while reaching for the neck of Elladan's 
tunic; the latter move was successful, the former was not, 
but he did manage to propel the three of them towards the 
talan before he lost his grip entirely.  A second later 
they crashed through a window and tumbled into someone's 
room.  It only took a brief glance about for Orophin to 
wish he'd just let them fall the five or so stories to the 
ground.

From somewhere beneath a pile of elves, someone groaned 
faintly.  Gildor, who had been slammed against the table by 
the force of their entry into his rooms, snatched at his 
discarded tunic, but not before Orophin had a chance to see 
just why his brother was so infatuated with the elf.  Well, 
who would have thought?

"Get off me!," a voice demanded furiously from somewhere 
beneath him, and Orophin scrambled to his feet, pulling 
Elladan with him before realising that his strangle hold on 
his lover was almost literally that.  Elladan shot him a 
sour look and rubbed his neck after they detangled 
themselves, then everyone looked down at the two elves 
still sitting in the floor.  Elrohir looked furious, 
although for which reason Orophin wasn't sure.  The elf 
beside him, however, had clearly decided who to blame for 
this debacle and was glaring up at him, while holding a 
hand to his ankle.  It was, Orophin suddenly noticed with a 
feeling of guilt, twisted at a rather unusual angle.

"Hello brother," Orophin said weakly.

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 13/? 

*   *   *

"Where are you going?"

Elrohir had been so intent on reaching his goal that he had not even 
noticed Erestor, whose black robes blended perfectly into the darkened 
corridor.  He briefly wondered why his old tutor was still up, as it was 
getting rather late, and why he was still attired in the stiff, formal robes he 
had worn at dinner.  Most elves changed into something more relaxing in 
the late evening hours; just like Erestor to prefer to remain prim and 
proper and uncomfortable as well.  "Nowhere."  

Erestor regarded him calmly, but did not move out of the way.  Elrohir 
tried to push around him--he really did not have time for this--but a strong 
arm prevented him.  It was so unlike Erestor to physically restrain him that 
his anger briefly rescinded and he looked at his old tutor with surprise.  
"There is nothing that way except the king's rooms," Erestor remarked 
evenly.  "What could you possibly have to say to him at this time of 
night?"

"That isn't your concern."  Elrohir tried to move past again, but Erestor's 
grip on his upper arm tightened.  

"I think otherwise.  Your father is preoccupied at the moment, and I do not 
think he would like the idea of your endangering relations between our 
two lands by doing any thing rash."  Erestor's dark eyes swept over 
Elrohir, and a faint smile came to his lips.  "I also doubt he would approve 
of you running about the palace dressed like . . . that."

Elrohir looked down at himself, surprised to see that he was still wearing 
the special garment he had bought for Glorfindel's seduction.  It did look 
somewhat out of place, but it wasn't Erestor's place to tell him that.  "I 
have to speak to Glorfindel, and he happens to be with the king at the 
moment," Elrohir explained with as much dignity as he could manage in 
his current attire.  "Let me go."

"If I do, what is it you have planned?"  Erestor regarded him sardonically.  
"Challenging the king to a duel or attempting to throw him out a window 
will hardly improve matters."

"I am not going to do anything to him." Elrohir almost spat the words, his 
disgust and anger threatening to choke him.  "I am simply going to inform 
Glorfindel that we are through.  At least *I* have the courtesy to do so 
before engaging in any other affairs."

"And is that what you want--another affair?"  Erestor's words sounded 
harsh to Elrohir, who found even the thought of another lover almost 
sickening, yet the tone was gentle, and his tutor simultaneously brushed a 
curl off his forehead, reminding Elrohir of the many times he had 
comforted him as a child.  Elrohir felt his anger beginning to fade, and 
with it went his protection against the pain that threatened to overwhelm 
him.  "Come, little one," Erestor told him, wrapping an arm about his 
shoulders.  "Don't do something you will regret."  

Elrohir bit his lips to stop them trembling like some ridiculous elfling's, 
and blinked back tears.  His comfortable shield of denial had been ripped 
away for a second time, and there was no longer any hope of getting it 
back.  Thranduil would win, just as he always did, had already done so if 
that scene had progressed as expected.  But Elrohir refused to collapse into 
a whiny puddle, and he certainly was not going to cry; he had been 
humiliated enough for one night.  

Erestor must have noticed him weakening, for he smiled and slowly drew 
him back down the corridor.  "Come away, nin-bain, and leave this to me, 
as you promised."  

Elrohir almost laughed; the ludicrous image of his old tutor attempting to 
best Thranduil momentarily jolted him out of his despair.  He knew it 
would never happen, but he refrained from saying something that would 
insult Erestor.  He had no wish to hurt him, nor, he admitted to himself 
miserably, did he even want to confront Glorfindel.  He would see him in 
the morning and end it.  Let him enjoy his rendezvous in peace.

*   *   *

Glorfindel awoke when the mattress under him sagged with the weight of 
another warm body.  For a moment, he unconsciously pulled it closer, 
snuggling against the silken skin and the comfortable heat, but for some 
reason it didn't feel quite right.  Elrohir was not this muscular, did not feel 
this substantial in his arms.  Glorfindel's fuzzy brain slowly returned to 
something like consciousness, and he focused his eyes.  Elrohir also wasn't 
blond.

A soft laugh echoed in his ear and Glorfindel sat up, looking about in 
disorientation and gathering dismay. Almost immediately he was pulled 
back down and enveloped in strong arms that resisted his struggles.  "You 
do not leave for hours yet--there is time, lirimaer," a laughing voice said 
just before a warm mouth closed over his own.  

Glorfindel would have preferred it had he hated this--had he honestly been 
able to say that it was appalling, nauseating, and revolting.  But the kiss 
was none of those things.  He had long before learned the disconcerting 
fact that hate and attraction are not necessarily mutually exclusive.  And 
yes, Glorfindel thought vaguely, as a solid weight rolled on top of him, he 
did sincerely hate Thranduil.  The king was so casually good at obtaining 
whatever he wanted, regardless of the cost to others, and at using his 
beauty, charm and intelligence as weapons against friend and foe alike.  

Glorfindel's hands encountered only smooth, enticing flesh as he 
attempted to push the king's weight off him, as Thranduil had not bothered 
to wear anything to bed.  What had they done?  Why was he even here?  
Glorfindel couldn't remember, but he assumed that he must have passed 
out from exhaustion or too much wine at some point, and naturally 
Thranduil had not bothered to call a servant to help him back to his rooms.  
Oh yes, he thought, as a knee slipped between his legs, parting them 
easily, he definitely hated the king.  Unfortunately, his body did not.  But 
his body did not rule him, had not done so in more centuries than he could 
count, and no matter how good this might feel, it had to stop now.  
"Thranduil, we are not going to do this."

*   *   *

Camthalion could hardly believe it.  Everything had been going so well, 
and now this.  The elfling had obviously realised Erestor's attraction to 
him, and had decided to up the stakes.  Cam's eyes narrowed, taking in the 
supple skin hardly concealed by the trifle of silk, the elaborate hairstyle, 
and the ornate jewelry.  By the Valar, even his sandals sparkled!  It was 
attire for a seduction if he had ever seen one, and Erestor was obviously 
taken in.  Cam felt short of breath as his master leaned closer to the young 
one, murmuring something inaudible, his darkness a perfect compliment 
to the elfling's golden glow. A mindless fear washed through Cam at the 
sight of them together, and at that moment he finally understood the kin 
slayings, at last knew what it was to wish harm to one of his own. 

As the two approached him, Camthalion consciously relaxed the muscles 
in his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back, where they could 
not reach for the young one's throat.  "Camthalion, return to your lodgings 
and sleep.  We will talk tomorrow."  Erestor's words were clearly an order, 
and were spoken in the offhand manner of one who expects obedience.  
And why should he not?  Had Camthalion not submitted completely and 
fully that night, believing that by doing so he was acquiring a lover as well 
as a master?  But obviously that had not been the case.  Erestor had been 
amusing himself while he waited for the young Peredhil to throw himself 
at him.  

Camthalion pushed down the killing rage that swept through him, keeping 
his features placid as he inclined his head slightly in assent and moved 
back to allow them to pass.  A honeyed fragrance lingering on the air after 
the young one, and he recognised it as a costly perfume, a highly prized 
Imladris export.  To him it smelled putrid, almost vile, and it was all he 
could do not to retch.  Confusion and pain warred with anger for 
supremacy, but Camthalion retained hold on his emotions as he backed far 
enough into the shadows that they could no longer see him.  The wood of 
the corridor wall felt hard against his bruised back, but it was the scene 
before his eyes that made him flinch.  Then they were gone, disappearing 
into a room down the hall.  

Camthalion waited a dozen breaths, swaying with the effort of standing 
motionless rather than pelting after them, then forced himself to wait 
another few minutes just to prove that he was still in control.  Then, as 
silently as the shadows themselves, he moved down the hallway.  The 
door though which they had disappeared was to one of the larger guest 
suites, and Camthalion cracked it slowly, barely breathing.  In a second he 
could see them, sitting on the bed together although not yet intertwined.  
Erestor's dark hair was slightly tousled, so different from its usual sleek 
perfection, and Cam wondered if it had been so before or if this was some 
sign of their lovemaking.  Then the young one spoke, and his words 
caused Cam's hand to involuntarily clutch at the door tightly enough to 
almost wrench the decorative handle from the wood.

". . . could love me."

Erestor laughed, and pulled the elfling against his chest.  "But, pen-neth, 
many people love you!  I always have, have I not?"  One pale hand 
stroked softly down Elrohir's arm, gliding over the firm muscles there with 
the assurance of long practice.  "You must trust me; this will all pass in 
time.  You should not allow it to make you feel undesirable."

"But I went to all this trouble for nothing.  It's just as well.  I look 
ridiculous."

"You do not look ridiculous.  You're very . . . "

"Very what?"  Elrohir looked up at Erestor with tear filled eyes, their 
wetness matching the sheen of his carefully oiled skin.  His dark braids 
gleamed in the light of the many candles lighting the love nest he had 
prepared, and the cloying scent of that sickening perfume permeated the 
air.  Camthalion wanted him dead.

"Very alluring."  Camthalion could not see Erestor's face, as his back was 
turned to the door, but his hand slid to fondle a fat braid, letting it run 
through his fingers idly.

Elrohir's face lit, and suddenly laughter was mingled with his tears.  "I 
never thought I'd hear YOU say THAT."  He fell back against the bed, still 
convulsed with mirth.  "This has to be the strangest night of my life.  
Instead of a seduction, I spend it falling out of trees, bandaging twisted 
ankles and being told I'm "alluring" by my old tutor!  You are kind 
Erestor," he said, looking up at him through dark lashes, and his tone was 
suddenly serious again as a muscle quirked beside his mouth.  "But you 
lie.  I am pathetic--a stupid elfling who overreached himself." 

"Pen-neth, you are NOT pathetic."  

Camthalion seethed as the young one on the bed stretched, showing off the 
sleek muscles under his taut skin, the golden silk of his tunic riding up 
dangerously.  His eyes still looked sad, however. "Then what am I?"

Erestor paused, and Camthalion held his breath, praying to every deity he 
knew that his master would reject the tempting sight before him, would 
withstand the blatant attempt at seduction and run out of the room to his 
own chambers where Cam could join him.  But, of course, he did none of 
those things.  He bent over the elfling until his dark hair almost obscured 
them both, but the word he uttered floated clearly back to Cam's ears, 
where it sounded like a death knell. "Beautiful."

*   *   *

Thranduil continued his exploration of Glorfindel's chest, ignoring the 
hands that made weak attempts to push him away.  He felt the tension in 
the body under him, and knew that, despite Glorfindel's passion for him, 
he would fight to the last.  That was expected, even desirable--part of his 
attraction was his loyal nature, and Thranduil would have been somewhat 
disappointed had this been too easy.

"I have a lover."  To Thranduil's surprise, the golden body beneath him 
gave a sudden convulsion and almost succeeded in bucking him off.  The 
king smiled; he hadn't known Glorfindel liked it rough, but he was 
perfectly willing to oblige.  Putting his full weight into it, he pushed his 
companion back against the thick feather mattress, practically burying him 
in its plump folds, as he pressed his advantage.  

"No, what you have is a child who has not seen what you have seen or 
experienced what you've experienced, and who will never be your equal in 
anything.  Or is that what you are afraid of--having a relationship with one 
who equals if not surpasses you?  Is it dominance you fear, seneschal, or 
do you secretly crave it?"  Thranduil did not give him time to respond, but 
captured his lips again, a feeling of pure triumph flooding his body.

This is what he had wanted for so very long.  He had wanted it enough to 
mend fences with Imladris, exchanging letters, then ambassadors, and 
finally even allowing Elrond's dim eldest son to be fostered on him for a 
while, to carefully maneuver the situation until there could be no excuse 
for Glorfindel to turn him down.  If Elrond could send his son to 
Mirkwood on an extended trip, why not his seneschal?  It had been 
perfect, until that brainless elfling had to step in and jeopardize plans laid 
long before he was even born.

But this was sweet triumph, and Thranduil reveled in it, his heart pounding 
an erratic rhythm in his chest.  He had rarely worked so hard or waited so 
long for anything in his life, but oh, it was worth it!  He had known, all 
those years ago, that this was one who could match him, one with whom 
he would never grow bored, who had seen and done as much, if not more, 
than he.  It was a horrible waste, that such a creature should live out the 
centuries as nothing more than a lackey in Elrond's household!  Only the 
dim-witted Peredhil could have so undervalued the gift he had been given.  
Thranduil smiled against Glorfinel's lips before forcibly parting them.  He 
would make him his chief counselor, would give him the riches and 
honour he deserved, and together they would reclaim the beauty of the 
Greenwood and drive away the darkness that had overshadowed it.

Oh yes.  The game was finally over and he had won.  

*   *   *

"You ARE beautiful, Elrohir.  No one could look on you and be unmoved.  
You have never understood your appeal, but all others see it."  Erestor 
smiled at Elrohir's patently disbelieving stare. "You think, do you not, that 
Glorfindel is attracted to the king?"

"I KNOW he is . . . he loves him.  You forget, I saw them together . . . that 
other time and then again tonight . . ."

Erestor arched a brow in that annoying way of his. "You are right about 
the attraction.  It is there, has always been there, and probably always will 
be."  Seeing the hurt that flared in Elrohir's eyes, Erestor smiled, a little 
sadly.  "You are young, so you confuse gilt with gold, and lust with love.  
Yet, it is possible to feel temptation without also being in love."   

"That isn't true.  If he really loved me, as I do him . . ."

"What, then he would never react to another as long as he lived?"  Erestor 
smiled.  "Love doesn't work like that, pen-neth.  It heightens our ability to 
feel, it does not restrict it."

Elrohir shut his eyes, wishing Erestor would just go away.  His thoughts 
were confused and he ached inside; he just wanted to be alone.  

"You don't believe me?"  Elrohir opened his eyes at Erestor's question, 
feeling annoyance that his tutor would not just let this go.  Trying to 
ignore the hard knot in his chest and the tight ache in his throat, he framed 
another derisive comment, but it died on his lips when he looked up into 
the glittering eyes above him.  It was like staring into the face of a 
stranger, one with a darkly beautiful visage and a hypnotic gaze.  Erestor 
slowly slid a finger over Elrohir's chest, just beneath his breast-bone, then 
moved up slightly to lightly encircle one nipple.  An unexpected shiver ran 
through Elrohir and his skin contracted. "You didn't answer me, pen-neth."  
     
What was happening?  Elrohir tried telling himself that this was Erestor, 
his tutor, his friend, his . . . but he was finding it difficult to think, 
especially when a red tongue darted out to moisten redder lips, while 
something in that steady regard held him fast.  "No . . . I . . . "

"Then I suppose I shall have to demonstrate."

*   *   *

Passion ran through Glorfindel like a current as Thranduil slipped his 
hands down his body to grasp his thighs, parting them wider.  He vaguely 
wondered if the king had put a spell on him, as his limbs felt like they 
were bound by heavy weights, and his mind was cloudy.  Yet he doubted, 
somehow, that Thranduil was using magic; it would wound the king's 
pride to have to make a conquest in such a way.  Glorfindel would have 
liked an excuse for the way his body responded to the king's touch, for the 
immediacy of his arousal and the shortness of his breath, but he knew in 
truth that he had none.  He had drunk too much that night, but he was still 
reasonably sober; he was exhausted, but not to incapacitation.  It was his 
own attraction he fought, and although the muscles stood out on his arms 
as he still tried to push Thranduil from him, he knew he was losing 
because something in him wanted this. 

It was not until a careful touch slid against his most private area that 
Glorfindel managed to regain some control.  No.  If he did this, gave in to 
what his body so badly desired, he would lose the most precious thing in 
his life--if he had not managed to do that already.  For over a week now he 
had been like one who had lost a part of himself, an amputee on a 
battlefield who toils on despite a mortal wound.  Nothing he had tried had 
healed the emptiness in his heart and neither would this.  In one of the 
most difficult actions he could remember in a long time, Glorfindel forced 
himself to relax and, when Thranduil slightly eased his hold in response, 
he pushed him hard to the side and rolled off the bed.  

He glanced back at the king to see if more persuasion would be needed, 
and immediately wished he had not.  Thranduil was reclining on his side, 
his beautiful body on careless display, erect but uninhibited as few, even 
among the elves, could manage to be.  The golden satin of the sheets paled 
next to that of his skin, made even more alluring than usual by the faint 
sheen of perspiration he wore from their activities.  His emerald eyes held 
exasperation, but also, Glorfindel thought, a glimmer of respect.   


"This is check, then, I take it?"

"This is not a game, Thranduil."  Glorfindel swept up his outer robe from 
where it had been casually tossed over a chair's back, and struggled into it.  
He was hard and ached, and the stiff material made him wince as it 
dragged over him, but that was a minor concern.  The immediate issue was 
to get as far from Thranduil as possible as quickly as he could, before the 
king's beauty and his own weakness caused him to falter. 

"Oh, but it is, seneschal.  And one I intend to win.  You belong with me, 
you are just too blind to see it."

"So this is for my own good?''

Thranduil laughed and, although it was almost impossible for Glorfindel 
to believe, it was a genuine, amused sound.  "As I believe I told you once 
before."

"I don't happen to see it that way."  Glorfindel hated Thranduil for his easy 
grace in the circumstances, and even more for his confident assurance that 
he would, eventually, be the victor.  "You can't always have what you 
want."  He would have preferred a snappier reply, but he was in no shape 
for witty repartee.  It took all his willpower just to turn away from the 
vision on the bed and somehow make it to the double doors of the room.  
"You are in check for a reason, Thranduil."  

The king's tone was light, but there was steel beneath it.  "Perhaps.  But it 
is not yet check mate."

*   *   *

The black velvet of Erestor' sleeve stroked softly across his chest, a 
teasing touch that barely registered, yet Elrohir felt his face flush as the 
scrap of a tunic he wore was slowly brushed off his shoulders, baring him 
to the waist.  He tried to remember that these were the same hands that had 
bathed him as a child, had held him when he suffered from nightmares as 
an adolescent, had bandaged his scrapes and calmed his fears . . . but it 
was impossible to ignore the sensations they were building in him now.  
No, this was insane!  He didn't think of Erestor this way, he never had, so 
what was wrong with him?   

That dark head lowered and a rough tongue, like a cat's, licked 
tantalizingly across his nipples and down his chest, as a fall of raven dark 
hair spilled all over him.  He finally managed to ask, in a voice that was 
barely audible even to him, what Erestor thought he was doing.  There was 
no reply.  He shivered slightly, aroused and trembling, as that tongue 
swept lower, teasing around his navel and then at the fragile silk barrier 
that was all that remained of his clothes.  He knew he should stop this, 
should say something, but all he wanted at the moment was not to have to 
talk at all or even to think, but just to submerge himself and his pain in 
glorious sensation.  Was it so wrong, to want to feel completely good for a 
few minutes?

Elrohir voiced no complaint as the jeweled belt he wore was slipped off 
and dropped to the floor.  A few seconds later and the remainder of his 
tunic followed, slithering silently from the bed.  Elrohir tried to close his 
eyes, to fool his brain as to the identity of the one who began slow, even 
strokes along his arousal, causing him to breath hard with the effort of 
control, but he was allowed no such luxury.  "Look at me, Elrohir," the air 
of command in the velvet tones was new, but the voice itself was one he 
was accustomed to obey.  His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed, 
mesmerized, as Erestor's mouth followed where his hands had explored.  
He shuddered, hardly believing this was real, yet he could not look away.

In a few minutes, Elrohir no longer cared who pleasured him, but grasped 
the shining head and pushed it down further where he needed it to be.  The 
gifted tongue soon had him writhing against the softness of the sheets, 
until all he wanted was to come, to feel no grief, to have no thoughts, 
except of the deep pulse of desire in his groin. The sensations that 
followed were mindless, exquisite joy.  His nerves all seemed to melt and 
run together, his veins pulsing with heat and sheer bliss, as he was brought 
expertly to climax.

And then nothing.  Fingers pinched near his base, cruelly denying him the 
release he sought so passionately, and he regarded his tormentor through 
stunned, glazed eyes.  "What do you feel?"

"Wh-what?"  Elrohir moved slightly, but a heavy hand forced him down to 
the mattress again.  

"I asked you a question, Elrohir, so please try to pay attention."  The 
voice, amazingly, was no longer the husky velvet tones of a few minutes 
before, but instead held the impatient snap of his old tutor, annoyed that he 
was taking so long to answer a simple question.  It was surreal, to say the 
least.  Elrohir just looked at him dumbly, unable to understand any of this.  
Erestor sighed, and took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief which he ran 
over his lips.  Elrohir almost came from the sight alone, but the fingers did 
not permit it.  "Is there something you want, Elrohir?"

"Y-yes."

"Well?"  Erestor cocked an eyebrow at him again, in that oh so familiar 
way, and some of the languid heat coursing though Elrohir began to fade.

"You know what I want."  Elrohir blushed to even think about saying the 
words, to Erestor of all people.

"I am afraid that mind reading was never one of my specialties." 

Elrohir repressed a groan, and wished Erestor to the lowest hall of Mandos 
for all eternity.  Why was he tormenting him like this?  "I want to come," 
he said dully, shame flooding his already rosy face with a new layer of 
crimson.  

"Why?"

Elrohir just looked at him, the fear that perhaps his old tutor had truly 
gone mad flitting across his brain.  "Why?," he repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, why?  It's an easy enough question.  After all, according to you, 
since you are not in love with me--you aren't are you?"

"No!," that, at least, was a certainty at the moment.  

"Well, then, you should feel nothing.  No love means no attraction, isn't 
that true?"  Elrohir looked into the depth of Erestor's black eyes, and saw 
the beginnings of a spark of humour.  "Since you don't love me, what 
pleasure could I possibly give you?" 


Elrohir was beginning to be in serious pain, and those wicked, laughing 
eyes were not helping him.  He dragged his conscious mind back into 
operation, ready though he was to scream at the effort.  "You're saying this 
is no different than the way Glorfindel feels about the king."

Erestor smiled. "You pass," he commented, and suddenly released him.  

*   *   *

Camthalion saw his master rise from the bed, casually wiping his hand on 
his handkerchief, as the young one spilled himself all over the sheets.  
Quickly, before Erestor could discern his presence, Cam gently closed the 
door and retreated into the dimness of the hallway.  As he navigated down 
the darkened stairs, he did not even try to keep a smile from breaking out 
over his usually stoic features.  An interesting evening, indeed.

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 14/? 


*   *   *

Cool air drifted across Haldir's sleep-warm skin, and he sighed softly and 
buried himself further under the sheets.  The sun was almost straight 
overhead, however, and a shaft fell into his eyes from the window, 
worrying him into consciousness.  He woke to a foggy feeling in his head 
and an instinctive knowledge that something was wrong.  He was drowsily 
comfortable in Gildor's bed in the royal talan, and although the position of 
the sun told him that it was late morning, he was not on duty this rotation 
and did not have to be up at a particular time . . . 

A sharp pain in his ankle distracted him momentarily from the nagging 
thought about time that was floating around his brain.  He sat up in bed 
and grabbed his foot, only to have a sharp bolt of agony flash up his leg.  
After some creative cursing, he examined the limb more carefully, noting 
the heavy bandage that had been wrapped around it, and suddenly 
everything came flooding back.  

"By Elbereth!  He tricked me!"  Haldir jumped out of bed, wondering if 
there was still time to catch up with the rescue party, only to have his foot 
collapse under him and send him sprawling on the floor, right beside a pair 
of tiny green leather slippers cleverly made to resemble folded leaves.  
Looking up, his gaze traveled over a solid if rather thin body, also 
wrapped in green, to a tense, disapproving face under a mountain of dark 
red braids.  Gildor must have helped Elwyyda with her coiffure, Haldir 
thought dazedly, as he'd never seen that number of messy braids on 
anyone at one time.  "What are YOU doing here?"

The little dwarf drew herself up and stepped around him, balancing a large 
tray in her hands.  She was resolutely not looking at him, and Haldir 
suddenly realised that he was nude.  With another curse, he pulled a sheet 
from the bed at the same time that Elwydda sat the tray down on it.  The 
result was strawberry jam filled pastries all over him and a very annoyed 
dwarf.  "I brought that all the way up from the kitchens!  And now look!"  

Haldir was finding it difficult to maintain his dignity while seated in the 
floor, naked and covered with food, but he tried nonetheless.  Gathering 
the jam-stained sheet about him, he gingerly stood, taking his weight on 
his uninjured foot, and glared at the intruder.  "Why. Are. You. Here?"

"Gildor told me to look after you, so I am."  There was something in the 
little creature's eyes that looked a great deal like fanaticism to Haldir.  
Wonderful.  He should have known that his lover's appalling taste in pets 
was going to rebound on him sooner or later.

"I do not need your assistance."

Haldir's words had absolutely no effect, and the bothersome creature 
continued to stand, fists on hips, regarding him sternly.  "Gildor told me to 
take care of you," she repeated slowly and unnecessarily distinctly, as if 
speaking to a dim-witted child.  "He left with the others and won't be back 
for a time.  Until he returns, I will nurse you."  She looked almost as 
appalled by the idea as Haldir felt, but there was a steely glint of 
determination in her eyes.  "I will go and get you another breakfast.  Wash 
and dress," she ordered, before stomping out in the inelegant way of her 
people.  

Haldir looked after her, disbelief and annoyance on his features.  Not only 
had Gildor lied, he had also saddled Haldir with the most irritating nurse 
possible, then wisely left the city.  Who did he think he was, to treat him 
so? Haldir remembered his lover's bright, concerned eyes from the night 
before, and the murmured assurances he had made as he gave him "just a 
draught to ease the pain."  Gildor had known his lover intended to go with 
the rescue party despite his disability, and had carefully insured that he 
had no opportunity to do so.  Haldir should have known, but the pain had 
distracted him, not to mention Gildor's gentle attentions that, he now 
remembered, had been cut short by the effects of the drug.

Haldir fell back onto the bed, jam and all, and threw an arm over his eyes.  
"I am never going to have sex again."

"Oh, I wouldn't take any bets on THAT, brother!"

Haldir looked up to see Rumil laughing at him from the doorway.  "You 
are supposed to be on rotation."

"I am.  My current assignment is here at the palace, watching over a march 
warden who manages to avoid injury in countless death-defying situations, 
then ends up bedridden due to . . . well, I'm SURE the story I heard was 
exaggerated.  And what's this?"  Rumil lifted a bit of jammy pastry from 
Haldir's stomach.  "Gildor not finish the job?"

Haldir didn't bother to glare at him.  It was vintage Rumil, and no lecture 
ever made a dent in his brother's horrible sense of humour.  "Go. Away."

"And leave you to the treacherous villainies being hatched by that 
dastardly dwarf?  She looked truly dangerous to me . . . all three feet of 
her."

"I do NOT need a KEEPER."

"Of course you do.  If I left, what would be the first thing you'd do?  
Shove your broken ankle into a boot, commandeer a horse, and ride off to 
save the day--or to get yourself killed, more like.  Sorry, but I promised 
Gildor . . . "

"Gildor!  I can't believe he did this to me."

"He cares about you.  And for your sake, I hope you return the feelings, 
because I received the distinct impression that he plans to be around for a 
while."

Haldir took the wet cloth Rumil handed him and began to clean himself 
up.  "We'll see.  First we're going to have a talk about just who is in 
control of this relationship."

Rumil laughed and picked a morsel of pastry out of Haldir's hair.  "Oh, I 
don't know, brother.  It seems to me that has already been determined."

*   *   *

It was a bright, clear day with a brilliant sun shining from a vividly blue 
sky, and Elrohir regarded it resentfully.  To match his mood, the weather 
should have been overcast and grey, maybe even raining a little, with a 
few carrion eaters circling around overhead.  As it was, the happy 
sunshine almost seemed to be mocking him.  Elrohir sat glumly on his 
horse, determinedly not looking in Glorfindel's direction, and wondered if 
his life could get any more bleak.  He was too young to have messed 
things up this badly.  One would think it would take more than fifty cycles 
to completely ruin one's whole existence.

Elrohir kept his horse's pace slow enough to avoid going anywhere near 
his one-time lover, who rode near the front of the party.  He also stayed as 
far away from Erestor as possible, who was fortunately riding at 
Glorfindel's side making it easy for him to avoid them both.  Elrohir had 
hoped that his new-found attraction to his old tutor had been nothing more 
than a moment of madness inspired by his hurt and humiliation, but that 
morning he had discovered that it was impossible to go back to seeing 
Erestor the old way.  The fall of his inky hair had been plaited neatly at his 
neck as usual, but Elrohir was reminded of the way it had felt against his 
skin, as heavy and supple as raw silk.  Although Erestor was wearing one 
of his usual old fashioned, high-necked robes, this one in a deep plum 
colour that was almost black, for some reason it did not make him seem 
old or fat as before.  No, not at all.  

Elrohir shook his head--he must be going mad.  What was it that caused 
this attraction for his former tutors anyway?  Was he just sick?  Everyone 
else fell for elves their own age--even Elladan had managed that easily 
enough, and he was certainly no prodigy.  Of course, where Erestor was 
concerned, Elrohir knew he had spoken the truth when he denied being in 
love with him, but the huge shift in perception was still hard to deal with, 
and as for Glorfindel . . . Seeing him with dappled sunlight falling over his 
long, unbound hair that morning had caused a very strange reaction.  
Elrohir had not felt pain or guilt or any of the emotions he could have 
understood and had half expected.  Instead, something in his brain had 
simply decided to shut down, as if his emotions had switched off in self-
defense.  A strange sort of calm had filled him, but it was an uneasy 
sensation, as if he was a dam bowing with the effort of holding back the 
spring rains. 

Yet he had felt something when Glorfindel approached him as he was 
mounting his horse, and demanded to know what he thought he was doing.  
An edge in his lover's tone had rubbed Elrohir the wrong way, and he had 
replied more strongly than he intended.

"I am riding along, as should be obvious."  

"I don't think that is a good idea.  Your father . . . "

"I don't recall asking you, seneschal," Elrohir had snapped, desperate to 
end the conversation before the bubble of repressed emotion in his chest 
erupted in who knew what kind of display.  He had quickly taken a place 
in the gathering throng, anxious to put as much space between them as 
possible; Glorfindel had not followed him, and they had not spoken since.

Elrohir glanced about in an effort to keep his eyes off the tempting sight 
ahead, and noticed that another familiar face, obvious because of his dark 
hair in the sea of blonds, rode nearby.  He suddenly had an idea.  He 
needed advice, but from someone considerably less daunting than Erestor 
had suddenly become, and too kind to laugh openly in his face.  "Gildor!"  
The agent obligingly reined back his horse slightly to come up alongside.  
Elrohir had no idea how to ask what he wanted, so he started with a less 
personal query.  "How is Haldir?"

"As well as can be expected.  I gave him half of your sleeping draught last 
night, so at least he rested."

"Half?  But a quarter of the bottle would have been sufficient to ease the 
pain and help him sleep.  I thought I told you that."

Gildor smiled at him guilelessly.  "I'm sure you did."

Elrohir sighed inwardly--it was going to be another one of those days 
when nothing made sense, he could already feel it.  Deciding that he 
probably couldn't make things any worse no matter what he said, he took 
the plunge.  "Er, Gildor, I was wondering . . . that is, you and Haldir . . . 
you are rather close, aren't you?"

Gildor gave him a sunny smile.  Really, Elrohir thought, blinking, he was 
rather attractive when he did that.  He immediately gave himself a mental 
slap.  Honestly, he'd be fantasizing about Elladan next!  "Yes, we are."

"So, you don't . . . that is . . . I know it is none of my business, but I was 
just wondering . . ."

"Yes?"

Elrohir took a deep breath and rushed it before he gave up in cowardice. 
"Soyoudon'tworryabouthisotherlovers?"

"What?"  Gildor looked puzzled.

"His other lovers.  I mean to say, well, Haldir has had a few . . . that is, his 
reputation . . . "  Elrohir blushed.  Elbereth, but he was bad at this!

To his surprise, Gildor just looked at him compassionately.  It suddenly 
occurred to Elrohir that perhaps his quarrel with Glorfindel was not 
exactly a secret.  "I really don't worry about that," Gildor assured him.  
"The past is past."

This seemed an amazingly lackadaisical attitude to Elrohir.  Relationships 
didn't just HAPPEN.  They had to be planned carefully and worked at--
really, the way some people managed their lives . . . He did feel rather 
sorry for Gildor, however, who would probably be cheated on by Haldir 
within a month if it hadn't happened already.  "That is . . . a remarkably 
calm attitude."

Gildor patted Elrohir briefly on the shoulder.  "Love finds a way," he told 
him earnestly.  Elrohir bit back a sharp retort; platitudes he could have 
done without.  Still, he supposed he should be pleased that Gildor wasn't 
giving him a dressing down for probing into his private life.  The fact that 
he worked for Elrond did not mean that he had to endure any snooping by 
his son.  

Elrohir found his eyes straying of their own accord to the duo riding near 
the front of the column and he sighed.  Just looking at Glorfindel caused a 
wave of longing and desire to dance along his nerves, so strong that it felt 
as if his bones had liquefied inside his skin.  Strangely enough, he missed 
their mental closeness even more, the easy familiarity, the laughter, the 
warmth . . .  

"You should talk to him."  Elrohir had almost forgotten Gildor's presence, 
but the words brought him back to the present, and a much less appealing 
place it was, too.  "This isn't my place to say, but I know the damage a 
small amount of miscommunication can cause.  A conversation, however 
difficult, is preferable to a life time of pain, is it not?"

The voice was so gentle, and the words were spoken with such conviction 
that Elrohir could not be angry with Gildor.  Elrohir had initiated the 
conversation because he wanted advice--now that he had it, complaining 
seemed fruitless, and the words did make sense.  Avoiding the issue was 
not going to solve anything, and Elrohir had never been a coward.    They 
would be riding all day, perhaps pausing long enough at mid-day for a 
brief bite of lembas, although perhaps not under the circumstances.  But 
they would stop that night.  They could not afford to be exhausted when 
they arrived at the mountain, not considering what probably awaited them 
there.  So, that meant he had all day to decide what he was going to say to 
Glorfindel.

*   *   *

Rumil heard shouts coming from Gildor's room, and ran flat out down the 
corridor.  He couldn't imagine what could possibly be threatening Haldir 
in the middle of the royal talan, but his shrieks indicated mortal peril.  He 
skidded to a halt outside the open door of his brother's room, then just 
stood there, his long knives falling limply to his side and his mouth open 
in amazement.  Oh, Gildor, he thought reverently, remind me to do 
something really nice for you when you get back.  

Haldir lay in bed with his foot elevated on an enormous pile of pillows.  
He was covered with enough blankets to suffice in the coldest winter, even 
thought the weather was quite temperate at the moment.  A fire burned in 
the grate, adding another source of warmth to the room, which perhaps 
explained the red flush on his brother's face.  Then again, that could have 
been anger at the diminutive figure sitting astride his chest, forcibly 
spooning soup down him.  Haldir was so enmeshed in the blankets that his 
efforts to throw her off were having little effect, nor were the curses he 
uttered between every mouthful.   

"You WILL finish this," she was saying, riding out another attempt to 
send her sprawling, and Rumil watched with glee as the large bowl she 
held was slowly emptied.  He doubted if much of it had actually ended up 
inside his brother, as the two of them were fairly drenched, but he 
supposed it was the thought that counted.  "There.  Do you need anything 
else?"

Rumil winced at a few of the suggestions his brother offered--really, she 
was female, after all--but the comments seemed to have no effect.  Of 
course, Rumil considered, after a lifetime spent around orcs, even Haldir 
at his worst probably seemed refined. 


"Then I will go get your medicine," she threatened--by her tone the benign 
phrase took on that connotation--and she swept out the door without 
another word.  

"Feeling better, brother?"  Rumil asked, making no effort whatsoever to 
restrain his grin.  

Haldir regarded him balefully from within his woolen cocoon.  "Get this 
off me."

Rumil clucked a tongue disapprovingly as he moved to do as bid.  "You 
really should learn some manners, you know.  Every time I see you these 
days, you're covered in food."  He finally managed to unwind the sticky 
blankets, but then had to sit down to keep from collapsing with mirth.  
"Oh . . . oh, you ARE well nursed, brother!"

"Be silent."  Haldir glared at him, but his appearance ruined the effect.  
When Rumil had left the room for lunch, Haldir had been sleeping 
soundly.  Elwyyda had dosed his breakfast with something, and she had 
apparently not missed the opportunity his unconscious state offered to 
properly nurse him.  And an impressive job she had made of it, too, Rumil 
thought admiringly, before he slipped from his seat and literally rolled in 
the floor, gasping for breath and giggling madly.  Oh, this was truly 
priceless! 


"Bring me something appropriate to wear."  It was an order, and as such 
would usually have made Rumil bristle--his brother had a bad habit of 
forgetting that Rumil was not his to command when they were not on 
duty--but under the circumstances he decided to overlook it.  He found 
Haldir's clothing neatly hung in Gildor's large wardrobe, while the other 
elf's attire was mostly wadded up on the floor or hanging halfway off its 
hangers.  Rumil refrained from comment, however, and picked out a 
tasteful nightshirt of the deep blue Haldir favoured, and brought it to him.  
"No," his brother looked annoyed, "I am not an invalid!  Bring me 
traveling attire."

"And just where, may I ask, were you planning to go?"  

"You know that perfectly well.  I would have already left if that cursed 
dwarf had not managed to drug me.  Probably put it in the tea.  In any 
case, I can catch up with them on a fast horse if I ride all night."

"Orc attacks make it too dangerous to travel at night, as you well know," 
Rumil commented patiently, as getting upset never worked with his big 
brother.  Of course, he considered, as Haldir rapidly began undoing some 
of the countless tiny braids with which Elwyyda had dressed his hair, logic 
usually didn't either.  Haldir was undoubtedly the most stubborn elf of his 
acquaintance.  "You aren't going anywhere," Rumil informed him, 
deciding on a more direct approach.  "I will tie you to the bed myself if 
necessary, and post a guard at the window!"

Haldir glowered at him, but Rumil ignored it.  His brother had made a 
lifetime's work of telling him and Orophin whenever they were acting 
foolishly; it was a pleasure to be able to return the favour.  Besides, it was 
difficult to take him seriously when he was wearing a heavy quilted shirt 
in a mustard shade, and a pair of overlarge green woolen leggings that 
could not possibly have been his.  A blue scarf had been knotted about his 
neck to keep off any stray chills, as if anything could have penetrated that 
costume, and an orange vest was securely buttoned over his chest.  His 
uninjured foot sported a bright red sock, while the other had at least twelve 
layers of bandages wound about it in intricate folds.  Rumil briefly thought 
that he might need to have a talk with Elwyyda about proper invalid attire 
before his brother roasted to death, as well as testing her for colour 
blindness.

"You wouldn't dare."

Rumil just gave him an arch look.  Orophin might be scared witless of 
their elder brother's rage at the moment, but Rumil had no such worries.  
Haldir was in no shape to carry out any threats at the moment, and he was 
deranged if he thought his sibling was bluffing.  Well, he'd find out the 
truth soon enough.  "You would be of no use anyway," Rumil told him, 
tugging the suffocating vest and tunic over his head and replacing them 
with the lighter cotton sleep shirt.  "He'll be alright, you know," he added 
in a softer tone, seeing his brother's genuinely apprehensive expression.

"Of course he will!," Haldir barked, "He has been a trusted agent in Lord 
Elrond's service for five hundred years!  I think that says something about 
his competence."

"But you're still worried about him."  It wasn't a question; Rumil could see 
his brother trying, and mostly failing, to repress frantic concern.
   
"They don't know what they will find when they arrive.  And you weren't 
there--it is a horrid place, Rumil."

"Gildor survived it before.  He will again.  And it will be better if he is not 
distracted trying to protect you."

"I do not need . . . "

"Normally, no, but at the moment?  Even you will not heal a badly broken 
ankle in a few days.  It will be a week or more before you can even stand 
without pain, and probably one to two beyond that before you can fight 
and jump and run about."  Rumil plumped up Haldir's pillows and forced 
him back against them.  His brother still looked a bit strange, as dozens of 
braids remained in his hair and none had been done expertly, so that little 
pieces of hair escaped in a frazzled halo all about his head.  He resembled 
a doll Rumil had seen an elfling playing with once, which had been carried 
about by the hair for so long that its tiny mane stood up of its own accord, 
in all directions.  It was odd and a little discomfiting to see his usually so 
composed brother looking wide eyed and somewhat lost, his anxiety 
apparent in his clear blue eyes.  "Don't worry Haldir; they will be fine."  
Rumil continued to make soothing comments as he smoothed the thinnest 
of the blankets back over his brother's reclining form.  He just hoped he 
was speaking the truth.

TBC
    

Title: Wild Justice 15/? 

*   *   *

"You have to tell him."

Glorfindel glanced sideways at Erestor, who was looking innocent as 
usual, flicking a speck of dust from his already immaculate sleeve.  He 
was too overwrought to bother pretending that he didn't know what his 
friend was talking about, although he did glance around to make certain no 
one was within hearing range.  The nearest rider was Lord Celeborn at the 
head of the column, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts.  "It's too 
soon.  We decided . . . "

"Yes, but that was before all this . . . upheaval . . . with Thranduil.  I am 
surprised the king hasn't discerned the truth already.  He certainly will if 
they talk, and eventually--you know Elrohir--he WILL confront him.  I 
barely managed to distract him last night."

"Last night?"

"He saw you with the king, I am not entirely certain how, but he was on 
his way to break things off with you when I intercepted him."  Glorfindel 
grimaced; he should have known.  He was a fool for ever going anywhere 
near the king's rooms, much less for believing Elrohir would not learn of 
it; Caras Galadhon had one of the best developed gossip vines he had 
encountered anywhere.  As the average elf's favourite past time was 
keeping up with what their nobility were doing--and the more scandalous 
the news the better--he had probably just provided the taverns of the city 
fodder for at least a decade of speculation.  Throw in that scene with 
Orophin, and his fame would doubtless last most of the rest of the century.  
Well, at least Erestor's news explained Elrohir's frosty attitude this 
morning.  "You are just fortunate I happened to be returning to the talan at 
the same time that he was making his way towards the king's chambers--a 
few minutes more or less, and we would REALLY have a mess."

Glorfindel regarded him sardonically.  "What do you call this?"

"A crisis, but a manageable one.  It will cease to be so soon, however."

"I thought you had a plan."

Erestor shrugged.  "I do, my dear Glorfindel, but these things take time to 
arrange.  Besides, I said I could manage the king; I never said anything 
about patching things up between the two of you.  I've already done my 
best--I persuaded Elrohir to come along with us because I didn't dare to 
leave him behind with Thranduil, but . . ."

"You did that?  Are you mad?"  Glorfindel regarded his friend with 
genuine anger.  Erestor was far too prone to take things on himself, even if 
they were absolutely none of his concern.

Erestor looked a bit put out.  "Well, what else could I do?  Besides, it isn't 
as if he can't take care of himself."

"You don't know what we may be facing . . . "

"Neither do you.  But whatever it is, his having a showdown with the king 
could be infinitely worse."

"Thranduil is not so foolish as to say anything . . . "

Erestor chuckled.  "You like him too well, I think."

"I don't like him at all!"    

"And you overestimate him."  Erestor held up a hand, "I do not mean to 
malign his intelligence, Glorfindel.  Really, for someone who dislikes him 
so much, you do quickly leap to his defense, don't you?  But rather to 
point out that it must be driving Thranduil wild, trying to understand how 
you could possibly choose a slip of an elfling over him.  Seen from his 
perspective, your actions are not even remotely comprehensible.  He has 
pursued you for a very long time--he will not easily abandon the chase, 
and certainly not without proof that he stands no real chance.  If he 
discovers the truth for himself, he will certainly be thrown off guard and is 
VERY apt to say something to alert Elrohir."

Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably and wished Erestor would make less 
sense.  "Elrohir might well not understand what the king meant, even if he 
did say something."

Erestor rolled his eyes expressively.  "My dear Glorfindel, please!  You 
really must stop living in denial over all this."  Erestor adjusted one of his 
plum suede riding gloves, a habit quite familiar to Glorfindel; his friend 
tended to fidget when about to say something likely to offend.  "We agree 
that Elrohir is not the same person you remember.  Or rather, he is, of 
course, but he is a much younger version.  He doesn't have access to the 
memories and the wealth of experience they bring as you do.  But that 
does not mean that he has lost any of his native intelligence or quickness.  
You have fallen into the habit of underestimating him, and fortunately he 
has been so preoccupied with the usual coming-of-age angst that he has 
not fully put his mind to the issue at hand.  But with or without the king's 
commentary, he WILL figure it out, and sooner I think, by far, than his 
father's timetable will permit.  So again I say--you HAVE to tell him." 

"You know what the consequences could be."

Erestor shrugged.  "I also know what they certainly will be if you continue 
to ignore the problem.  It will not simply fade away."

Glorfindel sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck.  He had a 
headache coming on, thanks in a large part to this conversation.  He would 
much prefer a nice, straight forward battle to these types of mind games; 
cleaving a few orc heads would seem like a holiday compared to the task 
that faced him.  He had hoped to put it off because of the mission, but now 
that Elrohir had decided to come along, there was no longer any valid 
excuse. "I would have preferred it had you mentioned this before we left.  
If I am to do anything so drastic, I would like to at least have Lord 
Elrond's permission, if not his actual presence."

"Elrond is not in any shape to make a decision of this type at the moment, 
nor should he be burdened by it."

Glorfindel regarded Erestor carefully.  There was a tense quality in his 
friend's voice that he did not like.  Of course, they were both worried 
about Elrond.  Glorfindel had looked in on him before they departed and 
had been relieved to see him sleeping at last, curled up in the large bed 
beside Gil-Galad, but he had looked exhausted.  Indeed, with the dark 
circles under his eyes and the unhealthy pallor of his complexion, 
Glorfindel had thought that he did not look much better than the High 
King himself.  Nonetheless, there was something in Erestor's manner that 
seemed odd . . . as if there was more troubling him than just anxiety on 
Elrond's behalf.  Glorfindel almost didn't say anything, as he had enough 
to worry about at the moment and Erestor in a mood was not a pretty sight, 
but his fellow counselor was a good friend--most of the time--and he owed 
him his aid if he wanted it.  "Is there something troubling you, Erestor?"

Black eyes swung to him, fairly sparking with irritation.  "Something 
bothering me?  Why, no, Glorfindel, nothing at all!  What could possibly 
be upsetting me?  Except perhaps the High King suddenly back from the 
grave, us going to confront a few thousand orcs in their own lair, Elrohir 
about to be tipped into insanity, Thranduil running loose plotting the Valar 
alone know what, and Elrond on the verge of a nervous breakdown . . . 
No, I can't think why I should be feeling any unusual stress, can you?"

Glorfindel hid a smile, and decided to let the matter drop.  Erestor would 
tell him in his own way, when he chose to do so, or he would not.  
Cajoling Elrond's chief counselor into doing something he did not like was 
never an easy task, and Glorfindel rarely attempted it.  He certainly was in 
no mood to do so today.  Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Elrohir 
and Gildor riding together, chatting amicably.  The sight reassured him--
certainly Elrohir had enough protection on this journey--and he vowed to 
talk to him whenever Lord Celeborn called a halt to the day's ride.  Erestor 
was right; this could not be allowed to continue.

*   *   *

Elrond awoke to a crick in his back and a cramp in his leg, neither of 
which were surprising considering the awkward position in which he'd 
finally managed to get to sleep.  He lifted himself slowly up on his arms to 
check on the king's condition, and was so surprised to find those bright 
blue eyes open and aware that he almost fell off the bed.  They regarded 
each other for a very long time without speaking.  It was still painful to see 
the familiar features so wasted, but there was a spark of recognition in the 
eyes that had not been there before, giving Elrond real hope for the first 
time.  

Yet the king at first made no effort to speak, and Elrond had absolutely no 
idea what to say or do; his throat had seemingly closed over, making it 
impossible to speak.  The king eventually solved the problem as he so 
often had in the past, by a simple, elegant gesture.  Raising a trembling 
hand, he gently stroked the side of Elrond's head, twining a curl of dark 
hair about a finger, while his gaze ran over his herald's face searchingly.  
Then suddenly he smiled.  It was his old, sweet expression, and with it all 
the years fell away. "Elrond."  

Elrond gathered his king into his arms and wept, so relieved that he still 
could not speak.  He allowed himself the luxury of holding him for a time, 
trying not to concentrate on how insubstantial he felt in his arms, and 
being very careful not to injure him further. Finally he pulled away 
slightly to ring the bell pull for a servant, and food and fresh towels soon 
arrived.  Elrond managed to persuade the king to drink some tea with 
honey and to eat a small amount of fruit and bread.  It was almost the first 
thing he had consumed since his return, and it encouraged Elrond greatly 
to see it.  The king was painfully thin and extremely weak, but his eyes 
were lucid and he seemed quietly happy to be in Elrond's care.

Carrying him as easily as if he had been a child, Elrond took the high king 
to the great bathing chamber down the hall.  His rooms had their own bath 
attached, but it was small, and he needed room for both of them.  He ran 
the large, circular tank full to the brim with hot, steamy water, to which he 
added a large amount of healing herbs, their pleasing fragrance soon 
permeating the room.  He undressed them both and lowered them into the 
water, keeping the king safely within the circle of his arms as he bathed 
him.  He was somewhat surprised at the blissful expression that passed 
over the king's features as the hot liquid closed about him.  But then, 
Elrond thought sorrowfully, it had probably been centuries since a true 
bath had been available to him, at least while he was conscious enough to 
be aware of it.  

Elrond enjoyed himself pampering the king's skin with soothing balms and 
fragrant oils, simultaneously pouring as much strength as he dared into the 
wasted body.  It seemed to help, for a little colour returned to the pale 
cheeks and the king managed another weak smile.  Elrond allowed hope to 
wash over him and continued to hold him until the water grew tepid, 
vowing that he would save this life if there were any arts capable of doing 
it.  After wrapping him in soft towels, Elrond carried his king carefully 
back to his rooms.  He was so intent on his burden that he was almost to 
the door before he noticed Thranduil loitering in front of it.  "Ah, Elrond, 
good.  I was hoping to see the both of you today."

Elrond doubted that a conversation with him had been at the top of 
Thranduil's list, but he did not contradict him, nor did he protest when the 
Mirkwood ruler opened the door and then followed him into his chambers.  
Elrond settled the High King back in bed, dressing him hurriedly and 
hoping Thranduil would decide to go away.  When the quiet presence 
behind him showed no sign of taking the hint, he became a bit more 
obvious.  "Thranduil, the king is still unwell.  He needs to rest, and 
hopefully to eat a good deal in order to regain his strength.  Perhaps your 
visit can wait?"

"I do not think so.  I am concerned for Gil-Galad's condition, of course . . . 
"  Elrond tried to suppress his instinctive flinch at Thranduil's easy use of 
the king's name.  To address him or speak about him so familiarly was a 
privilege few had had in the days of his power.  Elrond did not even feel 
himself worthy to utter the name, after the way in which he had failed his 
sovereign, and it seemed disrespectful to the point of profanity to hear 
those syllables from Thranduil's lips.  Had his father not ignored Gil-
Galad's orders at Barad-dur, and attacked without the support of the rest of 
the elvish host, the battle might have gone far differently.  Elrond had 
spent centuries telling himself that the father's folly was not the son's fault, 
and that Oropher had paid for his poor judgment with his life, but he could 
not stop his breath catching now.  Thranduil paused at the sound, but did 
not comment.  "However, I do think it important that we discover if there 
is any information he can give us.  Have you tried to question him?"

Elrond kept his temper with difficulty.  "He is hardly in any condition for 
that."

Thranduil seated himself on the chair beside the bed as if he had not heard.  
Gil-Galad regarded him placidly, and the Mirkwood king stared back with 
the same composure, giving no sign of any shock at the High King's 
condition.  Yet his voice was somewhat softer when next he spoke.  
"Many elves are about to walk into the unknown, Elrond, your son and 
father-in-law at their head.  I would think you would at least want to try."

"My son?"  Elrond felt a sudden sinking in his stomach.  Why had no one 
told him of this?

"Elrohir," Thranduil confirmed.  "I saw him leave with them this morning.  
Obviously, it was not my place to interfere, but I did wonder if he had 
your permission." Thranduil saw Elrond's expression and smiled 
reassuringly.  "Do not worry for his safety--five hundred of my best 
warriors, including my son Legolas, are meeting them on the way.  Yet I 
would feel better knowing what dangers await them, would you not?  
Celeborn made it clear that he did not require my company on this quest, 
so I am helping in the only way I can."  Thranduil held out a hand.  "Will 
you accept my aid?"

Elrond knew what the king wanted, and although he would have much 
preferred to postpone this, Thranduil's words were logical.  The blond 
Elda reached out a hand, which looked unbelievably tanned and healthy 
next to the pale ones on the blanket, and grasped one of the high king's.  
Elrond took Thranduil's proffered hand, and also clasped the remaining 
one of the king's.  The triangle complete, he closed his eyes and tried to 
concentrate, turning inward in an effort to focus his energies and stamp 
down his panic.  When he had tried this before, just a tentative touch on 
first seeing the king again, the result had been extreme pain and 
unconsciousness, and he had learned practically nothing.  Of course, he 
had Thranduil's support now, but the first experience had made him wary.  
This sort of merging of minds was always difficult, for few had Galadriel's 
innate skill, and many times Elrond had known it to fail completely.  With 
the high king still so weak, it was unlikely that they would be able to 
extract anything useful . . . 

Without warning the world fell away and Elrond found himself plunged 
into a maelstrom of sights and sounds and colours, all swirling together far 
too quickly for him to follow.  He vaguely sensed Thranduil's presence, 
but could not discern the high king at all, nor could he even feel the hand 
that he hoped he still grasped.  A vortex was rushing towards him at a 
terrific speed, and Elrond was powerless to do anything but let it come. 

*   *   *

Gildor felt his usual delight in the beauty of Arda, glistening under a 
blanket of Ithil's light, steal over him.  The evening breeze was cool and 
perfumed with flowers, underneath the more disturbing scents, and 
somewhere nearby he heard a lonely loon call out mournfully for its mate.  
He felt a little like that, too, hoping Haldir was all right and not too upset 
with him over his little deception.  Absentmindedly, Gildor hacked an 
orc's head from its shoulders and dodged the fountain of blood that 
followed the arc of his knife.  

Slipping into a fighting trance, which focused his concentration to the 
point that time itself seemed to slow down, Gildor surveyed the field 
before him.  He sidestepped a delicate flower that shone silvery white in 
the starlight, reflecting that this was really the sort of evening he would 
have liked to share with his lover.  Ithil was almost full and he could see 
himself and Haldir walking hand in hand over the fields, perhaps pausing 
to rest beside the small stream their party had passed a while back, and 
reveling in the lush sensation of the green glory all around them.  He felt 
an arrow hiss by his ear, but did not bother to dodge it; it had been ill shot, 
and missed him by almost an inch.  He somersaulted over a group of three 
orcs, slicing through the throats of two of them as he did so, then pausing 
to bury a knife in the back of the third before wrenching it free.

Dodging, leaping and weaving through the seemingly endless sea of 
goblins surrounding him, Gildor used the protruding root of a large oak as 
a springboard to propel himself into trees, the limbs of which criss-crossed 
their campsite like a canopy.  It was a beautiful area, and Gildor briefly 
admired the patterns the moonlight cast through the branches as he aimed 
an arrow.  A large orc fell lifeless below him and a second later another, 
which had been trying to copy Gildor's run up the oak's trunk, followed it 
into whatever afterlife awaited these creatures.  Gildor then loosed almost 
his whole quiver in quick succession, each arrow finding a mark in the 
squirming mass below, only pausing occasionally to run along the tree 
tops from branch to branch, whenever the orcs' fire began to concentrate 
on his previous location.

Elrohir's bashful query came back to him as he caught sight of the young 
Peredhil doing quite well against two huge orcs, whom he was battling up 
on the ridge over the camp.  Gildor smiled at him--the young one would 
be quite a warrior some day if he kept this up--and sent an arrow into the 
throat of the larger of Elrohir's opponents.  Unlike the young one seemed 
to believe, the problem with his relationship with Haldir was not 
competition from other elves, but rather the pressure of their combined 
responsibilities.  Of course, these past few weeks had been unusually busy, 
but even knowing that Gildor could not keep from sighing slightly in 
frustration.  They had, after all, just begun their relationship, yet had had 
almost no time to spend together.  He reflected that he really would like to 
arrange a few weeks of free time with Haldir as soon as possible.  He 
envisioned them enjoying the delights of Caras Galadhon--the shops, the 
restaurants, the concerts--without constant interruptions.  It did not seem 
likely, though, with events as they were.

Almost out of arrows, Gildor decided to conserve a couple for an 
emergency and dropped back down to join the hand-to-hand combat 
below.  Lord Celeborn was just to his right, looking especially gleeful as 
he ran two orcs through with a single thrust of his sword.  He then spun 
off to the side, hacking at his attackers left and right, a satisfied gleam in 
his silver eyes.  Deep in his fighting trance, Gildor saw the approach of an 
attempted trap---two orcs sneaking up on his left while another tried to 
distract him from in front--almost as if it was happening in slow motion.  
Instead of running at him as was probably the case, they seemed to be 
casually loping in his direction, giving him plenty of time to decide how to 
deal with the threat.  Gildor noticed with displeasure that scuffling boots 
had eradicated his campfire, and the pot of stew he had been cooking 
when the attack came was overturned in the dirt.  As he started forward, he 
noticed another problem.  He had drawn off his boots after they stopped 
for the night and now a sharp rock pierced his foot, causing him to glance 
down in annoyance.   

It was that glance that was his mistake.  As Gildor bent over to remove the 
rock, he felt a heavy blow to his back.  Falling to the ground, he lost his 
concentration and dropped out of the trance.  Events immediately sped up 
and he just barely managed to roll out of the way of the huge club that 
smashed down where his head had been a second before.  The pain in his 
back was an arrow, for it broke off as he rolled over, causing agony to rip 
its way up his spine and along his nerve endings, spreading numbness 
throughout his body.  He almost dropped his knives in the shock, but 
retained hold on them at the last second, even managing to sink one to the 
hilt in the belly of the nearest attacking orc.  

Unfortunately its death cry alerted others, and seeing an elf on the ground, 
two more of the creatures joined the hunt, making a total of four now 
concentrating on him.  Gildor looked about, but there was no help nearby 
and he could not summon enough concentration to fall back into his 
trance.  At the last second, an arrow pierced the helmet of the orc nearest 
him, which had raised its sword to finish him off, while another almost 
severed the neck of the beast right behind him.  Gildor saw Elrohir, 
wearing a fierce expression, firing again from the ridge, and he assumed 
that at least one of the arrows had been his.  The other had come from a 
different direction, but it also bore the black fletching of Imladris, so either 
Lord Erestor or Lord Glorfindel had noticed his distress.  Gildor rolled 
again, avoiding the third orc's attack, then another of Elrohir's arrows 
whizzed by, barely missing the creature, and Gildor took advantage of its 
distraction to bury a knife in its throat.  Taking up the fallen orc's sword, 
Gildor hacked at the legs of his final opponent, taking one off completely 
and slicing halfway through the other.  The creature fell, screaming, and 
impaled itself on one of Gildor's knives.  

The immediate threat was gone, but the body of the last orc landed heavily 
on top of him, pressing the broken shaft of the arrow even further into his 
back and causing excruciating pain.  Gildor managed with difficulty to 
throw the creature off, as he was virtually helpless pinned under it, but 
when he tried to stand he found that his legs did not work properly.  He 
managed to drag himself over to the trunk of a nearby tree, where at least 
he was shielded on one side from attack, and notched his last arrow.  The 
pain, although extreme, he could handle, but not being able to aid in the 
battle was true torment.  Fortunately, one of the Galadrim noticed his 
predicament and tossed him an additional supply of arrows, enabling 
Gildor to bring down a few more orcs before the rest of them decided to 
flee the battlefield.  

An elf staggered to his knees nearby and Gildor caught him as he fell.  
Two orc arrows stuck out of his back, and his eyes were vacant.  Gildor 
laid him as carefully as he could on the ground, but knew this one was 
beyond his help.  The arrows themselves had done damage, but the poison 
that tipped them was enough to finish anyone who did not receive prompt 
treatment.  Gildor was not certain if the arrow he carried had been 
poisoned or not, but he suspected that it had.  Of course, he had not 
received a double dose like the unfortunate elf at his side, but still . . . he 
watched the camp, noting the mounds of orc corpses with detached 
satisfaction, but felt the world going dim.  He thought of Haldir again, and 
hoped he would not grieve for him too badly.  It was unfortunate that they 
had to be separated so soon after finding each other, when they had waited 
so long to come together.  And even more regrettable was the fact that he 
had never really told his lover how much he meant to him.  It was always 
difficult to find words to express that level of adoration, but now he 
wished that he had tried more often anyway.  

The tree behind him sent soothing energy along its trunk, and Gildor 
thanked it nicely even as the scene before him began to grey out.  He 
assured it that the elves would not leave the smelly ones behind to pollute 
the pretty glade, and was trying to explain that it was invariably their 
custom to burn all the corpses to prevent disease, when he felt a jolt in the 
earth as someone landed heavily before him.  "Gildor!"  He was vaguely 
aware of hands shaking him, and of some liquid being poured down his 
throat, but he could not tell who spoke to him.  He swallowed the bitter 
tasting brew automatically, shuddering slightly at the taste, and felt 
himself being lifted from the ground.  Then he knew no more.

*   *   *

Thranduil strode through the corridors of the royal talan, his long cape 
billowing out behind him.  Elrond called to him and knew the king must 
have heard, but he did not so much as pause.  Elrond hurried down the 
steps after him, slipping slightly in his haste and in dizziness from their 
recent experience.  "Thranduil!  What do you think you're doing?"  When 
the king still ignored him, Elrond grasped his arm and spun him around 
forcibly.  The look in Thranduil's eyes caused him to relax his grip 
quickly, however.  

"Go back to your patient, Elrond.  He must be your top priority at the 
moment."  Thranduil drew on heavy leather riding gloves and turned away 
again, lightly running down the steps in front of the talan.  Elrond 
followed him.

"You cannot do this!  Thranduil, be sensible, if you and Celeborn were 
both caught . . . "

"I have sons to rule for me if I fall, Elrond, and Celeborn has the Lady 
Galadriel.  Our realms will hardly falter should we not return."  The king 
vaulted onto the back of the great black stallion he rode, and regarded 
Elrond from down his aristocratic nose.  "You forget what is at stake."

"But . . . "

Thranduil leaned down to whisper fiercely into Elrond's ear, ignoring the 
curious stares of passing elves, who rarely saw one of their lords dressed 
in full mithril armor.  "My father, Peredhil," he hissed, "do you remember?  
He fell at Barad-dur, too, or so I have always believed.  Perhaps it is true, 
perhaps not; after what we just saw, I no longer know what happened that 
day.  But be assured, I intend to find out!"

With a shout, Thranduil and the small party of outriders who followed him 
left the centre of Caras Galadhon at a full gallop, scattering elves to either 
side of them, their horses' hooves sparking fire off the smooth white 
paving stones.  Elrond watched them go with a sinking feeling in his 
breast.  But he murmured a prayer for their safety before turning to mount 
the stairs to the palace.

TBC


Title: Wild Justice 16/? 

*   *   *

Elladan was growing less and less sure about this all the time.  Orophin 
seemed to know what he was doing, but the heavy cloak he had insisted 
Elladan wear was itchy and hot and he seriously doubted its necessity.  
Who in Lorien could possibly care what he and his family did, anyway?  
Obviously, Orophin was either deluded or playing with him, and either 
way it worried Elladan, as did the direction they were heading.    

They had already passed several fine looking taverns, and Elladan, who 
had decided he could really use a drink, would have been happy to stop in 
any of them.  But they bypassed the pretentious Silver Tree, which had 
Lord Celeborn's personal seal of approval prominently displayed on its 
sign as well as the boast that it served "the finest ale in Arda."  But 
Elladan had not complained as it looked a bit stuffy, with a lot of older 
elves having chess matches or debating politics loudly enough that he 
could hear them in the street.  If he wanted that sort of thing, he didn't 
need to go out at all--he could have just stayed at the royal talan.

He had felt like saying something, however, when the much friendlier 
looking Gwingil was also ignored, as he liked the flirty looking mermaid 
on its sign, as well as the appearance of several attractive and obviously 
bored elf-maids lounging on its vine covered terrace.  Before he could 
suggest a few ways to alleviate their ennui, however, Orophin dragged 
him away, down a small side street that Elladan had never seen before.  
When they stopped before the dingy looking tavern at the very end of the 
street, however, Elladan finally baulked.  

"Liltadin-Cirth?  What kind of name is that for a pub?"  

"This is the oldest surviving tavern in Lorien," Orophin told him shortly, 
pulling him into the shadows of the narrow alley between the dubious 
looking establishment and the high wall of the city.  "Haldir stables his 
horse nearby, so he comes here often.  If he manages to get this far, he's 
almost sure to stop in for supplies, as I can't see him trying to raid the 
lord's kitchens in his current state."  Orophin adjusted the deep midnight 
blue hood that concealed Elladan's dark hair and distinctive features.  "Just 
keep your head down.  We'll find a quiet table in a dark corner and wait--
he's certain to turn up sooner or later."

Elladan doubted this--if he was Haldir and had just left his nurse locked in 
the wardrobe and his youngest brother bound, gagged and stuffed under 
the bed, he didn't think he would go anywhere near his usual haunts.  But 
still, Orophin knew him best, so Elladan was willing to trust his judgment, 
although he wished Haldir patronized a more upscale tavern.  This place 
was a dump.

Elladan followed Orophin into the murky interior, which was lit only by a 
few horn lanterns giving off a very dim, gold light.  He was thankful for 
the lack of illumination, as it meant that even elvin eyes would have 
difficulty penetrating his disguise, but it nonetheless made the place a little 
creepy.  Not that it wasn't doing fine in that respect even without the 
lighting effects.  They found a small table in a corner as far from the bar as 
they could get and Orophin went to get drinks, as Elladan had noticed that 
the barmaid was none other than Ithilessar, his one time play mate, who 
was certain to recognise him if he came too close.  He hunched down in 
his heavy robe and waited, looking about for a lack of anything better to 
do.

The patrons were all elves, although some looked to be from other lands 
than Lorien.  The tavern's position near the city gates meant that it was 
probably one of the first such establishments visitors encountered.  
Elladan thought his grandfather should be a little concerned about that, as 
the place was hardly an advertisement for Lorien's beauty and grace.  It 
must have been built before most if not all of the other city buildings, as 
its architecture was of a very different type.  It didn't even look elvin to 
Elladan, with rough hewn wooden walls sagging with age and growing a 
crop of grey-green moss, and a thatched roof appearing in equal need of 
repair, with several bird's nests visible among the rafters.  Apparently 
appearances didn't lie.  A rainstorm began as he sat there, and Elladan 
soon perceived a cool drip down his collar.  He sighed and moved his 
wooden stool slightly to the left to avoid it.  Well, at least that explained 
how the moss and mildew covering the floorboards survived.  

None of the other patrons seemed to notice the rain.  The elf at the closest 
table, a farmer type wearing coarse brown clothing, continued to stare 
gloomily into his half-empty mug of ale, ignoring the drip that was soon 
falling onto his head.  He sighed heavily now and again, but made no 
effort to move.  A few tables beyond him, a couple of rather loose looking 
females continued to lounge and gossip, paying no heed to the weather or 
to anyone else.  The only other patron, besides several Mirkwood types 
who were flirting outrageously with Ithilessar at the bar, was as heavily 
muffled as Elladan himself and sat at a table in the opposite corner.  
Occasionally the figure jotted down something in a leather bound book, 
but did not attempt to approach anyone.

Orophin had just returned with their drinks, a surprisingly good wine 
which he informed Elladan was only available at this pub due to an 
exclusive agreement with the vintners, when the door burst open and a 
group of raucous elves came in, laughing and dropping wet clothing onto 
tables and over the backs of chairs.  Elladan didn't recognise any of them, 
but by their features and accents, they were Sindar from Lorien.  Their 
leader was a handsome elf with long blond curls, who climbed up on one 
of the tables and clanked two pewter tankards together for silence.  

"I now call this meeting of the Honourable Lorien Gossip Guild to order!  
Let the merriment begin!"  To a chorus of laughter, boos and "get off the 
table Earon" he hopped gracefully down, leaving room for Ithilessar to 
place a huge flagon of wine in the table's centre.  The elves quickly pushed 
the other tables to the room's edge, leaving a clear space around the one 
with the wine, then perched on chairs and tabletops in a happy, jostling 
circle.  

"As lord of this society, I claim first round," Earen said, walking up to the 
table and hefting the heavy flagon easily.  

"Oh no." Orophin groaned quietly.  "I forgot this group meets here every 
Menelya eve."

"What's going on?"  Orophin just shook his head and buried his face in his 
arms, refusing to answer Elladan's query.  Luckily, he was soon 
enlightened anyway, for Ithilessar was pushing a pretty blond Sindarin 
maiden forward, who Elladan recognised in surprise as Cerebrethil, 
another one time playmate.    

"Wait, wait!" Ithilessar called out, laughing.  "We have a gossip virgin 
with us tonight who doesn't know the rules."  Her comments after that 
were drowned out by a loud chorus of "explain the rules, explain the rules" 
from the surrounding circle of elves, along with much stamping of feet 
and pounding of mugs.  

"Alright, alright!," Earen held up his arms, laughing. "Bring forth the 
virgin!"  This, of course, elicited a number of ribald comments and more 
laughter, and Cerebrethil added to the rowdy atmosphere by pinching 
Earen in a most unvirginal way.  He grabbed her wrist and pushed her 
slightly in front of him, presumably to keep an eye on her.  Elladan hid a 
smile behind his glass; he knew Cerebrethil enough to guess just how well 
that was likely to work.   

"These are the rules of this august company, which ye must respect or face 
expulsion into the frigid atmosphere of the Silver Tree, where ye shall 
surely fade from sheer boredom within a sennight. So."  Earen handed 
Celebrethil the flagon, and grinned when she almost dropped it because of 
the excessive weight.  She recovered quickly, however, balancing the huge 
pitcher gracefully on one hip.  "We take things in turn, but as the newest 
member you will be given the honour of first chance.  The idea is to prove 
our reputation for always knowing all the gossip worth hearing in Lorien.  
Each of us keeps an ear out for the more interesting news that never makes 
it into the formal broadsheets, and then saves it up to entertain, er, I mean 
to inform, our fellow members."

"Get to the point, Earen," someone called, which began a new chant that 
took some time to die down.  Apparently deciding to cut his explanation 
short or they'd never get to the wine, Earen made an effort at brevity when 
he again achieved something like order.  "All right!  All right!  All you 
have to do, my lovely one, is to tell us a story about a recent happening 
here in the Golden Wood.  At the end, we decide whether it is true or 
false, and if you fool the majority of the company either way, you win a 
drink.  Otherwise, you move to the back of the queue.  Understand?"

At Celebrethil's nod, Earen cleared out of the way and left the elf-maid in 
the centre of the circle.  She sat the heavy wine container on the table once 
more, and then, to Elladan's stunned disbelief, launched into a detailed 
account of his prowess in the bedroom.  He felt his cheeks burning and 
drew back even further under his hood, resisting the impulse to leap to his 
feet and choke her pretty neck until her face turned blue.  How DARE 
she?  Only the heavy pressure of Orophin's foot on his kept him from 
acting out the impulse, especially when she went on to rate him "a weak 
seven, although to be fair, we were all very drunk at the time."

A variety of catcalls answered this tale, which the group unanimously 
declared a barefaced lie.  Elladan was feeling somewhat better until an elf 
called Mirimon called out their reason, "Come now, Cele, everyone in 
Lorien knows the young Peredhil is seeing Orophin of the Guard."

"And I hear he rates him a ten!," another male elf said, laughing.  

Elladan reached across the table and poked Orophin on the shoulder.  "Is 
that true, did you actually say that?"  

Orophin looked up, his face mottled red with suppressed laughter.  "Don't 
get a big head.  This group is NOT to be trusted about anything!"

Elladan wondered if that was true, however, as member after member of 
the drinking club took their turns, collectively managing to piece together 
a good deal of the goings on at the royal talan.  A tall blond named 
Elemmakil, who owned a weaving shop, told all about the visit of Gildor 
and the dwarf, and won a large drink because no one believed Gildor had 
spent a fortune buying her such an expensive piece of fabric.  A flirty elf 
maid called Sárince described Glorfindel's encounter with Orophin, but it 
won her no wine, as it was apparently old news--"even the stiffs at the 
Silver Tree know THAT one," someone commented.  A thin male named 
Alcon also failed to get a free drink, as Erestor's playground was another 
poorly kept secret, but a small female with huge blue eyes named 
Nandelle was more successful because she was able to enlighten the group 
as to what certain elf lords had been seen using said glade for a few nights 
ago.  No one was sure whether to believe her or not, but the consensus was 
that a story that good deserved a drink anyway.  Elladan, knowing his 
father, sank a little further down into his chair.  He, at least, had no trouble 
believing it.

And so it went on for the better part of two hours, with Cerebrethil 
breaking in occasionally to sulkily remark that she had too told the truth, 
but no one believed her, even when she persuaded Ithilessar to back her 
up.  "Although," the bar maid said consideringly, "I would give him at 
least an eight, maybe even a nine for effort."  While Elladan was trying to 
figure out just what that meant, and whether or not he should feel insulted, 
the door opened emitting a gust of rain and a soaking wet figure wrapped 
in a long grey cloak.  

"Haldir!" A pretty maid called Callë waved at him, "Nae saian luume'!  
More wine, Ithil--this one can drink!"

Haldir ignored her, but made his way over to the bar, where he had a low 
voiced conversation with Ithilessar.  Orophin had risen to his feet, and 
Elladan followed him, but before they could do anything, two more 
soaking wet figures burst into the room, both looking mad as Mandos.  

"Oh, well," Orophin commented, suddenly sitting back down and picking 
up his drink.  Elladan looked at him strangely until the new arrivals tossed 
their soaked cloaks aside and began to slowly approach the bar.  Elladan 
noticed that the gossip club had all grown quiet and were watching the 
scene as avidly as Orophin, so he shrugged and sat down again, waiting to 
see if the odd duo could bring their prey to ground without aid.  

Haldir heard their approach and spun to face them with less than his usual 
grace, his heavily bandaged foot slowing him down.  Before he could 
move, the smaller of his two pursuers launched herself at him, emitting a 
hoarse battle cry.  The little dwarf grabbed him around the knees and hung 
on with dogged determination, forcing Haldir to have to hop forward to 
avoid Rumil's attempts to get a rope around him.  He moved quickly 
despite his impediment, but succeeded only in causing considerable chaos.  
Rumil wisely stayed between him and the door, blocking the only way of 
escape, while beginning to spin the rope about lariat style.  Elwyyda lost 
her grip on Haldir's legs after the two of them smashed into the centre 
table, sending the wine pitcher spinning across the floor, scattering 
slippery lees everywhere.  But she recovered quickly, clambering onto his 
back when he briefly dropped to one knee, and catching him in a 
stranglehold around the neck.  

"Would you like another round?," someone asked, and Elladan looked 
about in confusion until he noticed Ithilessar standing beside their table, 
looking unconcerned and holding a wine bottle.  Orophin took it, smelled 
the cork, smiled and accepted, passing over a coin as the barmaid turned 
away.  

"Drink, El?"  Elladan silently held out his glass, then quickly pulled it 
back as Haldir came stumbling towards them and collapsed onto their 
table, Elwyyda still clutching his neck.  Orophin managed to save the 
wine, but he looked at Haldir with considerable trepidation, apparently 
with good reason as one glance at his brother caused Haldir to forget all 
about Rumil and the dwarf.  Growling out a curse, he lunged for him.  The 
bottle went flying as Orophin and Haldir crashed to the floor, but Elladan 
caught it, stepping nimbly out of the way as the three on the ground began 
thrashing about.  Rumil approached cautiously, the rope raised, just as 
Haldir and company rolled into the darkness under the table.  Rumil 
crawled under after them.

The table rocked about a good bit, but after a minute or so Elwyyda 
emerged, straightening her little kirtle and patting her hair.  Elladan 
wordlessly handed her the wine; he felt she deserved it.  Next came 
Orophin, dragging Haldir by the legs, which had been tightly wrapped 
with sturdy Lorien rope, and finally Rumil, a bruise blossoming on his jaw 
but with his brother's arms and torso trussed up in a large quantity of rope.  
Elwyyda leading the way, the bottle tucked safely under her arm, the 
procession carted a protesting Haldir to the door, where Rumil deposited 
him briefly on a table while he slid back into his outer robe.    

Elladan was not an elf to miss an opportunity.  Catching Orophin at the 
door, he threw back his hood and pulled his lover into a deep kiss, adding 
a grope on his delectable backside just for good measure.  Catching 
Earen's flabbergasted gaze, he just smiled.  "She lied," he commented 
briefly, before the whole procession trooped out into the rain.

TBC  

Liltadin-Cirth: The Dancing Rune (I think).
Menelya: Friday
Nae saian luume': It has been too long.


Title: Wild Justice 17/?

*   *   *

The first thing Glorfindel noticed when returning to camp 
was Erestor, who was assisting with the disposal of orc 
carcasses by viciously kicking one in the direction of one 
of the larger piles.  He sighed, but did not reproach him.  
He felt rather the same way himself, but did not have the 
energy to bother with pointless gestures, however 
satisfying.  He and a party of the Galadrim had spent most 
of the night in pursuit of the fleeing orcs, and had 
finally managed to hunt down most of them.  It had been 
exhausting, dirty work, more slaughter than battle as the 
creatures' leaders had fallen at the campsite and the foot 
soldiers were incapable of forming a battle plan on the 
run.  Still, he preferred it to the job that had been left 
for Erestor.

He looked about the once beautiful glade in distaste.  The 
air was fetid with the smell of burning orc flesh, which 
had been discernable from miles away, and charred carcasses 
were piled in flattened mounds everywhere.  Several 
Galadrim were digging long trenches in the dirt, which 
would serve as burial troughs for anything the fire did not 
consume.  A group headed by Elrohir, who as his father's 
long time apprentice in the arts of healing was best suited 
for the job, was looking after the wounded elves.  A wave 
of relief at seeing him unharmed swept through Glorfindel, 
but he controlled his features.  This was not the time.

"How many did we lose?"

Erestor looked up from kicking a severed orc head into the 
flames of a pyre and scowled.  His previous pristine 
garments were torn and bloody, and soot covered his 
features.  He looked tired and disgusted, but then surprise 
and pleasure took over his features as he recognized 
Glorfindel.  "So you're back; high time, too, running off 
all night, leaving me with all the dirty work to do."  
Glorfindel found his upper arm gripped tightly for a 
moment, before his grimace caused Erestor to release him 
and begin pulling at his torn sleeve.  "That is a deep 
wound.  You should have it bandaged at once, before 
infection sets in."

"How many?"  Glorfindel really didn't want to know, but it 
had to be asked.

Erestor's smile faded, his joy in his friend's safe return 
muted by the cost of battle.  "Too many.  Thirteen dead, 
and four more hovering just this side of Mandos.  Most have 
some wounds at least."  Erestor looked somberly at 
Glorfindel, gesturing around the ruined glade to underscore 
his words.  "That was no casual raiding party, Glorfindel.  
There had to be more than a thousand of them!  We've burned 
at least five hundred corpses so far, and look at the 
number that remain!"

Glorfindel glanced at the fly blown piles.  "I would say 
closer to two thousand, but we did not take the time to 
keep count during the pursuit."

"Someone knew we were coming."  This fact was too obvious 
to need comment, so Glorfindel made none.  The amount of 
blood he had lost from a knife wound in his shoulder and a 
sword cut across his arm was making it difficult to 
concentrate in any case.  Erestor realised this, and his 
hard expression softened.  "Come, I am taking you to see 
the healers before you fall over."  Glorfindel allowed his 
friend to slide an arm about him, finding it pleasant to be 
pampered for a moment although he really did not need it.  
They had just managed to reach the edge of the glade when 
the sound of horses' hooves alerted them to the arrival of 
new comers to camp.  The jingle of harness, soft thud of 
boots hitting the ground, and distinctive chink of mithril 
armor reached his ears.  He didn't need to turn around to 
know who it was--Erestor's face blanched under its coating 
of soot and his eyes narrowed.  Thranduil had arrived.

*   *   *

Elwyyda closed the door quietly and, as Rumil looked on, 
locked it with a large key.  There were two Galadrim posted 
outside the door, one on each side, and a third sat in the 
tree just beyond Haldir's window.  Elwyyda smiled in 
satisfaction; her charge would not elude them again.  She 
gave the key into Rumil's keeping and his shift caring for 
the unwilling invalid began.  Thank Aule, she thought 
fervently, as she didn't know how much longer she could 
remain calm around Haldir.  Instead of apologizing for 
locking her in the wardrobe for much of the afternoon, then 
forcing her to spend the evening sloshing around in the 
rain, he had proceeded to complain loud and long about his 
"imprisonment," as he termed it.   After several hours 
having her memory of Westron curses reviewed at length, she 
had been sorely tempted to gag him; she might have actually 
tried it, but was making it a habit to stay out of the 
reach of those long arms.  Honestly, he was the most 
annoying creature in Arda!  She had actually known orcs who 
were easier to get along with--or at least who were 
quieter.

Elwyyda passed down the hallway to her own room, but found 
after she had bathed and taken up her usual sleeping 
position under the edge of the large bed that she was not 
at all sleepy. Worries about Zirak's well being kept 
surfacing in her mind, for she had yet to have an 
opportunity to speak with him since their arrival.  Rumil 
had been very nice and, as well as his broken Westron 
allowed, had repeatedly assured her that Zirak was all 
right.  Still, she wanted to see for herself.  After more 
than an hour of staring at the underside to the bed frame 
and still finding sleep elusive, she decided to imitate 
Haldir and go do something stupid.

Creeping out of her room, Elwyyda noticed that the habit of 
the palace servants for ignoring her existence held true; 
no one even gave her a second glance as she made her way up 
the stairs to the room which Rumil had said belonged to 
Lord Elrond.  The lessons of all those years in the mines 
also helped, as she knew how to fade into the background 
when needed.  She was not surprised to find Lord Elrond's 
rooms unlocked when she reached them--they had had to have 
a lock specially fitted onto Haldir's door because such a 
thing was not usual in Lorien--but she was disappointed to 
find her friend neither awake nor alone.  The dark elf at 
his side she vaguely remembered from her first disastrous 
day, but did not know what he was called.  She hoped he 
wasn't going to yell at her, as Haldir had done enough of 
that already.

To her surprise and pleasure, he turned out to be another 
like Rumil.  Elwyyda had begun to put elves into groups in 
her mind, in a pyramid of types with Gildor and Zirak pre-
eminent and untouchable at the top.  Rumil and a few others 
who did not look at her as if she smelled bad--which she 
did not, having made certain to bathe every day whether she 
needed to or not--were in the middle.  The haughty servants 
of the royal palace were firmly on the bottom, and she 
avoided them whenever possible.  Haldir wasn't on the 
pyramid at all, as she preferred not to even think of him 
unless absolutely necessary.  She certainly would have had 
nothing to do with his recovery, except that Gildor had 
asked her very sweetly before he left to please take good 
care of him.  There was, she reflected sourly, absolutely 
no accounting for taste.

This elf had eyes like Gildor's, dark and kind, but also 
rather sad, so perhaps he was really more like Zirak.  She 
had not been introduced to Lord Elrond, but these were his 
rooms and the dark elf did look like a healer so she 
assumed it was he.  He seemed unsurprised to see her, 
although he could not have known she was coming.  Not only 
did he fail to order her out, but he indicated with one of 
those curiously elegant elvin gestures that she could sit 
on the edge of the bed if she liked.  Elwyyda settled 
herself, and was content to watch Zirak sleep for a while, 
noting happily that he was obviously better than before.  
He was still thin, pale and weak, but somehow was more 
THERE than she could ever remember seeing him.  This elf, 
then, seemed to be good for him, so she decided definitely 
to put Elrond on Rumil's level for now.  Especially as he 
thankfully spoke Westron, something with which Rumil, but 
not Haldir unfortunately, had much difficulty.  "Will he 
get better?"

The dark elf looked sad.  "There are many kinds of better," 
he said slowly, his eyes on his patient.  "If you mean, 
will he improve physically, then yes, I believe so."

Elwyyda crinkled up her brow in thought, but the elf's 
words made no sense.  Better was better, was it not?  Zirak 
was out of the mines now, and had all the food he wanted 
and his own healer caring for him . . . but the expression 
in the elf's grey eyes told her that something was wrong.  
She decided to go about this a different way.  "What 
happened to him?  Why was he in the mines?  Your people did 
not sell him."  The last comment was not a question; Gildor 
had told Elwyyda that there was no such thing as slavery 
among the elves.  There were many things she did not like 
about their society--the flimsy buildings that swayed in 
the breeze and were built too high off the ground; the 
over-fancy food, so decorated that it was often hard to say 
just what its main ingredients were; and the frequent 
snobbery--but their attitude on slavery was one thing she 
highly approved.

"No.  He was believed slain in battle.  But we should have 
looked longer for him.  I should have looked longer."  The 
last was said so low that Elwyyda almost didn't catch it.  
It seemed that this line of questioning was upsetting Lord 
Elrond, but Elwyyda persisted, not knowing when she might 
have another chance.

"So his enemies sold him?"

Elrond glanced up at her, and paused.  Finally he sighed 
and ran a hand over Zirak's blankets, smoothing them 
although they already looked fine to her.  "You were long 
his friend, when others on whom he might have expected to 
depend forsook him.  I think you have a right to know."

*   *   *

Mardthelu slid another inch along the tree trunk, the cape 
he had taken off the ugly one he had killed slithering 
along behind him.  It was uncomfortable against his body, 
and felt almost like it was trying to get away from him, 
but he pulled it tighter nonetheless.  He did not like its 
too smooth, too clean surface, nor the fact that it smelled 
like the one he had killed, but it served its purpose, 
allowing him to slowly advance along the tree limb 
unnoticed by the host that swarmed beneath him.

Mardthelu he had been named and mardthelu he was, 
especially after the number of elves they had crushed that 
day.  But the price had been too high, and one elf in 
particular had to pay for that.  He stared at the hated 
face, so dazzling it hurt his eyes, and knew his time to 
deal with him was limited.  Already the despised sun was 
sending so much light over the horizon that it seared his 
eyes, and soon it would be so bright that he would be truly 
blind.  Then he would have failed to repay the ugly one for 
not only killing Vulkulk, but also for kicking his severed 
head into the burning pile with so little respect.  
Mardthelu longed for the cool dark of the caves, but 
accepted stoically that he would never see them again.  But 
before he died, he would take his revenge.

Vulkulk was his mother-son, older than he and often cruel 
to him, for Mardthelu had never been as large the others in 
the brood.  Vulkulk had often told him that he would almost 
certainly fail the rite of passage and bring shame on them 
all, yet he had mercilessly trained him for it, battering 
him from dusk to dawn every day with surprise attacks so 
that Mardthelu became wary of everyone and lashed out at 
the slightest sign of danger.  He had suffered many cuts 
and some broken bones from Vulkulk's training, but had 
grown harder and faster for it over time.  When it was at 
last time for the trial, Vulkulk had gone along as one of 
the watchers.  Mardthelu had worried about that, sure that 
his fate was sealed, for he had never managed to please his 
tormentor even in the mines he knew so well, so how could 
he hope to do so in strange lands he had never even seen?  
He would fail the test and be killed himself, or worse, be 
sold as a slave, as one unworthy to be called a warrior.

But that had not happened.  To his shock, Vulkulk had 
helped him, driving one of the dwarves they found in his 
direction, and insuring that it was a large male, so that 
killing it would be considered true proof of skill and 
courage.  When the dwarf had proven canny and strong, and 
fought on despite many wounds, Vulkulk had distracted the 
others in the party to the spoils reaped from their attack, 
and quickly helped him to make the kill.  He had let 
everyone believe Mardthelu had managed it all on his own, 
and when they returned to the caves, he showed off his 
mother-son's scars and praised his strength.  Mardthelu 
became a warrior, the brood's honour was saved, and a debt 
was silently acknowledged.

Yet he had been unable to save Vulkulk in battle that day.  
Two of the ugly ones had attacked him at once, and no one 
orc could stand against such odds.  Mardthelu had been too 
far away to assist him, fighting his own battle from which 
he only narrowly escaped after killing the ugly one.  He 
had plundered the corpse, of course, and taken a knife and 
the curious cape that concealed its wearer, but he had 
shown no disrespect to the body.  Their were clans that did 
so, of course, but his had never been among them, believing 
that a warrior of any type, if he fought well, deserved 
honour.

But these things they fought did not feel that way.  The 
bright one who killed Vulkulk kicked his body and his 
severed head as if trying to kill him yet again.  Orcs had 
few ceremonies, but they understood honour to those who 
died bravely, and this creature offended against all the 
codes.  He must die.

*   *   *

"There was a great battle long ago, and many great elves 
were lost in it.  But the foe we fought, Sauron, was 
destroyed, and his host utterly defeated."  Elrond's voice 
was steady, but his eyes were far away, and Elwyyda 
wondered if he even saw her anymore.  "Or so we thought.  
But we were wrong; Sauron's soul lived on, but without a 
body it was largely powerless.  Realising this, one of his 
servants, the Lord of the Nazgûl, devised a plan for 
obtaining him a new body."  Elrond stopped, shivering 
slightly, and Elwyyda wondered if she really wanted to hear 
this after all.

"Do you understand how elves die?" Elrond asked. Elwyyda 
shook her head; there had been little time for such 
reflection in the mines, and she had rarely thought about 
anything other than survival.  "Elves are destined to live 
as long as Earth lasts.  Yet, we can die, if our Fëa, what 
you would call a soul, is separated from the Hroa, our 
body.  The one cannot live without the other, and once the 
Hroa is injured too badly, the Fëa is released to Mandos.  
Many elves had fallen in battle against Sauron, and many 
more were near death.  The Lord of the Nazgûl took those 
still clinging to life with him, to a hidden fortress about 
which we knew nothing, and returned them to some of their 
strength.  Then he tried to alter them, so that one might 
prove a fit carrier for Sauron's soul."

Elwyyda did not understand.  "But you said the soul goes to 
Mandos if the body dies.  Why did this Sauron's soul not go 
there, and how could he take on the body of another?  Would 
that soul not then be forced out, and the . . . Hroa . . . 
die?"

Elrond smiled at her.  "You are quick.  I begin to 
understand how you were able to overcome such odds and flee 
the mountain.  Sauron's is a powerful spirit, able to 
ignore the call to Mandos, and the same laws that govern 
the elves do not also bind him.  As for the second part of 
your question, you are, of course, correct--if the Fëa left 
the body, the body would then die.  But the Lord of the 
Nazgûl was clever, and believed he could force the Fëa of 
one of the captured elves to remain in its body, but 
unaware of itself and quiescent, while the soul of his 
master took over control of the borrowed Hroa.  Elven 
bodies are durable, so once the transfer was done, his 
master would be virtually immortal.  He had many elves to 
work with, and was confident that he could eventually find 
a suitable receptacle."

"Did it work?"  Despite herself, Elwyyda was becoming 
interested in the tale, although she did not see how it 
could have anything to do with Zirak.  He was not possessed 
by some evil force--that she knew perfectly well.

"No, thank the Valar, it did not."  Elrond smoothed Zirak's 
hair lightly, then leaned back in his chair.  "But the 
attempts to weaken and restrain their souls did the elves 
great damage, as did suggestions implanted in them that any 
attempt to regain their sense of self would result only in 
great pain.  Most died from the torment eventually."

"But Zirak?"  Elwyyda had never seen anything in him that 
seemed subverted or twisted, but then she had not known 
what he had been like before.  What kind of power would be 
needed to do something like that, and how could anyone 
survive it?

"He was one of a handful of survivors, who the Lord of the 
Nazgûl failed to subvert for his uses or to kill.  
Eventually, the experiments were abandoned as useless, and 
the few remaining elves were sent to labour with the other 
mine slaves.  It was thought that the hard work would 
dispose of them eventually, but that they would be of some 
use before they died.  Most of the remaining elves did pass 
to Mandos over the centuries, but a few lived on, not 
knowing who they were or why they were there, the Nazgûl's 
power having deprived them of much of their memory of the 
past."  Elrond smiled at her slightly, and Elwyyda marveled 
that such an expression could convey such sadness.  "But 
thanks to your courage, we now know where they are, and 
those who yet remain will be rescued."

"And you can heal them."  It seemed to Elwyyda that there 
was no reason for Elrond's sadness, as everything would be 
all right now.  She had been in the mines many years, too, 
but she was growing plump with all the food here, and 
healthy with much rest and baths and fine clothes . . . if 
she could do it, certainly Zirak could.

"I have done something to help his leg, which I assume was 
damaged in the battle or later in the mines, and may 
eventually be able to return him to something like his old 
health.  But I am not sure about the other--injuries to the 
soul are not as easily dealt with."

Elwyyda regarded Zirak thoughtfully.  "He is a good person.  
I think he will be well in time.  You are good for him."

Elrond gave that strange, sad smile again, and his eyes 
were pained.  "No, I was not nearly good enough."

*   *   *

Glorfindel saw the orc a split second too late.  Somehow it 
had managed to blend in with the tree and slide along the 
upper branches, keeping to the heavily shaded areas until 
almost on top of them.  Alerted by a sudden movement, 
Glorfindel threw a knife at the creature's throat, but it 
managed to fire an arrow before his blade severed much of 
its neck from its body.  Even as its corpse fell to the 
ground, Glorfindel knew Erestor must be dead.  The orc had 
aimed directly for him, and there was no way it had missed 
at almost point blank range.

He heard Erestor cry and he spun around, expecting to find 
his friend breathing his last.  Instead, Erestor stood, 
unharmed but horrified, watching as one of the Noldor sank 
slowly to the ground, an orc arrow imbedded in his chest.  
Glorfindel recognised the elf--he was one of Lady 
Galadriel's servants, one with whom he had once had 
dealings at Imladris--but he could not remember his name.
"Camthalion!"  Erestor knelt in the dirt and ash, drawing 
the elf into his arms and holding him loosely.  Elrohir 
moved forward and knelt beside the two of them, but 
Glorfindel could have told him to save his strength--
nothing could undo the damage of a poisoned arrow through 
the heart.  Camthalion must have noticed what was happening 
at the same moment Glorfindel did, and for some reason he 
chose to step in front of Erestor, taking the arrow meant 
for him.  Glorfindel had never liked him, but he would see 
to it that he was properly lauded for his courage.  Valour 
of that type was rare.

Elrohir did not apparently realise the seriousness of the 
elf's injury, however, and Erestor just sat there, cradling 
the Noldor, his eyes huge and disbelieving in his soot-
streaked face.  Glorfindel put out a hand to draw Elrohir 
away, as there was no need for him to exhaust his abilities 
trying to revive the dead, but his hand did not encounter 
his lover's shoulder.  "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo 
dan nan galad."  A tangible wall of energy met Glorfindel's 
outstretched hand, and the elf on the ground, Elrohir and 
Erestor all began, very faintly, to glow.

"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!"  It was a 
command, and spoken in the ringing tones of one used to 
being immediately obeyed.  The power radiating off Elrohir 
grew in intensity, golden pulses streaming off the three of 
them to radiate around the camp, causing Glorfindel to back 
away a step.  "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan 
galad!"  An outpouring of heat and a rush of wind 
underscored the third demand.  All around them surged a 
terrible, ancient power that shook the treetops over their 
heads, rumbled through the ground beneath their feet, and 
sent currents sizzling along Glorfindel's entire body.  No 
elfling could possibly have possessed such authority, or 
known how to use it if he did.

Glorfindel wrenched his attention away from the three at 
the centre of the cyclone of light and energy, and searched 
out Thranduil.  He could not be allowed to see this--he 
must not see it!  But it was already too late, for 
Glorfindel could see the king's face, and just behind him 
that of Lord Celeborn, and knew that any hope of further 
concealment was lost.  If they had not pieced it together 
already, and from Thranduil's expression Glorfindel rather 
thought he had, they would soon enough.  The important 
thing, then, was to get Elrohir away as quickly as 
possible, and speak to them alone before either said 
anything to him.  And he needed to find out just how much 
his young lover had remembered.  So caught up was he in his 
thoughts, that Glorfindel barely noticed when Camthalion 
suddenly sat up, dazed and disoriented, but most definitely 
alive.

TBC

"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad.": 
"Camthalion, hear my voice, come back to light."

Mardthelu: Elf-crusher.

Vulkulk: Goblin-sword.


Title: Wild Justice 18/?

*   *   *

"You two are so much alike!"  Twin pairs of eyes, so 
different in appearance but so similar in expression, 
regarded him with outrage.  Gildor settled back against the 
plump pillows at the head of the bed and smiled happily.  
He had been so relieved to wake up, relatively well and 
certainly well cared for, in a guest room in Lorien, that 
at first he had thought that he was dreaming.  Then he'd 
seen Haldir, with an absurdly sized bandage around his 
foot, slouched in a chair by the bed, and had known it was 
real.  Haldir had been arguing with Elwyyda at the time and 
Gildor did not think that he would be likely to dream up 
those scowls, not to mention some of the phrases they used.

Gildor never found out what the reply to his quite truthful 
observation would have been, because Lord Elrond, who had 
been standing unobtrusively to the side, observing the 
argument with evident amusement, interrupted to insist that 
he drink something.  It must have induced sleep, for Gildor 
soon drifted off again, his lover's annoyed tones still 
ringing in his ears.  When he woke the second time, Elwyyda 
was by his bed but Haldir was gone.  "Lord Elrond says you 
must stay in bed.  You have been very badly hurt."  She 
shot him a look that clearly said he should not have been 
so careless, "but we will see that you soon get well."

Gildor found it amusing that she had apparently elevated 
herself to Lord Elrond's assistant, but he tried to keep 
from letting his emotions show on his face.  "Elwyyda, can 
you tell me about the rest of the party--how they are?  And 
why were there so many orcs in the group that attacked us?  
There were far too many for a simple raiding party.  What 
were they all doing there?"

Elwyyda looked at him sternly.  "You don't need to worry 
about them.  I am sure they will be more careful from now 
on."  She tucked a blanket up under his chin.  "You need to 
rest and sleep and recover your strength."  She fussed 
about a bit more, giving Gildor the distinct impression 
that she was enjoying telling him what to do, but he 
accepted the pampering with good grace.  In truth, it was 
rather nice to have someone see to his every need, and soon 
his bedside table was piled high with books, scrolls, a 
large pitcher of water, a plate filled to overflowing with 
cookies and pastries, and a large medicine bottle.

Gildor regarded the latter with distaste; he didn't know 
what Lord Elrond had put in it, but it tasted absolutely 
vile.  On the assumption that it was the same draught he 
had  previously taken, it would almost certainly cause him 
to sleep again, and he could not afford that.  Elwyyda was 
adamant, however, and he swallowed the dosage obediently, 
but as soon as she looked away to pour him some water, he 
spit most of it into his handkerchief.  Elwyyda bustled off 
a few minutes later at his request that she fetch his 
favourite tunic from the washing rooms, which would take 
her a good while as it had never been sent there.  Then 
Gildor set about finding Haldir and, hopefully, some 
answers.

*   *   *

The orc fires were lit in the mountains--distant pinpoints 
of light that cast a reddish glow against the swiftly 
falling night.  From the doorway of the tent, Glorfindel 
could hear the low beat of their drums, echoing oddly 
through the steep passes.  They should have disturbed him, 
but in fact he found it all strangely soothing, like the 
cool night air that brushed across his face.
His thoughts were a tumultuous mix of relief, confusion and 
guilt.  Relief that Elrohir had been so exhausted from the 
amount of energy he had expended to heal Camthalion that it 
had been easy to get Erestor to bustle him away while 
Glorfindel intercepted the two Eldar on his trail.  
Confusion because where did one even start to explain 
something this long in the making, and this complex?  Guilt 
over the methods he had been forced to use to persuading 
the two Elda to speak with him rather than with Elrohir, 
but the cajolery and threats, the latter involving mention 
of what careless words might do to Elrohir's well being, 
had succeeded.

Thranduil had been highly displeased, but was still stunned 
enough by what he had witnessed to agree, especially after 
Glorfindel pointed out that he could probably explain 
things more coherently than could Elrohir, assuming he had 
even remembered.  The sudden arrival of Thranduil's force 
of archers had also helped to serve as a distraction, as 
had the journey on towards the mountains, which had 
preoccupied them most of the day.  Glorfindel had received 
the Eldar's promise to say nothing until he could speak 
with them in private, but it was likely to be a difficult 
conversation, and one that would dredge up memories he 
would have preferred not to relive.

** The great white city had been in flames, and frantic 
elves were everywhere, stumbling as they ran with a few 
possessions bundled onto their backs.  He almost collided 
with a mother, who was clutching a baby to her breast and 
leading another elfling by the hand, desperately trying, as 
was everyone, to escape before it was too late.  Glorfindel 
had steadied her, and steered her away from the besieged 
Northern Gate, where the allies of Morgoth were pressing 
their attack in unnumbered thousands.

His first thought had been to get his king beyond the walls 
and out of danger, but when he reached the throne room, 
Turgon flatly refused to leave.  "I should have listened to  
Lord Ulmo's warning, Glorfindel," the king said sadly as 
the last of his armor was buckled onto him.  "My pride led 
us to this, but I will see my family safe, at least."   He 
then bound Glorfindel with a solemn vow to see to the 
safety of his daughter and grandson.  "The loyalty you have 
always given to me, I ask you to bestow on them--get them 
safely away from here, at whatever cost."  His dark eyes 
glowed with knowledge of his doom, and he gripped 
Glorfindel's arm so strongly as to leave bruises.  "Do you 
swear?"

Glorfindel had not taken the oath lightly, but there had 
been no way he could possibly have dreamed of all that 
would come of it.  He had assumed that he would see the 
princess to a place of safety and then return to stand by 
his king.  It had not even crossed his mind that he would 
never see Turgon again.  At his agreement, the king nodded 
once, then was gone, golden armor gleaming, blood red cape 
swirling about him, the white tunic he wore emblazoned with 
the symbol of a scarlet heart.  It was the way Glorfindel 
would ever after remember him.

Glorfindel ran immediately from the throne room to the 
princess' quarters, which, although she now lived most of 
the time in her husband's house, she still kept to please 
her father.  She used them on occasions when state business 
caused her to be needed at the palace as hostess, and 
Glorfindel had half expected to find her there in the midst 
of the current crisis, but she was nowhere to be seen.  Her 
maids were haphazardly throwing silken dresses and jewels 
into cases, as if there would be anyone interested in 
carrying them away in the midst of such chaos.  He gripped 
Erúvë, the princess' chief maid, by the arm, demanding to 
know where her mistress had gone.

"I do not know, I do not know!"  She screamed and dropped 
to the floor, as a dragon's fireball, all unholy green and 
gold fire, burst through the stained glass panels lining 
the pretty room, instantly reducing them to a thousand 
twinkling shards.  That prismatic orgy of light, a shower 
of gold, silver and blue, had once shown the scene of the 
creation of Arda and the growth of the two trees; its 
destruction had seemed somehow fitting to one who was 
watching the collapse of his world.  But Glorfindel had not 
had time to rage against the stupidity of those who only 
knew how to destroy, never how to create; he had a task to 
perform.

Glorfindel had soon given up on getting any useful 
information from the palace servants, merely advising them 
to leave off their packing and flee the city at once.  Some 
hastened to obey, others just stood there as their world 
crashed down around their heads, unwilling to even accept 
what was happening, much less to do anything about it.  But 
there had been no time to try to persuade them.  Glorfindel 
had begun a frantic, hours' long search for the princess, 
who had seemingly dropped off the face of Arda.

The city had come apart all around him, billowing columns 
of smoke rising into the bright blue sky and everywhere was 
the reek of charred wood and sulpher.  Every street had 
houses with doors standing wide open as their owners had 
fled.  They looked strangely cheerful as many of them were, 
like the streets themselves, bedecked in garlands of spring 
flowers for the festival, but no one would admire them now.  
None he encountered had time or knowledge to help him in 
his quest, and for a while Glorfindel had despaired.  But 
his retainers searched the city, heedless of the danger 
from the orcs that were beginning to stream through the 
wrecked Northern Gate, and at last brought him news.

Glorfindel had finally found her, looking far less regal 
than usual, huddled against the last remaining wall of the 
house he had thought destroyed in the attack on the city 
walls.  It was a solid structure overlooking the ramparts 
of the city, but he saw on his arrival that much of the 
early tale he'd heard had been true, as a breach in the 
city walls had torn away much of the house's structure.  A 
high wind from the fissure was blowing the princess' long 
hair and delicate blue robes about her as she watched, 
horrified, as her husband battled the traitor Maeglin along 
the narrow parapet of what remained of the city wall.  They 
were fighting only inches from their doom, and orcish 
arrows sped by, narrowly missing them.

Glorfindel rushed up the stairs, several of his people 
close behind him, but could only watch helplessly, knowing 
he was too late, as the combatants grappled on the edge of 
the ramparts in the final seconds of battle.  Then the 
princess ran forward, just a few steps, and called out 
Maeglin's name.  He had betrayed a city for her, had 
destroyed his honour and caused countless deaths in an 
insane bid to possess one who would never love him, and 
yet, it must have been love of a sort he felt, for he 
looked up at her voice.  "Maeglin, no!"  Her cry distracted 
him--only for an instant, but that was enough.  A second 
later he was gone, tumbling into the abyss below, screaming 
her name all the way down.

Glorfindel posted some of the elves attached to his house 
of the Golden Flower around the princess and Earendil, then 
went with Tuor to rally what support he could to help fight 
their way out of the city.  Nothing had gone as planned, 
and he and his retainers had become involved in the final, 
desperate battle with the hoards of orcs, balrogs and 
dragons that were attacking the main square and palace 
complex.  Glorfindel had sought for his lover's face in the 
chaos, knowing he would be wherever the fighting was 
greatest, but had seen no sign of his distinctive crystal 
and silver armor.  Then blood from a cut above his brow 
almost obscured his vision, and the battle became so fierce 
that just staying alive and giving what direction he could 
to his elves consumed all his concentration.  Glorfindel 
saw him briefly at the last, of course--he could hardly 
have missed him then--but there was no way to get to him, 
no way to save him, and he watched helplessly as he fell.

But there was no time for mourning.  The combined might of 
the surviving elvish hosts looked likely to turn the tide 
for a brief period, and with heavy losses they defeated 
many balrogs, including their prince Gothmog, and a fire 
dragon, whose fall into the deep fountain at the square's 
centre caused a huge billow of steam to flood the scene, 
almost obliterating the conflict from sight.  It had not 
been soon enough, however, to keep the princess from seeing 
the destruction of her father's tower.  Her grip on 
Glorfindel's arm was desperate and the look in her eyes 
anguished as she begged him to make it all go away.

She had been strong to the point that Turgon fell; as 
Glorfindel learned much later, she defended herself and her 
child courageously against Maeglin until Tuor had arrived 
to save them.  But something in her seemed to die along 
with her father and her city, and she collapsed in on 
herself, looking suddenly as brittle boned as a tiny bird, 
with the wild, frightened eyes of a child. Her privileged 
background had left her with few defenses against such 
times.  She had been little more than a zombie as 
Glorfindel hurried the remains of Tuor's family to the 
hidden escape tunnel beneath the city, and she clutched her 
seven-year-old son in trembling arms.  Like her, the 
strength seemed to go out of the elvish army with the death 
of their king, and Glorfindel knew where his duty lay.**

Glorfindel turned back into the tent, looking from 
Thranduil to Celeborn and back again, wondering if there 
was any way to make them understand what that day had been 
like.  "I had taken a solemn oath to protect the remnants 
of Turgon's family.  I could not forsake the last order my 
king ever gave me, especially not to save a city already 
doomed to fall.  I chose to escape with them, and to insure 
their safety at whatever price."  He did not mention what 
that price had been, as everyone knew the tale of his epic 
battle all too well.

**Glorfindel had never been able to remember that final 
fall, or the actual moment of his death amid the balrog's 
flames.  He only knew that he came to consciousness once 
more in a dim room, where a lovely elf-maid sat weaving 
something on a huge loom.  He had walked towards her, 
feeling strangely confused and empty, but also with the 
clear impression that he had forgotten something.

"Your pardon, lady, but could you tell me where I am?"

The elf looked up from her work, cocking her head to the 
side while she studied him.  "I do not think I have it 
quite right, somehow," she commented.  "Come and see, and 
tell me what you think."  Confused, Glorfindel nonetheless 
moved as he was bid, not accustomed to arguing with the 
requests of females.  The great tapestry stretched out 
before him, its colours muted by the dim light, but 
nonetheless beautiful in its intricacy.  Then he realised 
just what he was seeing.  His battle with the balrog was at 
the centre of the picture, which showed him and the demon 
wreathed in coral and crimson flames, in the instant just 
before they dropped together into the abyss.  In the 
background, shining like the beacon it had once been, was 
Gondolin, brilliantly white despite the orange fire that 
had begun to consume it.  At the very top of the image, a 
single eagle glowed gold, spreading its great wings against 
the roiling blackness of the smoke.

"You are skilled, lady," he had finally managed to say 
around the lump in his throat.

She laughed, a fair, tinkling sound, like water in a merry 
stream.  "Persistent, rather!  It took me centuries to get 
it right, but still, there is something . . . "

"Centuries?"  Glorfindel did not usually correct a lady, 
but her words were very odd indeed.  The events of that 
day's battle were now coming back to him, however, and too 
much emotion choked him for speech to be possible.

"Yes, you were very tired and slept long.  But," and her 
lovely face grew cheerful, "you're awake now, so tell me, 
what did I do wrong?"

Glorfindel had tried to look away from the disturbingly 
accurate depiction of his final battle, but it drew the 
eye.  As he contemplated it, something she had said began 
to penetrate his thoughts, and suddenly, he understood.  
"You are Vairë."

The elf--no, Glorfindel corrected himself, the Valar--
tapped her foot impatiently.  "Of course, who else?  But 
tell me, is it accurate or no?  I had them bring you to me 
in order to find out, and I will have your answer."

"It . . . appears true, as far as I can recall."  It had 
been a day for new experiences, Glorfindel thought dizzily-
-first defeating a fire demon and now chattting with a 
goddess.  "I think, though, that the demon's eyes were 
yellow, not red, and it wielded a whip of flame, not a 
glowing sword."  He was afraid he might have offended her 
with his criticism, but Vairë seemed pleased.

"Ah, very good."  She waved a hand casually over the 
surface of the tapestry, and suddenly it melted, then 
reformed with the changes in place.  "Is that better?"  
When he nodded dumbly, she smiled and waved her hand again, 
and suddenly they were in an immensely long corridor, 
stretching, it seemed, for miles.  Beautifully wrought 
tapestries lined most available surfaces, but here and 
there a blank spot showed through.  They were standing in 
front of such a one, into which Vairë's latest creation 
slowly coalesced, as if woven anew from the air alone.  
"Yes, I like it there," she commented, stepping back a few 
paces.  Glorfindel followed her lead, only to notice 
something strange.

"Forgive me, lady," he faltered over the last word, unsure 
how one was supposed to address the Valar, never having met 
one before, but she did not seem to mind.   "But it seems 
that perhaps . . . ", he stopped, feeling foolish, as he 
was certainly no one to accuse the Valar of making 
mistakes.

"Something troubles you?"  Her expression was innocent, yet 
Glorfindel received the impression that he had been 
maneuvered into this.

"It just seems," and he gestured to the pieces on each side 
of the new arrival, "a little . . . out of place."

She smiled, and all the beauty of Arda was in her gaze.  
"You sound like my husband.  Námo wants everything 
recorded, and a job it is, I must say, but then after 
leaving me with all the work, he thinks he can tell me how 
to display the end result.  I explained to him that he was 
mistaken, but we still have arguments about it from time to 
time.  Still, I get my way."  She drew Glorfindel down the 
hall to a beautiful tapestry showing Celebrimbor at his 
forge.  Right next to it was another piece with a great 
battlefield stretched out under a deep red sky.  Beyond 
that was a weaving depicting, of all things, a group of 
halflings in what looked like nothing so much as a common 
pub.  "All these tell the same story, just different pieces 
of it.  Despite the fact that they are separated by many 
centuries, then, I choose to display them all together . . 
. it is just an extra benefit that it also really annoys 
Námo."

Glorfindel looked at her suspiciously.  He had always 
assumed that the Valar had no sense of humour, that they 
were too noble and otherworldly and, well, god-like, for 
that.  But now he decided he might have to rethink that 
assumption.  Vairë gave him what could best be described as 
a grin, then dragged him back down the hall to stand in 
front of his tapestry again.  "I've always found your story 
to be very interesting, Glorfindel.  So many people just 
live and die, and the world is very much the same either 
way.  But around some, whole eras seem to hinge, and a very 
few just keep popping up, so to speak, doing time-altering 
things, then disappearing for centuries.  I think of them 
as catalysts for . . . "

"That is enough, Vairë."  A dark form came towards them 
through the mists swirling about the corridor, a shadowy 
presence that was not menacing exactly, but nonetheless 
caused Glorfindel to shiver.  He knew without being told 
that he was standing in the presence of Námo, the Valar 
better known for the name of his realm--Mandos.

*   *   *

Haldir woke up from a fitful sleep to see luminous dark 
eyes hovering above him, and he turned towards the love in 
that beautiful face like a flower seeking the sun.  Then he 
remembered and scrambled back on the bed in something 
approaching panic.  Gildor crawled after him, an almost 
predatory look on his face.

"This won't work."  Haldir heard himself say the words, but 
they were weak and he was already hot and shivery just from 
the sight of his lover.

"What won't?," Gildor asked innocently, trailing an idle 
finger along his lover's arm.  Already Haldir could feel 
his desire mounting, the familiar tightening causing him to 
hold himself stiff and wary under the sheets.

"You and me together.  At least, not now."

"Really?  Why?"  Gildor did not wait for an answer, but 
moved to straddle his lover's body, carefully avoiding the 
damaged ankle.

"Because Lord Elrond said you need to rest--and gave orders 
that we were to be separated so I would not accidentally 
injure you."  That had hurt, Haldir recalled with a 
grimace.  As if he was so incapable of controlling his 
passions that he would risk harming his lover.  He had made 
a solemn promise never to do that again, and had meant 
every word of it.

"Lord Elrond isn't here, and I feel fine," Gildor assured 
him, tugging at the nightshirt that was the only clothing 
Haldir had been left by his gaolers.  Rumil had threatened 
to take even that, "except that I don't think the hazard of 
having to run naked through Lorien would deter you, and the 
family does have to maintain SOME dignity."  Now Haldir was 
wishing he had some of the hodge-podge attire that 
ridiculous dwarf had put him in, or at least a few of those 
thick blankets between him and Gildor, as the thin sheets 
were doing little to hide his body's growing interest in 
the proceedings.

"Something will happen--some disaster," Haldir could not 
keep himself from looking fearfully towards the window.  "A 
huge fire will break out, or a massive flood will drown all 
of Lorien," Gildor was ignoring him; he had managed to 
remove the nightshirt and was now trailing soft fingers 
down Haldir's exposed chest.  "Sauron himself will return," 
Haldir protested, half seriously, clutching the sheet to 
the lower part of his body as Gildor reached lower, 
"leading a party of ten thousand orcs . . . "

Gildor laughed.  "Don't be ridiculous."  And he leaned in 
for a kiss.

"No!"  Haldir tried not to notice the way his lover was 
shifting about on top of him, adding delicious friction to 
what was already an almost unbearable situation.  He clung 
to his warm body for an instant, desperately desiring the 
pleasure it offered, but then resolutely pushed him away. 
"We HAVE to stop this!  You almost died, Gildor, and lost 
much blood.  You are still weak . . . "

"I know something that will make me feel MUCH better," 
Gildor commented, sucking one of the fingers gripping his 
shoulders into his mouth.

"No . . . ," Haldir knew he was weakening.  He had never 
been able to deny Gildor anything, so how could he now 
refuse him something they both wanted so badly?

"THERE you are!"  Haldir looked past Gildor's shoulder to 
see an enraged, three-foot tall virago standing in the 
doorway, with an equally annoyed Rumil just behind her.  
She glared at Haldir.  "I should have known you'd find a 
way to lure him here, and the poor thing still barely able 
to walk!"  Elwyyda rushed forward and tugged ineffectually 
at Gildor's arm.  As she and Rumil managed to drag the 
protesting Gildor away, Haldir reflected that he would kiss 
her if he didn't hate her quite so much.

"I'll see you soon," Gildor said, turning back to give 
Haldir one last glance, his brown eyes promising many 
things as they towed him away.  Haldir exhaled roughly, 
throwing an arm over his eyes and wondering what he had 
ever done to deserve this.  He could only hope that the 
gods would find a new object for their amusement soon.

*   *   *

Glorfindel sat at the small table with Celeborn and 
Thranduil, wishing he could explain the very odd twists his 
life had taken without sounding like a lying bard.  It WAS 
a fantastic tale, but then, so had his battle with the 
balrog been . . . then he remembered that there were some 
who had always expressed serious doubts about that.  He 
could only hope the two lords before him were going to be 
more open minded, although from their expressions that did 
not seem likely.

"Lord Námo took me away quickly, saying that someone wished 
to speak to me, but not before I noticed what I think Vairë 
had meant for me to see.  The tapestries on either side of 
the fall of Gondolin showed scenes which had to be in some 
way related to it, but they made little sense at the time.  
On one side of my tapestry was a weaving showed a blond 
elf-maid of great beauty holding a small, dark haired 
infant.  It meant nothing to me then, for I did not 
recognise either of them, but years later I chanced upon 
the Lady Celebrian nursing Elrohir in exactly the same 
position.  Then I understood."

"And what, pray tell, was on the weaving on the other 
side?"  Thranduil looked like he believed none of this, and 
sarcasm dripped from his tone.  Glorfindel couldn't really 
blame him.  He had been there, yet even to him it sometimes 
felt like a dream that had happened to someone else.

"The other side . . . ," He trailed off.  Explaining that 
one might be a little tricky.

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 19/?

*   *   *

**The main audience chamber of Mandos was similar to many of the 
meeting halls Glorfindel had seen in his life, if rather darker, being lit only 
by a few standing candelabra.  He reminded himself that this could well be 
just a mental projection designed to make him feel more comfortable, with 
the reality being very different.  That view was reinforced when he saw 
the room's occupant.  Glorfindel had always been told that the Valar were 
larger than life, radiant as a star, and terrible in their beauty.  It was rather 
a shock, then, to see the figure lounging on the throne, picking his teeth 
and looking bored.  

"Ulmo!  Kindly get out of my seat."  The throne's occupant looked up, 
grinned, and raised a glass to his host, who seemed peeved.  "Every time 
you visit you do this," Namo complained.  "Why don't you get your own 
hall somewhere and stop littering up mine?"

Ulmo rose to his feet slowly, making it obvious that he was just doing it to 
humour his host.  "Littering?  I should say rather decorating, Namo," he 
commented, coming down the stairs towards them, "and this place can 
certainly use it."  Glorfindel could not help but notice that he was very 
little like the description given in the old legends. He was tall, for instance, 
but no more so than many elves Glorfindel had known; he did wear an 
impressive, silver crown and a long grey cloak, and the tunic underneath 
it, which was slightly iridescent, could at a great stretch be said to 
resemble the scales of a fish.  However, his hair, which was supposed to 
cascade down his back "as foam glimmering in the dusk" just looked 
normal to Glorfindel, and there was no sign of the "kirtle of deep green 
that flashed and flickered with sea-fire as he strode."  Perhaps his tailor 
was having an off day, Glorfindel thought, and fought down an urge to 
giggle.  He wondered if it was possible for spirits to go insane, and if so, if 
you were then doomed to madness forever or might perhaps recover.

"You aren't mad, Glorfindel, although I suppose you can be forgiven for 
thinking so," the Lord of the Sea commented, clapping him on the back.  
He leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "And even the gods dress down 
when we're at home."

"You aren't AT home, Ulmo," Namo reminded him tetchily.  "You are 
clogging up my palace and adding to my already heavy burden of 
annoyance."  He waved a black robed arm vaguely at the door through 
which they'd just entered, as he settled himself on his throne.  "Go, 
conclude your business with this one.  I said I wouldn't oppose you and I 
won't, but that doesn't mean I wish to hear about it.  It makes no sense 
having rules if you're just going to go about breaking them all the time."

"He's always like that," Ulmo said, leading Glorfindel out of the chamber.  
"I'd remind him about Luthien and his own flouting of the rules, and with 
even less of an excuse than I have, but we need to avoid irritating him 
further.  His support, however grudging, will make all this so much 
easier."

"Forgive me, Lord Ulmo, but it will make what easier?"

Ulmo just smiled, and towed him down a complicated maze of halls to a 
very dark chamber where a pool of water flickered under the light of a 
single hanging lantern.  "Go ahead, look!"  Ulmo pushed him to the pool's 
edge, and Glorfindel obediently looked in, but saw nothing extraordinary, 
just the rough-hewn stone of the pool's bottom, reflecting glimmering 
eddies of light.  Then the surface became opaquely silver, and images 
started to flicker across it.**  

Celeborn looked as if he was trying to absorb the tale, but Thranduil just 
scowled.  "And what, pray tell, does any of your adventures in Mandos 
have to do with Elrohir?  I know what I saw, Glorfindel, and . . . "

Glorfindel held up a hand.  "I know this is taking some time, but it will 
make much more sense if you allow me to proceed in my own way."  The 
really difficult part, he reflected, was ensuring that he did not mention 
anything that he had seen that did not concern the immediate problem.  
Few of the scattered and rapidly flickering images had meant much to him 
at the time, but subsequent events had shed considerable light on them; yet 
to reveal too much would be to possibly unbalance the way events were 
meant to unfold.  It was a heavy burden, and he had long wished that Lord 
Ulmo had been somewhat more careful about what he had allowed him to 
see.

**"I do not understand, my Lord.  What is it you are showing me?"

Ulmo had seated himself on one of the large, black volcanic rocks that 
rimmed the pool, and was combing out his hair.  He had perched his 
crown at a lopsided angle on a small rock and it looked perilously close to 
tumbling into the pool.  Glorfindel wasn't sure if it would be sacrilegious 
to point that out, so he didn't mention it.  "That is the future, Glorfindel, or 
rather, the future as it stands now--which is not at all the same thing as the 
future decided, which is all the past really is, isn't it?"

Glorfindel regarded him levelly, and supposed that gods didn't have to 
make sense, although it would be nice.

"I heard that," Ulmo told him sharply.  "Anyway, I AM making sense.  
You're just a little slow.  But no matter, loyalty above brains, I've always 
said--the former is much rarer than the latter, I've found."

Glorfindel wondered if he had just been insulted.

"If you have, be glad of it," Ulmo told him.  "I've insulted most of Arda at 
one time or another, or at least the better part of it--no good insulting the 
truly evil as they take it as a compliment--so you should be pleased.  Sort 
of a status symbol, really.  Anyway," he jumped down off his rock and 
pointed at something in the pool, "there you are, right there, do you see?"

He was pointing to the current image, which showed a vast, deep plain 
filled with orcs, which a great elvin army--and were those men?--were 
fighting.  "I see a battle, my Lord, but I am not there."

Ulmo smiled and patted him on the back.  "Exactly!," he said, sitting back 
down as if that explained everything.  Glorfindel regarded him 
expectantly, and Ulmo sighed.  "You aren't there because you're dead."  
Glorfindel continued to look hopeful--an explanation had to be 
forthcoming sooner or later that made sense, and it wasn't as if he didn't 
have plenty of time.  Ulmo sighed again.  "In that future," he explained 
very slowly, "you are dead.  So, you can't influence matters."

"Yes, my Lord."

Ulmo waved a hand and the images stopped.  "There--do you recognise 
him?"  He pointed at a handsome dark elf who was caught, sword raised, 
about to slay an orc.  The frozen face did look somewhat familiar, but if 
they had met before, Glorfindel could not place him.  "Look carefully, 
does he not remind you of someone?"

Glorfindel regarded the face again, leaning over the pool to get a closer 
look, and yes, there was something . . . "He looks as if he may be a 
relative of the king's," he commented, for the elf had the same intense 
eyes, and the line of his jaw and something about his high forehead 
reminded Glorfindel of his lost sovereign.  Something occurred to him 
then, and he turned to Ulmo excitedly.  "Could I see him?  Could I see the 
king?  He must be here."

Ulmo sighed.  "Look at the image, Glorfindel, and do try to concentrate."  
He waved a hand again and, very slowly, the people began to move.  At 
this speed, Glorfindel could see the figure being closely pressed, and then 
a huge orc came up behind him and skewered him on a long spear.  The 
elf finished off the two orcs he was fighting, then turned and slew his 
attacker, but Glorfindel could see him weakening, and he wasn't surprised.  
No elf could withstand a blow like that.

"The one you saw die was Elrond, or rather, he IS Elrond, Turgon's great 
grandson, for all that is still far in the future.  But it is also very wrong.  I 
did not go to all the trouble to set that family up for great deeds, only to 
have my plans destroyed by an orc, of all things.  I mean really--not even a 
dragon or a balrog, some worthy opponent, but an ORC!  Generations of 
careful planning all gone," he snapped his fingers, looking disgusted, "just 
like that.  And why, do you suppose?"

Glorfindel looked lost and Ulmo seemed to be loosing patience with him.  
"Because. You. Were. Dead.  Do you understand?  You couldn't save the 
day twice, because you'd already done it once and ended up here for your 
pains.  Useless.  That's what you are now, completely useless, roaming 
about Mandos when, if you were there, you could change everything.  And 
you would, wouldn't you, Glorfindel?  Your sovereign attacked, 
surrounded by enemies--you would be at his back, would you not?"

Glorfindel nodded.  'Yes, Lord, unless he ordered me elsewhere, as King 
Turgon did . . . "

Ulmo waved a hand.  "Elrond isn't stupid.  You always need someone in 
battle to guard your back, someone capable enough not to get killed and to 
see that you don't either.  That's what I need for Elrond, and that's why I'm 
here, depending on Namo's dubious hospitality.  Glorfindel, I've come to 
send you back."**

*   *   *

Erestor watched Elrohir with a worried frown on his face.  They sat 
outside in the gathering dusk, the mountains within view but their goal 
still several days' journey away.  The camp was quiet, with preparations 
for the evening meal under way.  With the wounded having been 
dispatched back to Imladris that morning, there was little for anyone, other 
than the sentries, to do.  Erestor fidgeted; he had too much to worry about: 
the raid on the mines, where, it now seemed, they were expected, so 
resistance would doubtless be fierce; the problem with Elrohir choosing to 
remember his past NOW when they were too far away to seek Elrond's 
help, and then refusing to return to Lorien with the wounded; and his own 
feelings for Camthalion, which were quite strong and completely 
unexpected.

Erestor sighed and made a movement towards Elrohir, who was sitting 
near the edge of the camp, lost in his thoughts.  He stopped, however, after 
a few paces, not certain whether interrupting him was the best thing to do.  
And how was he supposed to know?  Even Elrond had not been entirely 
certain what should be done, as Glorfindel had been returned as an adult, 
having "grown up" a second time in Valinor before being sent back.  And 
reanimated elves were not exactly thick on the ground in Middle Earth.  It 
wasn't, Erestor thought petulantly, as if one could simply stroll up to one 
and say, so, how did your memories come back, then, and did you run 
amuck for a while thereafter?  Kill anyone at all?  

He kicked a rock into the forest and wished there was an orc around to 
shoot.  Preferably several orcs.  He usually hated the haphazard violence 
of combat.  Even the best laid battle plans never went as expected, and 
often who won was less about strategy than pure dumb luck.  Erestor 
preferred things to be laid out with precision, and then carefully followed 
through, so that everything took place exactly as it was meant to do.  It 
was how he ran Elrond's household and how he preferred to run his life, 
but there was nothing orderly about combat.  Still, he was almost looking 
forward to the mines in comparison with the horrible conundrum facing 
him now.  When to help might be to harm, but so might doing nothing, 
who could know the right road to take?  

He needed Elrond's wisdom, his patience, and especially his sense of 
calm.  Whenever Imladris' lord was there, things suddenly seemed to fall 
into place.  Elrond's debilitation had seriously damaged Erestor's 
comfortable sense of well being, as, for the first time in centuries, he 
found himself working without a safety net.  If he made the wrong 
decision, there was no one to catch him; if he gave Glorfindel the wrong 
advice, and the Elda had been leaning on him more and more lately, who 
was there to argue with him?  Usually he and Glorfindel were the perfect 
counterparts--he provided the careful, sane, logical approach to problems, 
while Glorfindel tended to be bolder, and in Erestor's opinion, sometimes 
even reckless.  Yet Elrond was able to easily judge between them, and 
almost invariably made the right decision for any given situation.  But 
now they had to find their way alone, as Erestor did not trust Lord 
Celeborn's judgment as much as he had Elrond's, and he certainly had no 
faith whatsoever in Thranduil's. 

He glanced behind him, to the tent where Glorfindel had retreated with the 
Eldar in question some time before, and wondered how that discussion 
was going.  He could have worse tasks, he thought wryly.  Then he looked 
back to where Elrohir sat, and noticed the young one regarding him 
closely.  Sighing, Erestor decided that sometimes in life, it was necessary 
just to take a chance.  Gathering his dark robes about him, he wove 
through the obstacles littered about the camp and stopped before his old 
charge.  "Elrohir, I believe we need to talk."

*   *   *

"It seemed that my death displeased the Valar, especially Lord Ulmo who 
has always taken an interest in his envoy's family, and thought my services 
could yet be of use to them.  He told me that he was unhappy with my 
sacrifice and offered to reanimate my Fëa and send me back to Middle 
Earth, as long as I would continue to feel bound by my oath to Turgon's 
line."

"And you agreed," Celeborn commented, looking moved.  "To subject 
yourself utterly to the will of the Valar--it is a rare and beautiful thing, 
Glorfindel."

Glorfindel shifted slightly in his chair.  It hadn't been exactly like that.

**"What did you say?"  Ulmo regarded him with surprise.  There was as 
yet no anger in his visage, perhaps out of sheer shock--Glorfindel doubted 
that anyone had ever been foolish enough before to tell him no, however 
respectfully.   

"I, er, I said that I would rather not, Lord."

Ulmo just continued to look at him, as if re-evaluating his previous 
comment on Glorfindel's sanity.  "Any reason why or just not in the 
mood?," he asked, finally.

"I . . . well, that is . . . ," Glorfindel could not think how to explain things 
tactfully, but luckily, Ulmo was continuing his habit of reading his 
thoughts.  The image in the pool changed and there he was, just as 
Glorfindel had first seen him, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his grey 
eyes laughing, the sun sparking tiny rainbows off the diamonds and 
crystals set into his armor. 

Ulmo looked stunned.  "You would refuse my request for him--just an 
elf?"

Glorfindel bristled.  "He was not 'just an elf' my Lord, and he also died 
defending Turgon's line, if you recall."  Glorfindel pushed memories of 
that scene out of his mind--he definitely did not want to be shown that 
again, of all things.

"Don't be impertinent."  Ulmo looked faintly amused.  "So what did you 
have in mind?  Seeking him out, here in Mandos?"

Glorfindel sighed.  He had just woken up, after seeing the city he loved 
smashed to pieces, watching the only lover he had ever cared about die in 
agony, and plunging off a cliff to his own fiery end.  Since coming back to 
awareness, not only had he not been given time to come to grips with his 
emotions, but he had been ruthlessly teased by the Valar, who acted as if 
his desires were irrelevant in their complex plans for Arda.  At this point, 
Glorfindel didn't care about Arda, he cared about talking to Ecthelion and 
making sure he was all right, or as much as possible under the 
circumstances.  

Again, Ulmo seemed to discern his thoughts without being told.  He was 
stroking his chin thoughtfully when Namo's voice suddenly rang out, 
echoing off the chamber's walls.  "Don't even THINK about it!"

Ulmo smiled, and gripped Glorfindel about the shoulders.  "Terrible 
eavesdropper--I should have known.  Anyway, Glorfindel, I think perhaps 
we can come to an understanding, after all."**

"So you are telling me you gave the Valar an ultimatum?"  Thranduil burst 
out laughing, but his eyes were impressed.  "I always knew you were an 
original, seneschal!  I just did not realise how much!  Yet," he grew 
thoughtful, you WERE drawn to me, when we met--I know this, 
Glorfindel, so do not bother to deny it.  I would hardly have wasted so 
much time on you if I truly believed your heart belonged to another.  So 
why encourage me, if you expected the return of your life partner?"

Glorfindel shook his head, smiling faintly.  "The Valar promised to return 
Ecthelion to me, but they did not say when.  I had foolishly assumed that 
we would be sent back together, but I was returned to Middle Earth alone.  
For centuries I waited, believing that any day he would come, yet the 
years passed and still I was alone.  I finally decided that I was being 
punished for my presumption in dictating to the Valar, and that he might 
never come, or might do so just before I died--again--which seemed a 
likely possibility on several occasions.  Then, after Barad-dur, I gave up 
all hope, sure that, as I had fulfilled my purpose, Lord Ulmo would have 
no incentive to send my lover back to me.  I finally resigned myself to 
living without him, resolving to find love, or at least companionship, 
where I might.  Then I met you, and was instantly drawn to you."

"But your vow still held, to serve Elrond's family always."  It was as if 
Glorfindel and the king were alone, as Celeborn had backed out of the 
conversation, looking on from the shadows, but saying nothing.

"Yes, and I remained faithful to it, despite temptation to the contrary."  
Glorfindel smiled--he might as well admit it, Thranduil had always made a 
tempting offer.  "I think now that that might have been what prompted 
Lord Ulmo to fulfill his vow. The Valar saw that I kept my word despite 
their tardiness in honouring their's, and decided to reward me.  They gave 
me an added gift in not only allowing my lover to return to me, but also 
insuring that he was born into the family I had promised to serve, thereby 
permitting me to keep my vow and also to have him near.  Waiting for him 
to reach maturity was difficult, but not as much as remaining silent about 
who he was.  Lord Elrond was told what had been decided before Elrohir 
was born, and agreed to accept him into his household for my sake.  He 
made no objection to his being given the same appearance as Elladan, 
whom Ecthelion resembled in any case."  

"But why all the secrecy?," Thranduil burst out.  "Your gift is also one to 
all the Sindar!  Our greatest hero has returned, and yet you said nothing!  
For fifty years . . . "

"The Valar warned that it would be dangerous to reveal his identity to 
Elrohir too soon.  I can attest to the truth of the old rumour that no elf 
remembers his former life as soon as he is reanimated.  I was more than 
one hundred cycles old before I began to remember, and there are still 
some things I do not recall until a chance remark brings them to mind.  
Most reanimated elves live out their lives in Valinor, where they have the 
help of the Valar in bearing the burden of many centuries.  How well do 
you think Elrohir would survive having millennia of memories crash down 
on him all at once, and at such a young age?  We were told the result could 
be madness."  Glorfindel leaned over the table, willing Thranduil to 
understand.  "We did not dare to tell you, for fear that you would insist on 
talking with him, questioning him, and that, unwittingly, you might cause 
him harm.  That is why Elrond steered him toward Lorien at his coming of 
age, rather than sending him to your court as Elladan was.  No one else 
was told of his true identity either--Lord Celeborn did not even know, 
although I believe the Lady Galadriel suspects.  She once remarked to me 
that she has great difficulty reading Elrohir--as rarely occurs in any but the 
most powerful of elves."

Thranduil glanced at Celeborn.  "So you did not warn them that I was 
expected."

Celeborn shook his head; he seemed overwhelmed.  "I have not had the 
opportunity to spend much time with Elrohir; I honestly did not know."

Glorfindel agreed, wishing that he felt less like a traitor for keeping the 
secret.  "There was no reason for you to suspect--if Lord Elrond and his 
entire household accepted him, why should it occur to you to question his 
identity?  But Thranduil had never met him, although he did know 
Elladan."  Glorfindel turned to the king, "Had I known you would be in 
Lorien, I would have kept Elrohir in Imladris.  You are famed for 
discerning the hearts of others better than any elf in Arda.  We thought it 
likely that you would compare Elrond's two sons and become suspicious."

Thranduil smiled, his expression dreamy.  "I could hardly fail to recognise 
the greatest warrior of them all.  I grew up on tales of his exploits; as 
elflings, we used to act out the slaying of Gothmog, trying to come up 
with a way Ecthelion could have accomplished it and still lived.  I once 
said that, could I meet any elf from the past, he would be my first choice.  
I would like to think I would have recognised him."

"Which is why either myself or Erestor was always with Elrohir, so we 
could hurry him away should you come around.  I kept your interest on me 
at the reception that first night, because I could not risk your taking too 
much notice of him.  I apologise if that gave you hope of renewing our 
acquaintance . . . "

Thranduil waved a hand.  "I already had such in mind when I arrived in 
Lorien."  He sat quietly for some time, then spoke.  "After what we 
witnessed today, I cannot doubt your word, but I am unwilling to have . . . 
Elrohir . . . continue to think of me as an enemy and to deny his identity.  
He must be told."   

"In time, he will be, when he is old enough to bear it, assuming he has not 
already remembered for himself.  I do not know if he will choose to go to 
Mirkwood when that time comes--naturally, I will do all I can to persuade 
him to stay with me."

Thranduil inclined his head.  "We agree, then.  He will have his choice 
freely, when he is able to make it.  Now, I have a story for you about the 
elves in the mines, and what Lord Elrond and I saw is almost as incredible 
as what you have told us."   

*   *   *

Author's Note: 

I usually try to avoid explanatory notes; I don't like to read them in fic and 
I assume most people feel the same as they aren't all that entertaining.  I 
will keep this one as short as possible, and I tacked it on to the end of the 
chapter so those of you with no patience for this sort of thing can easily 
skip it.  But before I get howled at via e-mail, I did want to make a few 
comments in my own defense on the subject of the canonicity of this 
chapter.  

First, about Ecthelion.  Ooooh, Ecthelion.  WHY oh why is there not more 
Ecthelion slash out there?  

Point one: As far as warriors go--he was THE elf, wasn't he?  Killer of, 
count them, THREE balrogs, all in the same day no less, one of which was 
the prince of balrogs, Gothmog, who had once killed off poor Fëanor 
when that mighty elf was fresh.  The encyclopedia of Arda says about 
Fëanor that "such was the ferocity of his spirit that after his death, his 
body was consumed by flame."  And this was the elf who LOST to 
Gothmog!  Ecthelion slew the beast after killing two others just before, 
AND while wounded so that he could only use one arm.  Does the phrase, 
"with one hand tied behind my back" mean anything to anyone?  He just 
leaves the competition, all of the competition, even Glorfindel, standing.  
Yet almost nobody writes about him.

Point two: Tolkien wasn't one to say much about the appearance of his 
characters.  Even Galadriel and Celeborn--who fared better than most--
were lucky to get a few lines each.  But he was REALLY carried away by 
this elf.  He spent a whole paragraph just describing his armor, for 
heaven's sake.  So, if the old, rather stodgy (sorry but it's true) prof thought 
he was impressive, I'm thinking he must really be something in the looks 
department.  I am assuming he was dark haired and grey eyed, because 
that is the description Tolkien says applied to most Sindarin elves (so 
maybe they shouldn't have bothered with the wig on Orlando in the film).

Point three:  Glorfindel and Ecthelion always seemed to be together; 
whenever one was mentioned, there was the other, almost like they were 
joined at the hip--so to speak.  So, here we have the greatest warrior ever, 
gorgeous, and a good friend of Glorfindel's--all of which is canon.  Add in 
that they both died the same way--fighting balrogs, and perishing 
selflessly to save others--and voila, a slash pairing par excellence is born.

Last point: Why am I making him Sindarin when everyone knows 
Gondolin was a Noldorin city under a Noldorin king?  For several reasons.  
First, Tolkien specifically said that there were a large number of Sindar 
living in Gondolin, and in that case, it seems strange that there would not 
be even ONE Sindarin officer among the king's guard.  Second, all the 
other leaders of Turgon's army are specifically mentioned by Tolkien as 
being Noldor, every single one, but nothing is said about Ecthelion.  Nope, 
not a word.  Maybe Tolkien just overlooked it, but I don't think so, 
because, third, there's the name to consider.  Ecthelion's title was the Lord 
of the Fountain and Lord of the People of the Fountain at Gondolin.  Yet 
his name in Quenyan (the language of the Noldor) means "Spear-point."  
But in Sindarin, "ecthel" means fountain, which would make much more 
sense given his known titles.  What would a Noldorin elf be doing with a 
Sindarin name?  He wouldn't; ergo, Ecthelion was Sindarin.  And, of 
course, Thranduil would have known about the most famous Sindarin 
warrior to ever live.  Oh, btw, for as long as it lasts, there's a great image 
of Ecthelion slaying the balrog here:  
http://www.thescreamonline.com/art/art06-01/ecthelion.html

Second, about Glorfindel.  I am assuming, as I have throughout, that 
Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Imladris are one and the same--
according to Christopher Tolkien, his father decided this late in life so I 
guess I'm in the clear here unless you want to argue with the great man's 
son.  Unfortunately, canon doesn't say exactly when Glorfindel was 
returned to Middle Earth or why.  I have chosen to go along with Tolkien's 
suggestion (Last Writings, History of Middle-Earth XII) that Glorfindel's 
return very probably took place sometime in the middle part of the Second 
Age, so he would have been there well in advance of the Last Alliance.  I 
explained my version of why he was sent back in the course of this 
chapter.

It was obvious in my fic One Last Time that Glorfindel and Thranduil had 
never before met.  Since the Sindarin and Noldorin armies were under 
different leadership and occupied different parts of the battlefield at the 
Last Alliance, they need not have met there, as Glorfindel was only one of 
Elrond's retainers, and not an advisor of Gil-Galad's.  There would have 
been no reason for him to be included in high-level discussions.

On the subject of elvish reincarnation, I can only point out that Tolkien 
himself changed ideas on this several times.  Basically, he agreed in all 
sources that elves live as long as Earth continues, are composed of Fëa 
(the soul) and Hroa (the body) and that dead elves go to a place of waiting 
called Mandos where, after a time reflecting on their lives and mistakes, 
they can be reborn into new bodies as much like their old ones as their 
soul can remember.  The only exceptions were those who did not wish to 
return and those who had seriously displeased the Valar and were 
forbidden to do so.  The newly reborn elves would remember nothing of 
their former lives until they had matured.  So the only place I have 
stretched a point on these matters is in making the reincarnated Ecthelion 
look like Elladan, which made sense under the circumstances.  Otherwise, 
everyone would have known who he was from the first, thereby seriously 
messing with the poor elfling's head and ruining the Valar's gift.

What Tolkien was unclear on, because he changed his mind over the 
years, was where these reanimated elves went.  He seems to have finally 
decided that they lived in Valinor, not Middle Earth, but obviously he 
made an exception for Glorfindel.  My point is that, if he could make one 
exception, why not two, especially if the second exception was done as a 
gift for the first?  Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  



Title: Wild Justice 20/? 

*   *   *

Gildor sat in bed, staring at the mountain of books and treats Elwyyda had 
spent most of the day showering on him, and felt like screaming.  All 
right, he told himself, get under control, breathe, be calm, meditate . . . he 
barely refrained from throwing something at the door she had just closed.  
This was intolerable!  He had been convalescing for three days, and felt, if 
not perfectly well, at least perfectly well for . . . certain things.  But he was 
constantly watched, almost a prisoner in his own room!  

He sighed, and wondered what was happening to him.  He wasn't usually 
this edgy.  He had learned to master his feelings through the long years 
alone, to concentrate on getting the job done, whatever it was, and not give 
in to isolation and loneliness.  But now that he had tasted companionship 
and love and laughter and warmth, he had discovered a deep craving in 
him for more, a yearning that was made all the worse by the enforced 
inactivity of his convalescence.  

The problem was not in getting to Haldir.  Gildor was confident he could 
manage that, despite Elwyyda's insistence on checking on him every hour 
or so on the excuse of bringing him more things he did not want.  The only 
thing he really required was some quality time alone with his lover, and 
that was exactly what he intended to get.  That raised the real problem, 
however, which was how to get past Haldir's defenses; he was taking Lord 
Elrond's prescription for rest to a ludicrous degree.

Gildor had tried everything.  He sent little love notes via Rumil, not one of 
which had received a reply.  He asked that flowers be taken to Haldir's 
room from the gardens, combined with the wild elanor that he loved, but 
they had been ignored.  He even went to the desperate length of 
ambushing Haldir on his way to the baths, dragging him momentarily into 
a linen closet, but he had fought his way free and hobbled off before much 
of interest had happened. It was as if Haldir was trying to prove 
something, although Gildor could not imagine what that might be, except 
perhaps that he could drive his lover crazy in less than a week.  If that was 
it, he was well on the way to success.

Gildor had nothing else to do but sit and ponder his problem.  Well, he 
supposed that he could worry over what the team was likely to find once 
they reached the mountain, which he was well aware would likely be 
today, but it would do nothing except to plunge him into a state of extreme 
anxiety.  He wanted to be with them, but he couldn't, and that was that.  
Better to concentrate on something he had at least a chance with--namely, 
seducing his recalcitrant lover.

*   *   *

Elrohir could feel Erestor's eyes on him, as he had for several days.  
Everyone else avoided him, apparently not wanting to have anything to do 
with the freak, but Erestor had approached him three times and constantly 
watched him.  Elrohir didn't know if Glorfindel was doing the same, 
because he resolutely stayed as far away from him as possible, afraid that 
his control would snap completely and he would drag him off into the 
woods and ravish him.  The king was here now, anyway, so obviously he 
wasn't wanted or needed.  The three of them--Glorfindel, Celeborn and 
Thranduil--went into the king's tent every night and stayed up late, 
planning strategy, he assumed.  He didn't want to know what went on after 
that.

Erestor was not taking part in the strategy sessions, which seemed strange 
to Elrohir as he was his father's chief advisor and his counsel was usually 
sound.  Of course, that had been true of the old, stable, sane Erestor, and 
might not be true of whoever he had recently become.  Or maybe he had 
always been that way, and Elrohir had just never noticed.  He wondered 
what you were supposed to do when your whole world shifted, and 
everyone you thought you could trust was suddenly shown to be not at all 
who you thought they were.  He noticed that the sun was dropping lower, 
and soon they would be stopping for the night.  Erestor would doubtless 
approach him again, and Elrohir had to think of some new way of getting 
rid of him.  

He really wished Ada was here, as he needed someone to talk to who 
wouldn't tell him insane stories that were obviously lies.  He couldn't 
imagine why Erestor was doing so--if it was all some great plot to keep 
him from noticing what Glorfindel and the king were up to, it was a little 
late.  And if word that he was supposedly a legend come to life ever got 
out . . . Elrohir shivered at the very thought.  He would be a laughing stock 
for YEARS, and what Elladan would have to say on the subject didn't 
even bear thinking about.  Elrohir had tried to explain that to Erestor, but 
he apparently didn't understand.  

All that ridiculous tripe about reincarnation was exactly that, no question.  
Everyone, even elflings, knew that reanimated elves lived in Valinor.  It 
was true that Glorfindel did not, but he had been sent back specifically by 
the Valar to aid Elrond's family.  He was an exception, rather like Elrohir's 
great-grandfather Tuor who, although born a man, was now living as an 
immortal in Valinor because of his service to Lord Ulmo.  But there was 
absolutely NO evidence whatsoever that he was himself another such 
exception.  He would have known.  One didn't just forget an entire 
lifetime, especially one that eventful.

Elrohir shifted on his horse, and tried to think of something else, but it was 
impossible.  All right, look at the thing logically.  First, did he have any 
strange memories of some past life?  No.  He did dream odd things 
sometimes, but everyone did that.  And, if some of those dreams 
occasionally centered around the events in Gondolin, well, that was hardly 
surprising.  His father loved history, and many of their evening 
conversations had involved one of Elrond's favourite topics--how his 
grandparents escaped from the doomed city despite all odds against it.  He 
had heard the story of Lord Ecthelion slaying Gothmog so many times it 
would be strange if he HADN'T dreamed about it occasionally.     

Second, had he exhibited any abilities that could not be explained?  No.  
He was a healer, trained for decades by Elrond of Imladris, so of course he 
had been able to help Camthalion.  He had seen his father heal wounds 
like that before, if the injured was brought to him immediately.  Elrohir 
himself had never before managed to do it, but then, he was young; 
perhaps that kind of talent took time to show itself.  He would have to ask 
Ada on their return when he had begun to show signs of great healing 
ability; in all likelihood, it was at about Elrohir's age.  At any event, he 
had never heard any stories about Ecthelion of Gondolin being a great 
healer, or even having any knowledge of the healing arts; so even if he 
was as powerful an elf as everyone was always saying, he could not have 
saved Camthalion, for he simply would not have known what to do.  

As far as Erestor's point about Lady Galadriel's difficulty in discerning his 
thoughts, well, there was an obvious answer to that, too.  She couldn't read 
Lord Celeborn, or so he had heard it said, nor Ada, without their 
acquiescence.  Wouldn't it make sense, as a descendant of both of them, if 
Elrohir had a certain amount of natural resistance also?  Of course, 
Elladan had always been an open book to her, but then, his brother was 
like that about everything--no feel at all for guile.  Sometimes, Elrohir 
seriously worried about him. 

The third point, however, was the deciding factor from Elrohir's 
perspective.  Everyone knew of the great love between Ecthelion and 
Glorfindel.  There was a painting in one of his father's books showing the 
two of them on horseback, Gondolin glimmering in the background.  It 
was an image that had caused Elrohir a twinge of jealousy once he and 
Glorfindel came together, as the two warriors had looked so right together.  
Glorfindel had been clad in the gold and white of his house, the sunburst 
on his shield shining brightly in the morning light, his blue eyes reflecting 
the colour of the sky.  Ecthelion had seemed his natural counterpart, 
dressed all in silver and diamonds like a sparkling moonbeam, his dark 
hair spilling about his shoulders and his grey eyes shimmering as 
brilliantly as his armor.  Elrohir had comforted himself with the thought 
that, after all, it had been a very long time ago--before he was even born--
and that Ecthelion was long dead.  How ironic that the one he had looked 
at with such jealousy Erestor now believed him to be!  

It would be almost laughable to compare him with such a legend, even if 
Glorfindel had not made it obvious that he vastly preferred the charms of 
the King of Mirkwood.  That just raised the whole thing to a farce, as it 
was something, Elrohir thought fiercely, that would never have happened 
had he really been Ecthelion.  The two warriors were said to have been 
inseparable from the time they first met in Nevrast, before Gondolin was 
even founded.  Theirs was one of the great love stories of all time, held up 
as an example of the possible cooperation between Sindar and Noldor.  It 
even had the requisite tragic ending when both died in the same way on 
the same day, in defense of Turgon's line.  No, Elrohir thought sadly, 
Glorfindel would never have betrayed Ecthelion; Elrohir, however, was 
obviously another matter.  Erestor's nonsense about Glorfindel being 
heartbroken over losing him was now shown to be just another strange 
fancy of his.  Elrohir decided that he had best talk to Ada on their return 
about arranging some rest for Erestor; he had obviously been overworked 
and was becoming dangerously unstable.

Lord Celeborn called a halt soon thereafter, and to Elrohir's complete lack 
of surprise, he saw Erestor make his way towards him almost as soon as 
they had dismounted.  Seeing the determination in Erestor's eyes, Elrohir 
briefly looked about for aid, but there was no one he knew well enough or 
trusted sufficiently to help him, Gildor having gone back with the 
wounded.  He sighed.  He had always heard that it was best to humour the 
mentally unstable, lest they become even more deranged and possibly 
dangerous.  Erestor in a dangerous mood was not something Elrohir 
wanted to contemplate, especially since growing to know him a bit better 
recently.  Yes, Elrohir decided as his father's counselor approached, best 
to just agree with him and wait to talk to Ada later.

*   *   *

Haldir looked up as someone knocked, feeling surprised.  Lord Elrond was 
the only one who usually bothered with such a courtesy, although why he 
did Haldir had no idea.  Yet Elrond had just left after stating that he would 
be unavailable for most of the day, as he would be occupied trying to help 
the elf they had rescued from the mines.  Haldir's eyes narrowed.  It could 
not be Rumil or Elwyyda, both of whom burst in on him without warning.  
It could not be a member of the guard, as they had all been removed when 
it was determined that Gildor's presence was sufficient to insure that 
Haldir would make no further attempts to escape.  It could not be another 
well wisher for, although he had many friends in Caras Galadhon, the 
power hungry, sadistic and vengeful dwarf who guarded him allowed none 
through, on the flimsy excuse that he needed to rest.  How talking with 
friends while sitting doing nothing in bed did not so qualify had not been 
explained.  

The knock came again, and Haldir bit his lip in indecision.  He knew who 
it had to be, of course, so where was that good-for-nothing dwarf when he 
needed her?  He certainly could not afford to be alone with Gildor at the 
moment.  The sudden wave of delicious hunger that even the thought 
produced was enough testimony to that.  He looked wildly at the window, 
but there was no escape there, for even though the guard who had been 
perched rather ridiculously in the tree had been removed, Haldir could 
hardly climb down with his ankle as it was.  Besides, he had rebroken it in 
his last escape attempt and been told that, if he did so again, he would be 
tied to the bed until fully healed.  He had no doubt that Rumil would do 
exactly as he said, tyrant that he had become lately.  He had obviously 
been taking lessons from the dwarf . . . 

He had hesitated too long, for the door cracked open and Gildor's head 
poked around it, all tumbled curls and big brown eyes, followed soon by 
the rest of him when he saw that Haldir was awake.  He had something 
tucked under his arm that on inspection turned out to be the chess set he 
had given Haldir for the anniversary of their first kiss.  It had been a 
ridiculously sentimental gesture, which would have once elicited nothing 
more from him than a terse "thanks," but when Gildor did it he had merely 
adored.  They had never had an opportunity to play, however, as trouble in 
the form of Orophin and the Peredhel brothers had fallen from the sky.  
Haldir was somewhat relieved to see the board as perhaps all his lover 
wanted was a few games.  There was mischief in Gildor's bright eyes, 
however, and something about his smile as he joined Haldir on the bed 
that worried him.

*   *   *

The attack would be launched tomorrow at daybreak.  Erestor had agreed 
with everyone else on the time, and he knew it to be logical.  That didn't 
mean he had to like it.  He had not managed to accomplish either of the 
main projects on his list, and was now running out of time.  It was, he 
thought, likely to be a very long night.

Elrohir was humouring him, allowing him to share his fire without so 
much as a murmur of protest after avoiding him steadily for two days.  
Even knowing that, Erestor intended to give this his best effort, but he was 
beginning to believe that he was wasting his time.  "You are no different 
today, Elrohir, than you were yesterday, or any other.  You are you, no 
matter what name you bear.  You are still a warrior, are you not?  You are 
still in love with Glorfindel, are you not?  These things transcend time and 
petty concerns over what skin we wear.  The heart endures, the soul 
endures, and YOU endure."

"Yes, Erestor, of course."  Elrohir looked at him with wary eyes as he 
began preparing dinner.

Erestor ran a tired hand through his uncharacteristically dusty hair and 
wished for the baths houses of Imladris or the hot springs at Lorien.  He 
HATED campaigns and the inconveniences that invariably went with 
them.  At the moment, he was not far from hating stubborn elves, too.  
"You said to me yesterday that you cannot accept my words because you 
would then not be Elrond's son.  I have thought on this, but your reasoning 
makes little sense to me.  Why is it that you are not Elrond's son, but 
Elladan is?  You share the same things--the experience of growing up in 
Imladris, the education, the pranks you pulled, even your bodies are 
virtually the same.  The only difference is that Elladan has a newly created 
Fea, while you have one imbued with the experiences and memories of 
many years--and most would consider that a great gift.  Oh, I know, you 
don't remember it all now, but in time, you will.  And you may find your 
recollections useful."

"Yes, of course, Erestor."  Elrohir poked at the fire before him with a 
stick, then busied himself stirring the soup he had made in a little pot.  
Erestor was quite well aware that his former student had shut him out, 
almost as effectively as if he had not even been there, but he laboured on 
anyway, hoping that Elrohir might later think on his words.

"What is a soul, anyway?  Our parents do not make it, they simply form 
the body that houses it.  If Elrond had to break off a bit of his soul to make 
that of his children, then I would allow that, yes, you could not be his son.  
But our beliefs have never taught any such thing.  We believe, do we not, 
that ALL souls come from the Valar.  So if they choose to make use of 
one a second time, instead of creating a new one, why should that concern 
us?  Again I say, you are you, no matter the time period in which you 
live."      

"As you say, Erestor.  Tea with your stew?"

Erestor sighed, but accepted the bowl and cup.  He was famished, for they 
had ridden hard all day, and was too tired to attempt further arguments.  
He doubted that Elrohir truly understood, but at least he had explained 
things now to the best of his ability.  Elrond would no doubt do much 
better.  Erestor vowed to talk with him as soon as they returned to Lorien 
about his son's insistent denial.  

Erestor looked up and caught Cam's eye across the width of the camp, but 
the Noldor immediately looked away.  That was not surprising, as Cam 
had also scrupulously avoided him since THAT DAY, as Erestor had 
begun terming it to himself.  He was yet another problem that Erestor 
didn't know how to resolve, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say 
that he did not know how to manage his own reactions.  Elrohir wasn't the 
only one having to deal with new experiences lately.

*   *   *

"Your move."  Haldir looked at Gildor, wondering what was taking him so 
long.  If he had bought a chess board, surely he knew how to play?  But 
Gildor had spent the last several minutes staring dreamily at him, and 
making no effort at all to move his pieces.  

He smiled now at Haldir's comment, and hesitated a moment before 
replying.  "I know it is.  I'm just unsure of how to go about it."

"Well, those are pawns--the little ones in front.  They have to be moved 
first, so your other pieces can get out.  Except for knights, which can jump 
over them."

"Hmm."  Gildor carefully selected a pawn, and rolled it through his fingers 
thoughtfully.  His eyes weren't on the board, however, but instead were 
caressing--there really was no other word for it--Haldir's body in the same 
way that his fingers roamed over the little piece.  He reached over and 
trailed the cool surface of the pawn down Haldir's chest, pausing only 
when it bumped one of the buttons on the partially unfastened front of his 
nightshirt.  "I see what you mean--they are rather like scouts, feeling out 
the enemy's defenses."

Haldir caught Gildor's wrist, resolutely not stroking the soft skin although 
it begged for it.  "Pawns never leave the board unless captured by another 
piece."

"You captured me a long time ago." Gildor slid the pawn lower, pushing 
buttons open as it went.  Its surface was cool, or maybe it just felt that way 
against Haldir's suddenly overheated skin.

Haldir tried to glare at his lover, but doubted that he accomplished it.  His 
features had the annoying habit of falling into a sloppy grin whenever his 
eyes lit on Gildor.  "You promised when I said you could stay--just chess."

"Hmm, but there are many variations on the game, aren't there?  I have a 
proposal."  Gildor tossed his messy curls back over his shoulder, 
distracting Haldir who had always preferred his lover's hair unbraided.  It 
required a surprising amount of willpower not to bury his hands in that 
gorgeous, shining mass, then drag Gildor down to him and . . . 

Haldir reflected that he should have known better than to trust him.  "You 
said you came here to play," he reminded him sternly, "so let's play."

"Exactly what I had in mind," Gildor grinned at him, eyes bright and open 
and positively dancing with mirth.  Haldir looked away from the face in 
front of him before its expression undermined his already frayed will 
power.  However, his eyes just used the opportunity to admire the well-
muscled shoulders and creamy skin that was barely concealed by the 
thinnest of tunics.  He'd be willing to bet that Gildor wasn't wearing 
anything under that thin, red cotton, and he KNEW Haldir loved him in 
that colour . . . "I am just proposing a slight change in the rules."  Gildor 
put his little dragon egg back on the board and beamed innocently.  
"Whenever one of us takes a piece, he gets a reward from his opponent.  
That's fair, isn't it?"    

"No."  Haldir regarded him through slitted eyes.  "I know what you are 
doing.  And you know perfectly well that you are not up for it." 

Gildor laughed delightedly, but a beautiful flush bloomed on his cheeks.  
"Well give me a moment, and we'll see."

"I don't know where you learned such appalling puns!  You've been 
spending far too much time with my brothers." 

"And not nearly enough with you, something I intend to remedy."   Soft 
lips quickly caught his and Haldir opened to them before he thought about 
it, but he broke away a second later, breathing laboured from the effort of 
holding back.  

"Lord Elrond said . . . "

"That I am recuperating nicely--he told me so just this morning."  Gildor's 
knowing hands found just the right spot behind Haldir's knees, and 
delicately teased the sensitive flesh as he pushed his legs slightly apart and 
knelt between them.  Haldir made attempts to pull down his nightshirt and 
to keep his naughty partner from running hands up the side of his thighs, 
telling himself that this was wrong until Lord Elrond certified Gildor 
completely well, but his body was not listening.  It seemed to think that 
Gildor had very good ideas and should be listened to carefully.   Feeling 
his lover weakening, Gildor pressed his advantage, capturing his mouth 
again in a commanding kiss as he gently pushed him back against the 
bed's softness and slid a hand up his back to tangle in his hair. 

Haldir marveled again that kissing Gildor was so much more satisfying 
than doing so with anyone else.  With his other partners, it had been a 
prelude only, and one he had rarely lingered on.  But the current of 
mingled power and tenderness that Gildor conveyed was almost a climax 
in itself.  It wasn't his lips, which although soft and warm and smooth, 
were no more so than any other elf's.  It wasn't the way his body was so 
responsive, making Haldir's blood race as if he had fever, for he had 
known other receptive lovers.  It wasn't the fact that his hard muscles felt 
so perfect under the soft contours of his tunic, for Haldir had known many 
who physically were closer to perfection.  But he had never known one he 
wanted more, hungered for, melted for like this one.  And he could never 
get enough of him.

Haldir could not keep from moaning against those lips, or from giving in 
to the burn of arousal that followed the hands stroking down his sides and 
seizing his hips.  He could feel the evidence of the younger elf's 
excitement pressing firmly against his inner thigh as Gildor pushed his 
nightshirt the rest of the way up and off his body.  "I've missed you," 
Gildor murmured, tugging off his own tunic before sliding fully against 
Haldir.  He lost himself for a moment in the sheer rushing bliss that pulsed 
between them as skin met skin, and in the sweet smell of his lover that 
overwhelmed his defenses as easily as if they had not even existed.  

Haldir was desperately trying to remember why he wasn't supposed to do 
this, but his brain was ignoring him, apparently having decided to join his 
body on this one.  He suddenly realised that his hands were digging into 
the hard muscles of Gildor's back as he tried to meld their bodies even 
closer together, but his lover did not seem to mind, just used the 
maneuverability provided by Haldir's quickly loosened grip to begin 
kissing down his chest.  Gildor missed nothing, alternately teasing and 
soothing, nibbling at his nipples, lapping at his naval, even sucking on his 
fingers when Haldir briefly tried to push him away.

Oh, he was talented, Haldir thought writhing; Gildor had always known 
exactly what he wanted, precisely what drove him completely mad, and 
his long enforced celibacy made this like a feast set before a famine 
victim.  With tongue and teeth working in talented tandem with fingertips, 
Gildor soon reduced Haldir to something approaching complete 
mindlessness.  He surrendered to his senses, and they all seemed 
heightened, refined to some purer essence than usual: he could feel the 
slight calluses on Gildor's bow hand as it ran over the sensitive skin of his 
arousal, and the warmth of his breath as his tongue followed; could detect 
the few reddish highlights in his lover's hair, shining in the sunlight from 
the window; could taste the residue of Gildor's kiss, and tell that he had 
eaten honey pastries sometime that morning, or perhaps that was just his 
usual flavor distilled.  So heightened had Haldir's senses become that he 
could almost discern the scent of individual herbs in the oil Gildor used to 
prepare him.  It never ceased to amaze him that making love with Gildor 
was pure ecstasy each and every time, an experience to be savored, 
treasured, and remembered.

A heavy beating reverberated through the room, breaking into his reverie, 
and Haldir stared about blankly for a moment before he realised what it 
meant.  "There's someone at the door."  It sounded ridiculous, and his 
brain woke up enough to inform him that he didn't care.

Gildor apparently agreed.  He smiled and slowly slid into him, the feeling 
so perfect that it caused Haldir's breath to catch in wonder.  "No. There 
isn't." 

*   *   *

"Lord Elrond, the door to Haldir's room is locked and I can't find the key.  
Rumil said he had it a little while ago, but doesn't know what happened to 
it.  And I cannot find Gildor and Haldir will not open the door."

Elrond looked up from his book.  He had been trying to elicit a response 
from the king by regaling him with a recitation of his favourite parts of the 
Fall of Gondolin, when Elwyyda burst into his rooms, looking frantic.  
Elrond had seen both his other patients earlier that day, and was 
encouraged by their rapid improvement.  He supposed an incentive helped.  
"I would not worry, Elwyyda.  There are many ways of recuperating, and I 
do believe they deserve this one."



Title: Wild Justice 21/?

*   *   *

The tea he was drinking was so hot it scalded his tongue.  
That was all right.  That was how he liked it.

Camthalion was accustomed to using pain as a distraction.  
Even before he met Erestor and learned that it could 
heighten pleasure, he had loved it for its numbing 
qualities.  His group stood out among the Silvan elves of 
Lorien, and the people's love for their sovereign lady had 
never applied equally to her servants.  Being different, 
being alone, being suspect, could get very tiresome over 
the centuries.

But the mild sizzle on his tongue was totally incapable of 
distracting him from the dark vision who was slowly driving 
him insane.  Cam had spent most of the day's ride trying 
not to look at Erestor, but his eyes refused to take the 
order seriously and constantly sought him out.  Of course, 
Erestor had noticed.  He was too aware of everything going 
on around him to do otherwise.  His gaze met Cam's now 
across the breadth of the camp, even thought he had barely 
glanced at him, had just begun to admire the way his eyes 
became glittering black slits in the firelight, how his 
beautiful, soft hair made a dark halo around his perfect 
features . . .

Cam tore his eyes away.  This was useless.  Erestor cared 
nothing for him.  Ironic, how pleased he'd been to find out 
that he was only comforting the young Peredhil, and had no 
real feelings for him.  How incredibly stupid, when it had 
been made more than obvious the past few days that the 
elfling's angst was more important to Erestor than Cam's 
life.

He drank the rest of the tea, but it had cooled too much to 
provide any real pain.  He knew he should sleep; they were 
attacking at dawn, and everyone had to be ready, but he 
felt that he would choke to death if he tried to lay down.  
Sleep would probably not come anyway, and if it did, it 
would only carry the dreams--vivid, agonizingly erotic 
dreams--that had tormented him every night since they met.

** He gives me a long, savage kiss, his tongue cruelly 
invading me, depriving me of breath, of thought, of 
everything except him.  I feel his teeth biting brutally 
into my parted lips. His hands viciously grip my shoulders 
while his arousal rubs against mine.**

But daylight brought the harsh truth that they were only 
dreams; it was never Cam that Erestor turned to, but always 
someone else.  Those dancing, elegant hands were sketching 
abstract patterns in the air as he tried to impart to the 
insipid child beside him some wisdom the elfling would 
never be able to understand.  Nor would he need to; his 
father being who he was, Imladris' prince would have 
everything he wanted in life laid out before him like a 
feast, and he just had to pick and choose his favourite 
courses.  The fact that Cam apparently owed him his life 
only made his jealousy that much more bitter--what had he 
saved him for, more centuries alone?

** Then he bit his way up my thighs, leaving marks against 
the pale skin, and I whimpered and writhed beneath him, 
urging him on.  Those beautiful red lips closed about my 
arousal, and he sucked hard, occasionally abrading it 
painfully with his teeth, while pulling and massaging my 
sac cruelly.**

The stupid elfling didn't even want Erestor, was sitting 
there not even looking at him.  All that splendor and 
brilliance concentrated on him, and the dense, blind 
creature could not even appreciate it.  While Cam would 
have gladly begged for the scraps from that feast; a word, 
a glance, anything with affection in it, he would have 
prized and cherished.  But there was nothing in Erestor's 
gaze the few times their eyes met but calculation.  He 
supposed it was better than pity.

** He twisted his fist in my hair, pulling it painfully. 
When he suddenly let go, I staggered and he backhanded me 
across the face, sending me sprawling to the floor.  With 
an evil smile on his beautiful face, he walked forward, 
kicking my legs apart. His arm rose and fell, the crop 
falling across my cheeks and thighs, which were soon raw 
and red from the lash.**

Cam could not stand seeing Erestor's face anymore, so cold 
and distant and so little like the way he imagined him in 
his dreams.  He could not hear their conversation, but 
obviously he was pleading with the elfling for something, 
something Elrohir was refusing to give him.  Erestor's eyes 
held an expression of concern as he spoke that Cam knew he 
would never see directed at him.  He hated Elrohir, for 
throwing away as worthless that which he craved so badly.  
In that moment he also hated himself, for the love and 
desire and burning, aching need he could not deny.  But he 
could not quite, despite desperate attempts, manage to hate 
Erestor.  But neither could he endure laying there, 
dreaming of him, desperate for his touch, only to wake 
gasping and hard and alone yet again.  There were other 
ways of passing the night.

*   *   *

Erestor could feel the weight of those eyes, burning with 
blue intensity from across the width of the camp.  He 
almost dropped his cup, his hands were trembling so much, 
and he didn't know why.  His bowels were twisting into 
knots of fire, as if they were melting from within.  He 
knew he should go talk to Camthalion, but his utter failure 
with Elrohir was giving him pause.  He was no longer 
certain of anything, much less his abilities to manage 
events into a nice, neat solution.

This was ridiculous, he told himself, as Cam looked away, 
his eyes seeming to search for something in the forest 
beyond the camp.  Erestor knew he had no reason to feel so 
panicked, almost as if he was terrified.   All at issue was 
a simple conversation, and wasn't he one of Elrond's own 
counselors?  Had he not participated in talks in which 
issues of momentous occasion were decided, more times, in 
fact, than he could count? So why should the idea of simply 
getting up, walking over the Camthalion, and initiating a 
discussion fill him with such dread?

But, he argued with himself, this was hardly the time to 
seek out such a discussion, when he wasn't even sure what 
it was he wanted to say.  Thank you for saving my life?  It 
would be hypocritical, for Erestor did not feel like 
thanking him.  Beating him into a pulp for being so obtuse, 
perhaps, but not thanking him.  Still, the words should be 
said, had to be said, and he knew he had put them off long 
enough.  Why was this so difficult?  Three words, he told 
himself.  Thank you Camthalion.  Just three little words . 
. .

Thank you Camthalion, he thought bitterly, glaring at the 
golden head burnished by the fire's flickering light.  
Thank you for arbitrarily deciding that you have the right 
to choose who lives and who dies.  Thank you for clearly 
evidencing your brainless conclusion that your life means 
so much less than mine.  Thank you for destroying the rest 
of my comfortable restraint and for forcing me to have 
feelings I can't control for the first time in my life.  
Thank you, thank you, thank you Camthalion . . .

"Er, Erestor . . . are you all right?"

Elrohir was regarding him with barely concealed 
trepidation.  Erestor realised that he had been jabbing his 
dagger into the root of the dead tree trunk on which he 
sat; repeatedly, by the look of things, as the wood along 
one side was quite shredded. "Yes, Elrohir."  Erestor's 
eyes narrowed as Cam suddenly jumped up as if bitten by 
something and fled into the darkness.  "I think I'll just 
go take a walk."

*   *   *

The steady thud of the lash on his back was soothing, but 
the pain was too light to bring him the release he craved.  
He increased the tempo of his strokes, but somehow knew 
there would be no satisfaction in this even if it brought 
him to climax.  What Cam really craved, he could not find 
alone.

"Your technique needs work."

Cam looked up to find Erestor observing him from the 
darkness of the forest.  The small amount of skin beyond 
the enveloping folds of his robes was bleached almost white 
by the moonlight, while the rest of him blended into the 
shadows. Framed by his midnight hair, his face was ghostly, 
its expression almost sinister.  Cam's eyes devoured him, 
not quite believing he was real, and he suddenly realised 
that he had tears in his eyes.  They were tears of anger, 
of pain, of longing, all rolled up into a mass of emotion 
that defied description, even had he tried.  At that 
moment, he loved his master and he despised him, and he 
honestly could not have said which emotion was dominant.

Erestor noticed the clenched fists as Cam stood, half-nude 
and covered in his own blood, and smiled.  He glided 
smoothly forward, his feet not seeming to even touch the 
rough forest floor.  Cam wasn't sure if it was the stealth 
with which he moved--even now, when he did not need it--or 
the blood that pounded in his own ears, but it seemed that 
his master's feet made no sound on the leaf swept ground.

"You'd like to hurt me, wouldn't you?"  Grabbing a handful 
of Cam's hair, he snapped his head backward abruptly.  "I 
can actually hear your heart pounding from here," he 
whispered, and the current of warm breath against his cheek 
told Cam that this, amazingly enough, was no dream.  "And 
that look in your eye; it's positively feral.  You want 
satisfaction, don't you?"  Erestor's fist tightened until 
Cam thought he would rip his hair out by the roots.  "You 
even crave it, I would say.  But you won't get it that 
way."

He released Cam so quickly that the elf stumbled, catching 
himself at the last moment or he would have fallen to his 
knees.  Erestor held out his crop, and Cam did kneel then, 
kissing it, licking it, needing the control it represented 
so much that it hurt, far more than the silly toy in his 
master's hand ever could.  Then it was suddenly withdrawn, 
and he looked up fearfully.  "You don't know what you want, 
do you?,"  Erestor asked, his tone scornful, the contempt 
in his eyes as he turned away in the direction of camp a 
deliberate insult.

"Master . . .", Camthalion wondered why Erestor was 
taunting him.  He had already submitted; what was the 
point?  Then he noticed that his master's mocking smile 
contrasted sharply with his flustered, restless gaze, and 
he understood.  Erestor craved something, too, and it was 
not meek obedience, not tonight.  Then Cam saw him, really 
saw him, for the first time that evening.  Erestor's 
usually gleaming hair was dusty and hung limply about his 
face.  His eyes were red and bloodshot, his lips pulled 
thin over tightly clenched teeth, and his hands--his always 
steady hands--were shaking.  He was obviously over-
stressed, tired and . . . could that be nervous?

It seemed ludicrous to connect the cool, competent, 
dispassionate creature he had fallen in love with and the 
exhausted, anxiety-ridden, vulnerable elf before him.  Cam 
realised for the first time how wearying these last few 
weeks must have been for him, and felt a surge of delight 
at the thought that, finally, Erestor needed him for 
something, instead of it being the other way around.  Still 
on his knees, Cam nonetheless suddenly felt like the 
powerful one.  Without permission, he stood and caught 
Erestor by his belt, dragging him across the few paces that 
separated them.

Erestor's reaction to his boldness reinforced Cam' 
certainty that he needed this, wanted it, just would not 
admit to it: his nostrils flared slightly, as if savouring 
the mingled scent of Cam's sweat and blood; the full lips, 
looking strangely bloodless in the moonlight, were parted, 
as if he needed more oxygen than his system was getting; he 
leaned slightly forward, even while his eyes showed fear 
that he might surrender to something he had never even 
known he wanted.  "Give in to me," Cam encouraged him, 
whispering into that beautiful ear.  "There is no battle, 
no responsibilities, no tomorrow.  There is only you and me 
and now."  Erestor shivered, dark eyes strangely uncertain, 
but he made no objection as Cam slowly pushed him to his 
knees.

*   *   *

Erestor felt like he had fallen into a dream as he slowly 
allowed himself to be lowered to the forest floor.  For a 
time, he almost forgot where he was, even who he was, as a 
dark tide of passion swept him to a place beyond thought, 
where worry and apprehension melted into liquid pulsing 
need, before evaporating away as if they had never existed 
at all.  He could feel Camthalion's arousal even through 
the heavy material of his leggings.  His partner thrust his 
hips forward into the caress of Erestor's lips, but when he 
went to undo the leather thongs, strong hands pushed him 
away.  "Not like that, or do I have to restrain you?"

Erestor put his hands behind his back and used his teeth.  
It really didn't matter; he was equally dexterous either 
way.  The material fell apart and he stretched to take in 
the full extent of the warm softness then revealed.  He 
amused himself for a while, stroking slowly and allowing 
his tongue to explore him fully, savouring the taste and 
scent and warmth of him as he teased Cam to within a 
heartbeat of release, then withdrew when the elf's breath 
quickened too much.  Erestor knew perfectly well how good 
he was at this, and was therefore not surprised when Cam's 
knees almost buckled and he had to clutch the tree behind 
him for support.

But Cam seemed to remember after a few moments that he was 
supposed to be leading this activity, and pulled away--
quite a feat, Erestor thought, amused.  His inner laughter 
must have shown in his eyes, for Cam let out a growl and 
attacked the buttons on his clothing, stripping the robes 
from his shoulders and dragging the tunic over his head 
without ceremony.  Clad only in his travel stained shirt 
and leggings, Erestor doubted that he made an overly 
appealing sight, but Cam groaned as he ran his hands down 
the thin silk of his shirt, then bent his head to bite each 
of Erestor's nipples, pulling and stretching them through 
the delicate material until they popped.

Ripping the shirt from him, Cam pushed him to the ground, 
lacerating his chest with his teeth.  Ripping the flail 
from Erestor's hand, he then cut across the abused nipples, 
over and over.  "I'm going to break you, destroy you, smash 
that perfect control," Cam told him, as the lash came down 
again and again.  "Then remake you, rebuild you, until 
you're only mine!"  Erestor kept his smile hidden more 
effectively this time, for it was obvious that Cam was 
giving his best effort, and the lash did feel good, causing 
a feeling of warmth and ease to flood him for the first 
time in days.  He wished his eager student would not be 
quite so gentle, however, as he had barely even managed to 
draw blood.

Camthalion suddenly stopped, and a second later slid up his 
chest, their blood mingling as he pressed Erestor down into 
the soft leaf covered ground and kissed him as if he 
expected the world to end at any moment.  It shocked 
Erestor far more than the beating, for Elrond rarely kissed 
him; theirs was not that kind of relationship.  They had a 
comfortable arrangement, and one that had lasted far longer 
than many built of supposedly more durable emotions than 
simple need.  Both of them were too jaded to feel the 
ephemeral rush of youthful passion so often mislabeled 
love, or so Erestor had thought before this fateful trip to 
Lorien.  Now Elrond was closeted with the only elf, as far 
as Erestor knew, who had ever caused him to shed burning 
tears of anguish at his loss.  Erestor himself had never 
mistaken passion for love, had thought himself immune to 
all such silly emotions.  But he had not wanted to see 
Elrond's face when he saw his beloved again, had, indeed, 
been afraid to do so.  For always, there had been the deep, 
unacknowledged feeling somewhere within him that, despite 
ample experience, he was nonetheless missing something.

He had secretly wondered why Glorfindel would choose to 
wait hundreds of years, merely on the promise that his long 
lost love would be returned to him.  It had seemed folly 
when he did not take the handsome offer Thranduil made him, 
long before Elrohir was even born, an offer that would have 
given him a gorgeous and powerful lover, wealth, position--
everything, in short, that most would kill for.  Yet he had 
turned it down without hesitation, just as he had waited 
patiently for Elrohir to grow up before ever speaking to 
him of love.  As Cam began kissing his cheeks, jaw and 
neck, Erestor thought he might finally understand why 
people would risk everything for this, for someone who 
could adore them--not the abilities they possessed or the 
wealth they brought, but just the person they were.

*    *    *

Cam felt tears on his cheeks, and wasn't sure whose they 
were.  Erestor groaned into his mouth, arching up to rub 
their lacerated torsos together, and Cam knew his master 
wanted, needed, much more than he had given him.  Rolling 
him over, Cam ran a hand softly over the perfect skin of 
his lover's back before beginning to give him the pain he 
craved, putting additional strength behind his blows.  He 
did not stop until the skin before him was almost 
completely raw, then sat back, breathing hard, wondering 
what his lover would want now, desperate not to disappoint.

As he waited, Erestor reached back, fingers clasping his 
abused buttocks, and spread them as widely as possible. Cam 
immediately knelt between his master's legs and, curling 
the lash around its handle, he used the whip to slowly 
invade him.  The complete lack of preparation must have 
been excruciatingly painful, but Erestor nonetheless 
writhed up to meet the crop, riding it with apparent bliss.  
Cam pushed it in as far as he dared before wrenching it 
back out in one violent movement.  But to his disbelief, 
Erestor not only did not scream, he barely moaned, 
sounding, if anything, slightly disappointed.  Cam threw 
the whip aside and mounted him then, intent on eliciting 
some type of response from the stubborn creature below him.

He did not know if this night was merely pity on Erestor's 
part, because he had noticed Cam's increasingly hungry 
stares, or if he, too, was nervous about what they would 
face tomorrow and desired to ease the tension in the 
emotional release of their actions.  He did not dare to 
even hope that Erestor felt anything for him, for why would 
he?  Cam had spent time asking about him--discreetly of 
course--but while few seemed to have much information, he 
had discovered one fact which helped to explain his lover's 
concern for the young Peredhil.  Erestor was the long time 
lover of Lord Elrond himself.  When Cam had heard that, it 
felt like his heart was being torn from him, for he then 
knew he stood no chance.

He bit Erestor's neck hard as he slid into him, knowing 
this might be the last time they were together, for even if 
they both survived the mountain, he would return to the 
Lady's service while Erestor accompanied his handsome lord 
back to Imladris.  Then, with that legendary beauty all to 
himself, what would he need with Cam?  He felt Erestor 
clench around him, practically begging him to begin 
thrusting, but he waited, difficult though it was.  Cam 
wanted to have his complete attention while he whispered 
his pain into that perfect ear, for why should he not at 
least have the satisfaction of telling him?  Why should he 
be able to treat him this way, and never even have to hear 
about the agony he caused?  "You toy with me, while your 
lord is busy.  You play with my love while you wait for 
him.  And as soon as he is not preoccupied anymore, you 
will leave with him, and I will be forced to remain 
behind."  His sweat mingled with his blood and his tears, 
dripping slowly onto Erestor's cheek.  "But, my beautiful 
lord, you WILL have something to remember me by.  Something 
to compare with him the next time he takes you."

*   *   *

Erestor would normally have enjoyed the sensations 
Camthalion was giving him, mild though they were to what 
Elrond could elicit, but the words he spoke drove 
everything else from his mind.  He had always laughed at 
stories in which people had sudden epiphanies during sex, 
for he was usually far too preoccupied to think clearly 
about anything in similar circumstances.  But he did not 
feel like laughing now, as Cam thrust into him, deep and 
hard, his hands gripping his hips strongly enough to 
bruise, seemingly in a frenzy to do as he had said and 
permanently mark him as his own.

Erestor barely reacted, too intent on the strange new idea 
that had occurred to him to do much to encourage his lover, 
who nonetheless continued to thrust mercilessly, the 
friction along his unprepared channel causing exquisite 
pain.  After a few moments, Erestor reached his decision, 
then gave himself over completely to sensation, tilting his 
hips as much as he could, trying to impale himself even 
more on his lover's already impressive length.  Cam lasted 
much longer than he would have expected, and was far 
stronger, forcing Erestor to clutch the grass on either 
side of him to keep from being pushed across the surface of 
the glade.  Cam finally expended himself, spilling into him 
with a cry that sounded strangely like defeat, and 
collapsing onto Erestor's abused back with a strangled sob.  
His arousal softened and slipped out, causing another brief 
ripple of sensation through Erestor, who smiled.  Cam had 
much to learn but, oh, instructing him would be a great 
pleasure.

It took a few moments for Erestor to realise that Cam was 
in serious pain, although not of the physical kind.   He 
rolled onto his side and wove a hand through Cam's damp 
hair to drag him into a searing kiss.  He tasted sweet, 
beneath the blood and salt, the latter from the tears that 
continued to pour down his face.  Erestor gathered him into 
his arms, rocking him like a child, letting him sob since 
it seemed to please him to do so.  When he finally 
hiccupped to a stop some minutes later, Erestor raised his 
chin with a single finger and examined him.  No, he hadn't 
been wrong.  There was no mistaking the expression in those 
liquid blue eyes.

"When I return to Imladris," Erestor told him softly, "you 
are coming with me.  I will speak with the lady myself once 
all this is past."

Instead of joyful, Camthalion just looked confused.  "But . 
. . I failed you.  You didn't even cry out!  I tried but I 
. . . "

Erestor smiled, his dark eyes laughing, and kissed Cam's 
lips again just because he could.  He realised joyfully 
that he could do that whenever he wanted from now on, and 
made a mental note to put it high on his list of 
priorities.  "Then you'll just have to work harder next 
time, won't you?"


Title: Wild Justice 22/? 

*   *   *

Elrohir opened his eyes and looked about.  He immediately knew 
something was wrong, for he was supposed to be in a claustrophobic glade 
near the Misty Mountains, not on a grassy hillside studded with flowers.  
It was also supposed to be either late at night or early in the morning, 
depending on how long he'd slept once he finally dropped off, not mid-
afternoon.  The sky was wrong for more than just the position of the sun; it 
had looked overcast even before evening fell, and Elrohir would not have 
been surprised to wake up to rain, but where-ever he now was, the sun 
shone merrily.  He looked down at himself and then he knew he must be 
dreaming.  He had never, in all his long life, worn an outfit like this.   

He had no more time to speculate, however, as a huge white horse reared 
up just over top of him, its massive hooves barely missing coming into 
contact with his skull.  He rolled out of the way and leaped to his feet, 
ready to royally tell off the careless rider, when his eyes fell on the elf in 
question and his exclamations died on his lips.  Oh.  

Other kinds often made the assumption that elves were immortal.  That 
wasn't exactly true.  Elves were fated to live as long as Arda lasted, but 
just as Earth aged, so did they, with subtle differences obvious over time.  
It was not difficult, for instance, for any elf to tell the difference between a 
very young and a very old example of their kind, even if they had never 
before met.  The latter would not only have ancient eyes, but his or her 
body would also look perceptively older, if still youthful in the mortal 
conception of that term.  So it was that Elrohir immediately recognised the 
extreme youth--probably less than a hundred years--of the elf looking 
down at him from atop the restless horse.  It was not his age that 
confounded him, however, to the point of speechlessness.

"Have a care!," the blond glared at him as he brought the massive stallion 
under control.  "You should not hide in the grasses so, else someone will 
trample you one day!"  

Elrohir just stood, looking at the extremely beautiful and ridiculously 
young elf on the horse, his waist length hair flowing about him like a 
golden cloud.  Elrohir had never seen him wear it so long or so loosely, 
with strands able to drift into his eyes.  He had also never seen his face so 
open, so clear, so free of cares and concerns.  His eyes looked bigger, too, 
or perhaps his face had not yet fully filled out to its adult shape.  By the 
Valar, but he was stunning!

"Do you speak, Sindar, or did you lose your tongue along with your 
clothes?"  The mocking voice was familiar, and Elrohir bristled.  Glancing 
down at himself once more, however, he could see that the rider, who was 
fully attired in a long white tunic and light grey leggings, had a point.  He 
briefly wondered if this was one of those dreams where you wander 
around nude or nearly so, while everyone else makes fun of you.  He 
sighed.  Of course, Elbereth forbid that he should get a NICE dream for a 
change.

"I speak, just not to arrogant Noldor who don't bother to look where 
they're going."  Turning his back, he walked down the hill, away from the 
vision that was close enough to the one he remembered to cause a fist to 
close around his heart.  He had not gone a half dozen paces, however, 
before a strong arm caught him and whirled him around.  Angry blue eyes 
met his and a scowl came over the perfect face.

"It is true what they say, then, that the Sindar are little more than 
barbarians, without even good manners to recommend them."

Elrohir shook off the hand attempting to encircle his bicep with ease.  
How interesting; in this dream he seemed as tall as his companion, and 
bulkier than usual.  He rather liked the advantage this gave him, as well as 
the gleam of admiration in his companion's blue eyes that not even anger 
could mask.  Maybe this wasn't going to be such a bad dream after all.

"If we're barbarians," he commented smoothly, "should you not take care, 
pretty Noldor?  Riding about so carelessly, then issuing insults?  What if I 
should . . . demand satisfaction . . . in a some truly barbaric way, of 
course?"  Elrohir was delighted to see uncertainty come into the elf's eyes, 
and that he stepped back a pace.  Pressing his advantage, Elrohir followed, 
for when would he ever have this chance again?  "Here you are, in 
barbarian territory, too haughty to even follow local customs as to dress."  
He clicked his tongue and, in a blur of motion, pulled the elf's beautiful 
embroidered sash from about his waist.  "I think I shall have to do 
something about that."

"Give that back!"  The blond reached for it, but Elrohir danced back out of 
reach.  

"Ah, but you are a Noldor lord, are you not?  Surely, a mere barbarian 
such as myself could have no hope of eluding you?"  He dangled the 
pretty sash from his fingers and grinned.  "If you want it, come and take 
it."  Then he was off, leaping onto the elf's horse and spurring its sides 
with his bare feet.  It reared under him, then plunged for the distant line of 
trees along the horizon.  

Elrohir loved the feel of the wind in his hair, and was intrigued by the 
strange smell in the air.  It took him some time to place it, and then he 
became even more excited.  It was the smell of salt and much water, the 
indefinable breath of the sea.  He had only been to the ocean once, and 
that when he was very young, but he remembered its distinctive smell.  
For a moment he forgot about being pursued, forgot even that he was 
dreaming, in the rush of excitement the idea of the sea rose in him.  The 
horse under him bucked and reared as they reached the summit of a hill, 
but Elrohir soon had him back under control.  Glorfindel had taught him to 
ride, and he had taught well.

The trees formed but a thin line and behind them, golden dunes sparsely 
covered with vegetation soon gave way to a sandy shore, onto which little 
fingers of foam darted inland.  Elrohir couldn't help it, he laughed in sheer 
joy at the sight, then leaped off the horse's back and plunged into the surf, 
heedless of the fact that the scarf he still held was getting soaked in the 
foamy water.  When the waves surged against his thighs, he was grateful 
for the brief loincloth that was his only clothing, for it made bathing easy.  
Tossing it and the embroidered scarf onto the beach where they could dry, 
he plunged further into the water, unimpeded by anything except the 
jewelled armlets he wore.  

Oh, but he would have to arrange another trip to the sea when they 
returned to Imladris!  He wondered why he had not done so before, as this 
was true bliss.  Laughing, he pushed outward until the waves broke across 
his chest and pushed him slightly back towards the shore with each crash 
of their foam, shimmering in every shade of green, from emerald to 
turquoise, under the bright blue sky.  

So caught up was Elrohir in his pleasure that he almost didn't hear the 
mocking laughter from behind him.   Some echo of it reached him past the 
call of the gulls and the ocean's song, however, and he turned to see the 
blond standing on the shore, holding a piece of cloth in each hand.  "What 
do we have here?  A stolen belt, a stolen horse and . . . what's this?  A 
scrap of cloth?  I'll take it with me as a souvenir of a most amusing 
morning, shall I?"

Elrohir knew that it was unimportant; he was dreaming, after all, so what 
did it matter if someone made off with his dream self's loincloth?  It hadn't 
actually been much of a covering, although the material was a good, heavy 
silk.  Still, he didn't like the mocking air in the elf's tone, nor his 
deliberately provocative words.  Another thought occurred to Elrohir, and 
he smiled, beginning a leisurely stroll towards shore.  If this WAS just a 
dream, and nothing he did mattered anyway, then why not enjoy himself?  
It had been a very long time and, considering everything he had been 
through, he rather thought he deserved a little . . . amusement.

"I never heard before that the Noldor are cowards."  The blond had turned 
towards his horse, but Elrohir's words stopped him and he spun about, one 
hand still on the animal's bridle.  

"Explain why you use such a term of me, Sindar, and be quick."

"Or what?"  Elohir deliberately slowed his stride as he neared the beach, 
and did not bother to hide his smile when the elf could not keep his eyes 
on his face as he emerged from the waves.  Deciding to play it for all it 
was worth, Elrohir stopped knee deep in the cool water and gathered his 
wet, dark hair off his shoulders and into a heavy club, which he proceeded 
to slowly wring dry.  He couldn't see the picture he made, surrounded by 
the emerald sea, the diamonds on his armbands flashing in the sunlight, his 
body glistening with a thousand drops of water as the sun began to dry 
him, but he didn't need to.  The effect was easy enough to read in the 
blond's suddenly dazed expression, and in the way his hand fell away from 
the bridle as if suddenly too heavy to lift.  

Finishing his task, Elrohir ran his fingers through his damp hair and then 
finished closing the distance between them.  "You didn't answer me," he 
commented, retrieving his loincloth from the elf's limp grasp.  He twined 
it around his neck and drew him close.  "What terrible fate awaits me?  I'm 
trembling to find out."

Elrohir dicovered that the last statement was almost true, for the fingers he 
ran into the heavy blond mane were less than steady, but fortunately his 
companion was too distracted to notice.  Strong hands gripped his waist, 
but instead of pushing him away as he had half expected, they drew him 
close, pulling his wet skin up against the dry softness of the elf's tunic.  
Before he could warn him that he was going to get all wet, the blond 
leaned in to press soft lips on his in a tentative but eager kiss.  Elrohir 
responded for an instant, tasting that sweet lower lip briefly, before pulling 
back.  "Are you sure you want to do this?," he asked, somewhat amused 
and a little surprised at the youthful vulnerability on the face before him.  
"I'm a wicked barbarian, after all; who knows what terrible ideas I might 
have in store for you?"

The elf actually looked frightened for a moment, and his arms loosened.  
Elrohir wondered where he'd ever acquired his reputation for fearlessness; 
must have been at a later date.  Sighing, he broke away, walking a little 
way up the beach, the pretty sash he'd reacquired trailing along in the 
waves that lapped around his feet.  "I suppose it is true then," he tossed 
over his shoulder, "the Noldor really ARE all cowards."

Elrohir heard the quick intake of breath and the sudden sound of boots 
hitting wet sand behind him, but he didn't turn until the Noldor was almost 
on him.  Then, with a quick spin, he grabbed his pursuer and brought him 
down into the waves with him.  The elf was quick, but Elrohir was 
quicker--he'd learned these manoeuvres, and more, from Glorfindel of 
Imladris, had he not?  He laughed delightedly, a sound of true joy that 
echoed over the beach and startled some nearby gulls into flight.  Pressing 
the writhing, squirming body under him down into the wet sand, he held 
him until his struggles grew less with his dawning realisation that he 
couldn't break this hold.  Then Elrohir began undressing him, the same 
delighted grin on his features.

First came the tunic, quickly becoming waterlogged but still possible to 
wrest over the elf's shining head.  Elrohir tossed it several yards up the 
beach and then groaned as he looked down on what remained--why did he 
wear so many clothes on such a perfect day?  Shaking his head, he wedged 
the infuriated Elda between his thighs and began to tug at the first of 
several shirts, the outer one, a deep grey embroidered with silver leaves 
and flowers, amused him--the Noldor had apparently always been a bit of 
a dandy--an impression reinforced by the fine silk of the white undershirt.  
Imagine, he thought as he tossed it aside too, wearing a whole shirt just for 
a tiny piece of it to show at one's neck!  A serious waste of material, and a 
shame aesthetically, considering what it helped to hide.

"You are beautiful, cousin," he murmured, ignoring the poisonous look on 
the handsome face below him.  "Why hide under so many layers?  Surely, 
you cannot be cold on such a day?"

"Let me up, Morier, and I'll show you how I feel!"

Elrohir laughed again at that.  By the gods, this was the best dream he had 
EVER had!  "You are incapable of rising on your own Beleger?"  He 
clicked his tongue and ran an appreciative hand down that beautiful torso, 
pausing as a slightly larger wave than most managed to coat them with 
spray.  "That is a shame.  I had not heard our Noldoran cousins were so 
weak."

The elf below him renewed his struggles in earnest then, as Elrohir had 
known he would, and it took some effort to avoid being thrown off.  But 
Elrohir found that the form he had assumed in this dream was strong and 
well practised in the arts of war; all the blond managed to do despite his 
skill was to tire himself out.  "Nadorhuan," he panted after some 
moments," Amin delotha lle!  Let me up!  I have done you no harm."

Elrohir smiled at that and ran a finger around the top of the Noldor's by 
now sopping wet leggings.  "You call repeatedly insulting me no harm?  
Threatening to steal from me no harm?  'Tis true the Noldor have strange 
customs, but I cannot think these things are permitted among you?"

The blond flushed slightly, and looked a bit abashed.  Elrohir found it 
utterly charming; he had never seen that expression on those usually 
perfectly composed features.  "You stole from me first," the young elf 
commented petulantly.  Elrohir regarded him silently for a moment, then 
they both broke into peals of laughter, which was only silenced by another 
wave crashing into them.  "Let me up, cousin, and claim what forfeit you 
will for my unthinking discourtesy."

Elrohir felt his smile fading as he regarded the picture the elf made, his 
long blond hair floating about his head in the shallow water, his pale skin 
flushed and beaded with foam, his eyes the same colour as the sky.  
Something about Elrohir's expression must have registered on his 
companion, who flushed more and wriggled beneath him, worry coming 
into those sapphire eyes.  "Let me up, cousin," he said again, but his tone 
was less sure.  

"Oh, I will," Elrohir promised, "but I want my forfeit first."  Without 
giving him time to complain, Elrohir dipped his head and captured that 
inviting mouth, sliding up the length of the blond's body as he did so.  The 
figure beneath him squirmed in protest, but only for a moment, and then 
the hands trying to push him away were pulling him closer, and the mouth 
that had been closed so stubbornly against him opened invitingly.  

The kiss was strangely familiar and yet strangely new.  The taste was the 
one he knew, sweet and spicy and richly addictive, but there was hesitancy 
in the tongue that tentatively stroked his that had never been there before, 
and a naiveté in touch of the hands against his back that was definitely 
different.  Elrohir was gentle, but insistent, and soon the body beneath his 
began to respond to his nearness in an unmistakable way.  He dropped a 
hand to caress the young one's arousal through his wet leggings, but his 
action seemed to panic the elf instead of giving him pleasure as Elrohir 
had intended, and he renewed his struggles.  Elrohir was so surprised by 
the thought that suddenly occurred to him that he let the blond slide out 
from under him without protest.

"Amin hiraetha, I did not realise, cousin," he told him truthfully.

The elf quickly gathered up his clothes, seeming flustered by the bulge in 
the front of his leggings.  "I . . . I have to get back.  I rode out with my 
friends and they will be looking for me."  

Elrohir watched him with concern.  He had not meant to frighten him, but 
it had been so long since he felt that body against his, that he hadn't been 
able to resist.  "It was just a kiss, Heruamin--it was nothing to upset you."

The Noldor vaulted up on his horse and looked back at Elrohir, who 
remained reclining among the waves.  The elf hesitated, and his eyes 
seemed unable to tear themselves away from Elrohir's body, but a moment 
later he was gone without another word, galloping through the surf as if all 
the orcs in Middle Earth were after him.  Elrohir lay back in the surf, 
finding the cool embrace of the water comforting, as he wondered why he 
cared so much that he had frightened a figment of his imagination.  

*   *   *

Elrohir looked about the cool marble halls uncertainly.  He knew that he 
had never seen this place before, yet somehow it was familiar.  Had he 
dreamed it at some point and then forgotten until now?  He didn't usually 
have recurring dreams, but then, he didn't usually have such vivid ones, 
either.  

Somehow he knew he should not loiter here in a damp loincloth, even 
though the hall seemed deserted.  He followed his instincts and took the 
west-facing hallway out of the centre atrium and, after some twists and 
turns, came on a large, heavily carved door through which an elf in 
flowing silver robes was disappearing, his arms around a large bundle.  
Elrohir followed him into an extensive suit of rooms with heavy furniture, 
much of it carved like the door with trailing vines and leaves.  A huge 
silver shield on the wall caught his attention; it would have been difficult 
to ignore as it was situated to catch the light streaming in from a window 
on the opposite side of the chamber.  And it certainly did, he thought in 
amazement, as a prism of colours sparkled off the thousands of diamonds 
or crystals set into a shimmering starburst pattern.

"Ah, my lord, you are back!"  The dark haired elf he had followed came 
bustling across the room towards him, his face almost hidden by the huge 
breastplate he carried.  "I was beginning to worry.  The ceremony is in less 
than two hours!  You must hurry and get ready."

Before he had a chance to protest, Elrohir was pushed unceremoniously 
onto a stool and the dark elf, who never seemed to stop talking, bustled 
about, brushing the salt out of his hair and braiding it carefully into 
warrior's braids at his temples, then slipping him into a padded tunic and 
leggings before beginning to help him into lightweight but sturdy mithril 
armor.  Elrohir allowed himself to be pushed about like a puppet, as he 
was still a little confused about just why he had not woken up yet.  Surely, 
this was a very long dream?  And his father had never read him anything 
about this--was his brain just making it all up?

He realised where he was, of course, for he had seen numerous paintings 
of Gondolin and this was definitely not the white city the scrolls said had 
rivaled Tirion itself in beauty.  This must, then, be Nevrast, and Elrohir 
took a moment to bless his father's love of history as the last of his armor 
was buckled onto him.  King Turgon, son of the High King Fingolfin, 
ruled here, and must be even now contemplating building the hidden city 
Ondolindë, or as it would more commonly be known, Gondolin.  That 
meant that this had to be sometime in the early First Age, before 126 in 
any case, at that date marked the completion of the hidden city.  He 
wanted to just ask the date, but even in a dream that would sound strange.

"Ah, yes!"  His servant, and Elrohir somehow knew his name was 
Lothion, seemed pleased about something, and dragged him into the next 
room to look in a floor length mirror beside an elaborately decorated bed 
covered in silks and satins in bright, almost gaudy colours, and far too 
many pillows.  Elrohir was about to protest--he needed to know just WHY 
he was being put into full armor--but stopped when he saw his reflection.  
He decided that what he really needed was to sit down.  

The elf looking back at him resembled him in colouring and superficially 
in facial features, but it was not the similarities that caught his eye.  He 
had never, he thought fervently, in his whole life looked that good.  This 
elf appeared older, harder and somehow more experienced than he had 
ever been.  None of his surprise or indecision showed on the face before 
him; its pewter coloured eyes were amused and its sensual lips were 
curved in a small smile.  A mass of dark hair fell about the powerful 
shoulders, which were encased in the most spectacular armor he had ever 
seen.  Its silver exterior shone mirror bright, except for patches where the 
diamond star pattern from the shield was repeated in dozens of small, 
miniature designs all over its surface.  

"Your new armor is becoming, my lord," Lothion said, running a cloth 
over its already perfect surface.  Elrohir didn't answer him--he doubted 
that he could have.  Thankfully, Lothion was apparently as incapable of 
sitting still as he was of being quiet, meaning that Elrohir had to do very 
little as the other elf bustled about.  Which was just as well, for his head 
was spinning and he felt weak at the knees.  " . . . a certain victory!"

"What?"  Elrohir wished that he had, at some point in his life, learned to 
pay more attention to what was happening around him, rather than going 
off into his own little world.  Lothion hurried off to answer a knock at the 
door without answering him, and Elrohir suddenly felt in need of some 
fresh air to clear his head.  He noticed a wide balcony beyond the 
bedroom, where a warm breeze beckoned.  Leaning against its railing, he 
admired the beauty of the gardens beyond, which were rather wild but 
nonetheless attractive.  Red petals from the wild rose that twined about 
one of the nearby posts blew across his vision as he heard Lothion's voice 
behind him.  Elrohir turned and once again saw the golden haired elf, his 
blue eyes reflecting shock and something like panic as they met his, but 
Lothion had closed the balcony doors to give them some privacy and there 
was no escape for either of them.

"You didn't tell me!," he accused.  He looked so outraged that Elrohir felt 
his own confusion momentarily submerged in laughter.  "Do not dare to 
laugh at me you . . . you Sindar!"
   
"Don't you think we can call a truce, at least for the afternoon?  I won't 
refer to you as a haughty Noldor, if you will refrain from calling me a 
barbarous Sindar." Elrohir smiled as winningly as he could, as he 
appreciatively took in the golden armor worn by the Noldor youth.  He 
would gain some power with age, and add a little bulk to his musculature, 
but it was amazing how like his older self he was.  "You look very 
handsome, Lord Glorfindel."

"You knew who I was all the time!  Why did you never give me your 
name?"

Elrohir smiled--this was just too delicious.  He did not even try to resist 
using Glorfindel's old phrase from the classroom, which had been levied at 
him enough times for not thinking things through.  "You did not ask, 
lirimaer."

Glorfindel flushed.  "You have no right to call me that."

Elrohir leaned against the wooden beam of the balcony and shrugged.  
"But it is true.  You look well."  The golden armor, as brightly polished as 
his own, the flowing white cape and the perfectly groomed blond tresses, 
which showed no ill effects from their seaside escapade, bore out his 
statement.

The elf before him shifted slightly, his expression uncertain, and he 
deliberately did not look at Elrohir.  "We should go.  The ceremony will 
begin soon.  I am to escort you."

"Then I am doubly fortunate."  Glorfindel shot him a suspicious glance at 
that, but said nothing.  Elrohir took his shield from the wall as they passed 
through the inner rooms, assuming that whoever had arranged all this 
wanted the full effect, and followed Glorfindel out into the palace.  

The main hall was deserted no longer, he noticed, and blinked slightly at 
the huge throng of elves lining the massive chamber and portico beyond.  
Through the main doorway leading to the front of the palace, he could see 
that banners had been set up and were fluttering in the breeze, their 
brightly coloured surfaces bearing the impressions of a hundred noble 
houses, some of which he recognized from his lessons and some that he 
did not.  Elves bowed and curtsied as they passed by, the respect bordering 
on awe in their faces a new experience for Elrohir.  His youth had always 
worked to negate much of the deference he might otherwise have received 
as Elrond's son, with even the servants at Imladris treating him more like a 
favourite pet than heir to the realm.  If he or Elladan became too 
rambunctious as elflings, the older servants did not bother to wait for Lord 
Erestor to rebuke them, but hurried them out of the way with, like as not, a 
swat on their bottoms to speed them along.  This, then, was a very new 
experience for Elrohir, who somehow knew that here he was being lauded 
for things he had done, not for whose son he happened to be.

In the main hall, the king--Turgon, he assumed--waited atop a large dais 
that had been draped with sapphire fabric.  When Elrohir and Glorfindel 
entered, a line of trumpeters situated all along the cavernous room broke 
into a deafening salute.  Elrohir managed to keep a smile on his face as 
they moved forward, and, he hoped, not to show the nervousness he was 
feeling.  He was pleased that many of the faces in the crowd looked 
familiar, even if he could not put names to them at the moment.  

The ceremony was short but impressive.  He had been right about time; it 
was the seventy-fifth year of the First Age, and Morgoth had just sent 
floods of orcs to invade and attempt to destroy Beleriand.  Fingolfin and 
Maedhros were raising armies to oppose them, part of which would be 
drawn from Nevrast.  The ceremony was to strengthen the elvish alliance 
by formally uniting the Sindarin hosts of Nevrast with the Noldor under 
Turgon's leadership, and the means of doing so was to make a Sindarin 
prince one of the captains of the king's host.  Elrohir had to give his 
companion credit; Glorfindel might be contemptuous of the Sindar, but he 
gave no sign of it during the ceremony.  

Rising from his knees as a newly commissioned officer in the king's 
guard, Elrohir lost sight of Glorfindel as he was swept away by a crowd of 
rejoicing Sindar, and was soon caught up in a huge celebration.  Everyone 
feasted and drank as if there was no tomorrow, which, he supposed, from 
their point of view there might not be.  He, of course, knew that they 
would win an overwhelming victory, but no other elf present that night 
had that comfortable security.  It suddenly occurred to him, sometime 
later, to wonder how a youth like Glorfindel, untried in battle as he must 
be at this point, was handling the pressure of the upcoming events.  With 
difficulty, he broke away from the throng and went to search out his future 
lover.

He finally found him sitting on a bench on top of the hill that overlooked 
the palace complex, alone and looking up at the stars.  "You look pensive, 
lirimaer."  

Glorfindel did not even bother to turn around at his approach, just 
continued to look out over the star field that seemed to surround them at 
this height.  The lights spilling out of the palace were far away and 
insignificant compared to the enveloping darkness.  "I told you not to call 
me that," he finally said, after a significant pause.

Elrohir ignored him and settled himself on the bench at his side.  "You 
have chosen a beautiful spot.  It is good to recall that there is beauty in the 
world, before one has to witness the uglier side of life."

Glorfindel looked down at his hands, apparently lost in thought.  Elrohir 
let him alone, remembering his own first encounter with violence.  He had 
always thought it unfortunate that he grew up in a time when orcs 
menaced much of Middle Earth and it was foolish to go anywhere without 
a heavy escort.  Now he wondered if that had not, in fact, given him an 
advantage.  Since he had always known attack could come at any time, he 
had been prepared for it.  Weapons use and battle tactics were as much a 
part of his studies as history, music or art.  The first time he had 
encountered orcs, then, on a training mission with Glorfindel at barely age 
thirty, he had made his first kill almost as a matter of course; he had, after 
all, been training for it his whole life.  But now he wondered what it was 
like to face battle mentally unprepared, for he doubted Glorfindel was old 
enough to have taken part in what would one day be called the Second 
Battle of Beleriand that marked the beginning of the First Age.    

"It will be all right," he commented, when Glorfindel continued to say 
nothing.  "We WILL be victorious."  He smiled ruefully, thinking that he 
could, if he wished, tell the young Glorfindel exactly how the battle would 
go, practically an hour-by-hour account.  His harsh schoolmaster had, after 
all, drilled him on it often enough.  Perhaps now he understood why; this 
must have been a formative influence on him.  

"And if we fail?  There is no other power capable of standing against 
Morgoth."

Elrohir shrugged.  "We won't fail."  He suddenly had an itch on his back 
and wished that, like Glorfindel, he had changed out of the all-enveloping 
armor as soon as the ceremony was over, but he had liked it too well.  He 
had never seen any to equal it, not even that his father had worn in the 
Last Alliance, which was still preserved at Imladris.   

"What are you doing?"  Glorfindel looked up as he rose, and his face was 
pale in the moonlight.  He looked very young to Elrohir.  

"I have to get out of this armor--it is itching me terribly.  Come back with 
me?  We'll have a drink and talk about the battle and how we are going to 
make Morgoth very sorry he ever heard of Beleriand!"

Glorfindel looked uncertain.  "Won't your friends miss you?"

"Won't yours miss you?"

Glorfindel smiled at that, and shrugged.  "Everyone is too intent on 
drinking the night away to notice.  For some, it will be their last night to 
celebrate.  They were saying we should . . . "

"Yes?"  Elrohir wished Glorfindel would make up his mind; the itch had 
spread and was driving him crazy.

Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment, his eyes dark in the dim light.  
"You look like part of the night," he finally said softly, "a herald from 
Elbereth, clothed in starlight, sent to bring us words of comfort . . . "  

Elrohir laughed.  "I can assure you, lirimaer, you need have no worries for 
the future."  Well, he thought, not for another four hundred years or so, 
anyway . . .

Glorfindel seemed to suddenly decide something, for he stood, shaking out 
his robes.  "I will have that drink."  Elrohir wondered why he sounded as 
if some momentous decision had been reached.

They walked back in silence, dodging the groups of merry makers that 
populated the gardens, especially heavy near the hall where huge tables of 
food and wine were being replenished for the third time.  Elrohir thought 
the atmosphere strange.  Despite the music and laughter, cheerful banners 
and glowing lights, there was strain on most of the faces, and many of the 
smiles seemed forced.  He would not have been tempted to linger in the 
torch lit gardens or the great hall, even if he had been less uncomfortable 
in his attire.  The whole palace felt like a house in the middle of a wake.

He let Lothion help him out of his armour then dismissed him for the 
night.  Let him go eat and drink with the others; he doubted that his 
loquacious servant would notice the undercurrents in the atmosphere.  
Glorfindel watched apprehensively as Elrohir pulled off the hot, scratchy 
tunic and headed for the bedroom, intent on finding something less 
uncomfortable to wear.  He had just shed the padded leggings, which kept 
the mithril plates from chafing his legs, and was rummaging around in the 
huge wardrobe when he felt a hand slide tentatively down his back.  

Elrohir didn't turn around, much though he was tempted, but continued his 
search as he tried to decide what to do.  Berating himself as an utter and 
complete fool, he wondered why he hadn't anticipated this.  Of course; the 
obligatory pre-combat coitus.  Curse it, why weren't there any normal 
clothes in this wardrobe?  He finally gave up, sympathizing with 
Ecthelion's preference for running about half nude if these overly ornate 
robes were his only options, and turned to face Glorfindel wearing nothing 
more than his loin cloth, once again.

"Lirimaer," he caught the young elf's wrist before he could go exploring 
any further.  "I think you should ask yourself if this is what you really 
want."

Glorfindel didn't answer, just stepped back and pulled his tunic over his 
head.  In the light from the candelabra his skin was as golden as his hair, 
and Elrohir had difficulty concentrating enough to form coherent 
sentences.  He stood, feeling torn, as the shirt followed the tunic and the 
leggings followed the shirt.  He should probably send him away, he 
thought vaguely; he is just nervous and doesn't want to think about the 
battle.  He is using you the same way those other elves are using the king's 
cellars--to forget for a few hours what they are facing tomorrow when they 
ride off to join the High King.  

Then again, he thought, as Glorfindel sat on the edge of the bed, looking 
lost, if you send him away, won't he just find someone else?  Someone 
who may not be as gentle, may not care about him as much?  He knew he 
was rationalising what he wanted to do, but he also knew that he was right.  
And he DID want this, wanted it so very much . . . 

"Glorfindel," Elrohir sat beside him, and put out a hand to smooth the 
other elf's hair.  "We can just talk if you like . . . have a few drinks . . . we 
don't have to do this if . . . "

He never had the chance to finish the thought, as his lips were captured in 
an inexpert but heartfelt kiss.  Elrohir felt the tension drain from him as he 
relaxed into the embrace he knew so well.  This was where he belonged, 
where he had always belonged, in the arms of the lover who was also his 
best friend.  This was what he had been craving, all those lonely, tortured 
nights alone.  Kissing Glorfindel felt like coming home.  

When the elf in his arms moaned against his lips, Elrohir thought it the 
most sensual sound he had ever heard.  He pressed him backwards onto 
the huge bed when they finally drew apart, and decided that he was going 
to enjoy this night, even if it was only a dream.  He thought of Thranduil 
seeing Glorfindel like this, his golden hair spread out about his head, his 
eyes dark with passion, his lips glistening from where he'd just licked 
them in anticipation and nervousness.  Elrohir decided that, as soon as he 
woke up, he would throw the king into a ravine.  A really deep ravine.

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he told Glorfindel 
truthfully, brushing a loose lock of hair from his lover's forehead.  He 
wished he could speak of his love, his longing, his need for everything 
they had once had, but this Glorfindel would not understand that.  He did 
seem to understand something else, however, for he took the initiative to 
draw him into a deep kiss, while sliding his hands down Elrohir's hips to 
push at the cloth separating them.  Elrohir was happy to assist, and soon 
warm skin slid against warm skin, and he thought he would pass out from 
sheer happiness alone.

Then he woke up.  

It took a few minutes to understand what had happened, as the early 
morning light shone in his eyes and Erestor's face, looking tired but 
somehow more tranquil than it had last night, appeared hovering above 
him with the news that they would be leaving shortly.  "You look 
exhausted," Elrohir told him, as his mind tried to jump thousands of years 
in a few seconds.  He felt dizzy, tired and extremely frustrated.  

"So do you."

Elrohir blinked at him.  "It was a busy night."

"Yes . . . yes it was."

Over Erestor's shoulder, Elrohir saw Glorfindel, looking so similar and yet 
so different from that other time, with lines of worry on his beautiful face 
and weariness in his blue eyes.  An elf stood at his shoulder, a large, blond 
elf with a hearty laugh who looked perfectly rested and beautifully 
groomed as always.  Elrohir didn't even hesitate.  Throwing his blanket 
aside, he crossed the camp in half a dozen long strides, grabbed Thranduil 
by the front of his perfectly pressed robes, and slammed him against the 
trunk of a nearby tree.  

The king's eyes widened in surprise, but Elrohir barely noticed.  He 
wouldn't have cared anyway.  "He. Is. Mine.  Touch him again and I will 
personally castrate you."  Dropping the king, who barely managed to 
avoid landing in an inelegant heap, Elrohir grabbed Glorfindel by the hand 
and dragged him into the forest.  

Once they were sufficiently far away from camp, Elrohir turned and pulled 
his lover into a passionate kiss, wrapping one leg about him in case he had 
any idea of trying to leave.  After a moment, it became obvious that 
Glorfindel intended no such thing.  Elrohir looked at him with satisfaction 
when they came up for air.  "Now.  Where were we?"


TBC

Morier--dark one.
Beleger--Mighty one.
Nadorhuan--Cowardly dog.
Amin delotha lle--I hate you.
Amin hiraetha--I'm sorry.
Heruamin--My Lord.

Title: Wild Justice 23/?

*   *   *

Elrond was surrounded by a landscape that resembled a 
battlefield, but it was the strangest one he had ever seen.  
In a great, black emptiness, shattered pieces of what 
looked like glass were haphazardly scattered about, none of 
them whole.  A few stood on end and resembled full-length 
mirrors, only they were taller than his head and twice as 
broad as a mirror should be.  Cracks could be seen even in 
those, however, and most lay in broken piles, a ruin of a 
puzzle that defied anyone to sort it out.  But that, 
somehow, was precisely what he had to do.

Elrond had seen something like this odd scene before.  He 
had occasionally been called on to help in cases of mental 
illness or injury, and knew that the velvety darkness 
surrounding him was his mind's interpretation of its 
interaction with another individual's brain.  The memories 
were stored in mental projections that varied depending on 
the imagination and life experiences of the mind's owner.  
Most people envisioned huge chests of drawers or endless 
rows of boxes, but a few were more inventive.  Once he had 
been in an old human woman's mind, trying to help her 
remember the face of the person who had attacked her family 
and stolen most of their possessions; he had finally 
located the memory and coaxed it forth, and the man who was 
responsible was brought to justice.  Her mind had stored 
its memories in knitting baskets, with the strands of 
thought resembling the woolen yarn she had made into 
clothing for her family all her life.

Elrond still remembered kneeling for what had felt like 
hours, sorting though tangled strands of multicoloured wool 
in basket after basket, searching for the right one.  But 
that had been child's play compared with this.  At least 
the memories had all been whole; they were simply confused 
by her age and the strain of her recent experiences.  The 
knotted strands had all been there, all that was needed was 
the patience to unravel them.  This situation was far more 
serious.  Elrond had originally thought that, to restore 
the High King's memory would merely entail removing the 
blocks and painful suggestions implanted by the Nazgul; 
never had he imagined damage like this.

For a while he sorted through blackened shards, most 
reflecting nothing more than his own face back to him, 
whatever memories they once held now irretrievable.  
Finally he came across a large sliver that glinted with 
colour and movement.  Across its fractured surface he saw a 
ballroom filled with dancers, which he recognised 
immediately as the
main hall at the High King's court.  It took him a few 
minutes, but he was even able to place the scene--the 
lavish ball that had been given to welcome Lady Arenal to 
court.  Elrond could see her occasionally, a dark haired 
beauty with huge blue eyes, who danced as well as she 
seemingly did everything else.

She moved about the periphery of the scene, however, and 
the king's eyes did not linger on her despite the pretty 
picture she made.  He would have perhaps paid her more 
attention if he had known what was coming, doubtless they 
both would, but that night they had still lived in the 
comfortable illusion of stability.  They had thought that 
nothing could challenge their happiness, nothing could ever 
separate them.  Elrond marveled now, as his own laughing 
visage came into sight on the king's right, how carefree he 
had looked then, with no idea of the shock that awaited him 
the very next day.

As the High King was the last of the great Noldorin rulers, 
many of his counselors had long encouraged him to marry and 
produce an heir.  Elvin immortality had not saved his 
predecessors from meeting early deaths and there was no one 
to follow after him in direct succession.  Ties between the 
elvin peoples were fragile even with a strong ruler to 
unite them.  If his line should fail completely or a much 
younger, half-elvin successor be crowned, the resulting 
crisis in leadership could see the various groups in Lindon 
hopelessly divided, and their enemies would be quick to use 
the internal strife against them.  The king had nonetheless 
demurred, time and again refusing proposed alliances, 
until, unknown to him or to Elrond, his senior advisors 
took it upon themselves to solve the issue.  They believed 
that he could be persuaded to accept a bride if a suitable 
candidate was found and brought to court.  Such a one was 
located and the councilors did all they could to insure 
that this time, he could not turn her down.

Elrond shut his eyes, remembering the scene as clearly as 
if it had just occurred.  He had been awakened early the 
next morning by a message that the king wished to see him 
urgently.  That had been unusual and spoke of some crisis, 
for they were accustomed to meet after breakfast to deal 
with the day's paperwork in the library, and that was only 
a few hours away.  Elrond had thrown on some clothes and 
hastily made his way to the king's chambers where he found 
Gil-galad alone and pacing agitatedly about the room.  The 
sight had stunned him, for the king was rarely daunted by 
even the greatest of trials, and to see him visibly upset 
was almost unprecedented.

"They have betrothed me, Elrond!  Titton and Ithildin and 
the rest."  The king's dark blue robes swirled about him as 
he strode back and forth over the huge carpet of his 
private study.  They must have told him over breakfast, for 
he was only half dressed, with his velvet robe belted 
casually at the waist and his dark hair still mussed from 
sleep.  They had both been tired after the banquet and 
dancing, which courtesy required the king to see through to 
the end, and had not paused the previous evening for more 
than a quick kiss before going to their separate chambers.  
Elrond regretted that as he stood, listening to the story 
the king poured out in fits and starts, his usually crystal 
clear voice hoarse and strangely muffled.  He had wondered 
if they would ever be together again.

"The Lady Arenal--she is Sindarin as you know.  They sat 
there and praised her beauty and learning and family line, 
as if they were discussing some brood mare I was to 
purchase!  It was almost amusing, until they told me that 
they brought her here on the understanding that there is to 
be a betrothal!  They pompously informed me that the union 
will strengthen the ties between our two peoples, as well 
as provide me with an heir, and that they were so sure of 
my acceptance of my duty that there was no need to ask me 
beforehand!"  The king's voice shook on the last comment, 
and he abruptly sat, at the very table that his once 
trusted advisors had recently vacated.

"But, surely, they cannot force you to wed?"  Elrond's head 
had been spinning so that he could hardly manage a clear 
thought.

"Have you not heard me, Elrond?  Do your usually quick wits 
fail you?  They have issued the summons to court in my 
name!  Her family believes that I asked her here, that the 
idea of our union was mine!  Almost her entire clan came 
with her, all under the impression that they are soon to 
have a Sindarin queen.  Tell me, what do you think will 
happen if I refuse her now?  How much damage would turning 
down, and thereby publicly humiliating, a daughter of one 
of the great Sindarin houses do?"

Elrond had understood in that instant just how many horns 
were attached to the dilemma with which they had been 
presented.  To refuse her was impossible; it would, at 
best, do irreparable damage to Noldorin and Sindarin 
relations, and at worst . . . well, wars had started for 
less.  It would certainly be seen as an insult to her 
entire family, and was likely to appear a direct snub to 
all the Sindar.  To refuse the betrothal issued in his name 
would be tantamount to saying that the king considered the 
Sindar beneath him, and the already prickly Sindarin pride 
would never forget such a slight.

Elrond could only look at his king in mounting horror, an 
expression Gil-galad was quick to note.  Pouring him a cup 
of rapidly cooling tea, he pushed it across the table.  
"Sit, Elrond, drink something.  You should see yourself--
you look like a ghost.  I need your counsel, my friend, as 
rarely before.  It seems my other councilors are more 
devious than I ever supposed."

"But why would they do this?"  Elrond had looked at the cup 
blankly, but did not drink. It was impossible to 
concentrate on something so trivial when his world was 
fragmenting.

"The rumours, of course."  At his blank look, Gil-galad had 
sighed, and run a tired hand over his face.  Neither of 
them had been at their best, having just gone to sleep a 
few hours before.  "Oh, come, Elrond!  I know I have 
shielded you, but certainly you must have heard something!  
Our liaison is by no means universally known, but the 
council suspects.  They have proposed a number of matches 
for me before this, only to have me refuse them.  
Naturally, they would wonder why."

"They cannot know."  Elrond was sure of this; he and the 
king had been so careful, worried lest their affair damage 
his credibility as a Sindarin champion at court.  It had 
been difficult, never to so much as touch hands in public, 
but they had known the price of indiscretion and had put 
secrecy above all else.

"They don't need to KNOW," Gil-galad replied, drinking the 
tepid tea with a frown on his face.  "Suspicion is enough."  
He sighed, regarding his tea leaves morosely.  "This is 
partially my fault.  I preferred not to lie, so I gave them 
no reason for my refusals, except to say that marriage does 
not suit me at present.  I should have made something up . 
. . "

It was, they had agreed, a mute point at the moment.  The 
problem had been what to do about the issue.  Elrond could 
not remember if it had been he or the king who had first 
arrived at the obvious conclusion, but it had been decided 
even before breakfast was at an end that, since he could 
not refuse her, she must be convinced to refuse him.  
Elrond smiled ruefully at the memory of the High King, one 
of the most handsome and elegant of elves, going out of his 
way in the days that followed to be as unattractive, coarse 
and annoying as possible.  It had not worked.

The gaudy colours and mismatched attire did not seem to 
bother the Lady Arenal, no matter how outrageous were the 
ensembles the king and Elrond managed to devise.  His 
clumsiness--tripping over his own feet when entering a room 
or over hers when dancing, falling from his horse, even 
spilling a full glass of wine onto her lovely golden gown 
one night at dinner--was overlooked with indulgent smiles.  
"Either the lady is uncommonly forgiving," Gil-galad had 
ranted to Elrond a fortnight later, "or she wants the crown 
badly enough to put up with any number of antics from the 
clown who wears it!"

Elrond had not had the heart to inform his sovereign that, 
despite his best efforts, Gil-galad was still impressive.  
His carriage was regal, to the point that even his 
clumsiness almost looked elegant.  His sculpted features 
and, especially, those beautiful eyes, were enough to make 
even the ugliest of costumes attractive; indeed, his worst 
effort--a purple and orange tunic with fringe nearly a foot 
long--had even started a bit of a fashion craze among the 
younger, more adventurous elves at court, much to the 
king's dismay.  And despite his attempts to remember to be 
as discourteous as possible, Gil-galad's natural good 
manners and casual gallantry insured that his staged errors 
were shrugged off as minor flaws.

Elrond had lectured him unceasingly on how to appear less 
attractive, but they had both had to admit that it would 
likely take something far more than a wine stained dress or 
a few trodden toes to persuade Arenal to release her prize.  
In the end, pressured by his council on one side and the 
lady's relatives on the other, the king had had no choice 
but to agree to the betrothal being announced or risk 
insulting the lady.  She began assembling her trousseau and 
planning for the elaborate ceremony, while Elrond started 
spending much more time in the cellars, choosing the best 
possible vintages for his and the king's now nightly 
attempts at oblivion.

A flash of colour caught his eye and Elrond stooped and 
picked up a small shard at his feet, seeing reflected in 
its surface a single red flower around which a woman's hand 
was clenched so tightly as to mangle the fragile bloom.  He 
had no idea what it meant.  Another, larger piece nearby 
was positioned as if it might have come from the same 
mirror, yet it showed a completely different scene.  It 
looked faintly familiar, and Elrond carefully separated it 
from the bed of crushed, almost dust like fragments on 
which it lay.  Reflected on its surface was a dark sky 
dusted with stars, and, as he watched, shapes moved across 
the dim landscape.  He didn't need to see them clearly to 
know who they were; he remembered the night quite well.

Once the betrothal was made public, Elrond offered to go 
away from court, as Gil-galad was obviously disturbed by 
the thought of deliberately deceiving his future wife about 
their longstanding affair.  Elrond had thought that his 
offer would ease his king's mind, allowing him to focus his 
attentions on his prospective bride, but he had also hoped 
to find relief from his own growing sorrow.  Even though he 
knew it was only a political alliance, it became harder and 
harder to see Arenal about court and smile as if nothing 
could please him more than the upcoming nuptials.  His 
frustration, pain and, yes, he could admit it now, anger 
steadily mounted as that over-painted, overdressed wench 
pranced about the castle, seeming to be everywhere he was, 
laughing with her friends, flaunting her position, planning 
out her perfect life.  He knew now, of course, that she had 
probably been a perfectly nice young maid who had doubtless 
been given as little say in the marriage as the king, but 
then he had hated her.  One more day having to look at 
those sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks and he had really 
thought he might go mad and accidentally push the lady out 
a window.

The fact that she and the king looked so well together did 
not help.  As everyone was constantly commenting, their 
colouring was almost identical and their bearing equally 
regal.  A fitting royal couple they would make, he had 
thought at dinner a week after the betrothal announcement, 
as he stared into his plate of uneaten food and wondered 
how long it would be before he could flee the dining hall 
and, hopefully, the whole realm of Lindon.  Then he had 
received the note.  It had been a little thing, on thick 
cream parchment with golden letters, a tiny scrap with his 
name inscribed on the outside in the king's flowing script.  
So long ago, but he could see it now, as he often had in 
uneasy dreams.  Such a tiny thing, to cause the downfall of 
a realm . . .

But no, Elrond would not allow himself that comfortable 
lie.  It had not been the note, but his response to it, and 
his own weakness afterwards that had brought about such 
ruin. The message was simple, merely a request for a talk.  
He had supposed that Gil-galad must have noticed his silent 
suffering, and wished to say some words of comfort before 
granting his request for an extended leave.  He could see 
his own more youthful reflection in the shard of glass 
before him, see himself as the king had that night, as he 
sat, the note clenched tightly in his hand, biting his lip 
and trying to look unconcerned.  Elrond was surprised that 
he had been so very transparent--even at that age, he would 
have thought that he hadmore self-control--but his inner 
debate was clear for any to see.  He had not wanted to have 
a conversation that could only hold more grief, and would 
force him to wear the mask of indifference in private as 
well as in public.  But in the end, the thought of not 
making any farewell was too much to bear.

The palace was not, of course, particularly safe for a 
private conversation.  There were servants everywhere and 
one never knew what might not be overheard, especially 
lately. Every time Elrond turned around, it seemed that one 
of the king's councilors was there; indeed, they had given 
him so much extra work to do that he had barely even seen 
Gil-galad except at meals.  He scribbled a reply on the 
back of the note, suggesting that they meet in the apple 
orchard on the far edge of the palace grounds, near the 
small mill that ground the fruit into juice for vinegars, 
perfumes, and ciders.  The trees were blooming and their 
flowers provided a lacy canopy against the stars; it was a 
quiet bower where, he thought, their privacy would be 
assured, for who else would be walking the orchard in the 
middle of the night?

Elrond had barely arrived when the king stepped from the 
shadows.  They sat on a bench under the trailing blossoms 
as Elrond recited his carefully rehearsed speech.  It had 
been full of heartfelt wishes for the king's happiness, and 
for the bond between the divided colonies of elves that he 
would forge.  It was expressed, he had thought at the time, 
quite beautifully--completely without self-pity or weak 
pleas for some place for himself in the king's new life.  
The voice in which he spoke might have been a little flat, 
and somewhat tinted with bitterness whenever he spoke 
Arenal's name, but overall, Elrond had been proud of his 
calm, polished phrases. He had spent much of dinner 
thinking them up, and Gil-galad had seemed to appreciate 
them, sitting quietly as they fell onto the clear night air 
and making no attempt to interrupt.

Elrond saw himself now, in that little piece of mirror, as 
the king had that night, and was amazed at his 
transparency.  He had held himself too stiffly, although 
occasionally a small shiver broke across him, the skin of 
his face was too pale and dark circles showed under his 
eyes, their shadows elongated by the starlight.  Adept now 
at reading others, Elrond realised how easy it must have 
been for the king to see through him.  The pretty phrases 
he uttered were completely at odds with the pain in his 
eyes, which resolutely refused to meet those of the elf 
beside him.  Yet, with his usual courtesy, Gil-galad had 
allowed him to finish.  Then, without needing any of 
Elrond's elegantly crafted words, he destroyed the fragile 
grip his lover retained on his emotions with one simple 
query.  Placing a warm hand on Elrond's thigh, he merely 
asked, "Do you really want to leave?"

Elrond remembered feeling as if his heart would burst, so 
great was the strain involved in not throwing himself at 
the king, not crawling into his embrace and refusing ever 
to let go, but instead he had merely nodded.  Then he had 
made his great mistake.  All throughout his speech, he had 
looked out over the gardens, trying to separate himself 
from the words he was saying and the heart wrenching pain 
they caused.  He had been able to do it, to lie halfway 
effectively, as long as he did not look at the elf at his 
side.  He was able to refuse to think about the way he 
would feel at never seeing him again, or of being no more 
to him than any of the other courtiers who surrounded him 
daily but never knew his heart.  But looking into those 
wise blue eyes had caused that pretty facade to crack, and 
the abject misery that had consumed him over the past month 
showed clearly on his face.

The silence that fell between them then was heavy and dim 
like the shadows.  The king had not attempted to pull a 
declaration from him, but had offered no words of comfort 
either.  Instead, he had seemed pensive, his eyes searching 
the darkness as if looking for an answer to some unspoken 
question.  Elrond had managed, after some moments, to calm 
himself, and had planned to make his final farewells, 
gather what dignity he could, and exit what had become a 
very uncomfortable scene as quickly as possible.  But the 
king had not been willing to let him go so.  When Elrond 
tried to move back from his loose embrace, Gil-galad had 
tightened his grip on his counselor's thigh and frowned.  
"I mean so little to you, then, that you are content merely 
to walk away?"  Elrond had stared at him as if he had gone 
mad; "content" was hardly the word he would have used.  "I 
suppose it is better this way, then," the king continued, 
finally releasing him and standing, all in one swift 
motion.  "If your love is so cowardly, then I have to 
wonder if it was ever, in truth, love at all."

Elrond had stared up at the towering form above him.  Gil-
galad.  It meant star of radiance, and that was what he had 
always been to him; from the moment they met, he was his 
shining light, the joy of his life, the first person he 
thought of every morning and the one who occupied his 
dreams at night.  Even in the darkened garden, he was 
luminescent; the stars above in the cloudless sky were a 
pale reflection at best.  Elrond thought they should have 
been named after him, not the other way around.  He had 
watched in misery as his lover prepared to casually walk 
out of his life, taking with him all its pleasure.  That 
was bad enough, but for him to imply that they had never 
had much of a relationship in the first place, that 
Elrond's love had been only a feeble thing that was easily 
put aside--it was too much.  Elrond had surged to his feet 
and, without thinking, pulled the king into a passionate 
kiss.  Into it he poured all his love, his longing, and the 
grief he felt at the collapse of something he had believed 
would last forever.  Let him know the price Elrond would 
pay for this alliance, he had thought then, let him see 
that cooperation between their peoples was bought with his 
heart's blood.

The king had returned his embrace for a brief moment, then 
knelt, pulling Elrond to the ground with him.  He had a 
choice then--get up and walk away, as his duty and every 
ethical code he had ever followed required, or stay and 
have one last, beautiful memory to take away with him.  The 
brilliance of the eyes before him had made the decision; he 
had not even had to give it conscious thought.  He could 
still remember the way the sweet scent of the blossoms hung 
in the air, and how the earth had been strangely warm 
beneath him as the cool night breezes caressed his face.  
His king's lips descended on his, rougher than usual, full 
of unspoken hunger, and Elrond had given himself over to 
what he believed would be their last time together.

He had intended it to be more loving than sensual--a 
beautiful, lyrical farewell--but all his suppressed 
feelings erupted into a passionate reaction such as he had 
never before dared with his king.  Gil-galad had always let 
him take the lead, but Elrond had been ever conscious of 
the difference in their status, of the need to please his 
lord even as he mastered him.  For the first time, he felt 
none of that; some part of him decided, without bothering 
to consult his higher emotions, that if this was truly 
their last time, then let there be no restraint.  He 
quickly pushed the king onto his back, hands finding his 
wrists and pressing them into the soft earth below them, 
sliding along his whole length as he took control of the 
kiss, deepened it, and made sure that he showed the king 
just how much he had been holding back until now.  He 
undulated against him, and the friction of the silk and 
velvet of their robes was more sensual than even bare skin 
would have been.  The air in his lungs was fire, making 
speech impossible, but why would he need to talk now?  In 
his king's eyes was love and wonder and all he needed to 
know, while Elrond let his body say for him all the things 
his lips could not.

Elrond smiled now, watching the images from that long ago 
tryst with tears in his eyes.  He wondered how he had ever 
allowed himself to believe that he controlled their 
relationship when it was obvious that his lover had led him 
so easily.  His younger self had clung to the king as a 
drowning victim does a life line, licking his neck, biting 
his earlobes, nuzzling his throat, all the while writhing 
under the touch that played his responses like a master 
musician does his favourite instrument.  When Elrond 
fumbled with his robes, those experienced hands helped him 
remove them; when his desperation caused him to become 
clumsy, the king slowed him down in the most pleasurable 
way possible, bestowing soft kisses on his forehead, 
eyelids, cheeks, and throat before moving lower.  As the 
king's lips moved down the smooth expanse of his chest, 
resting briefly on the ripples of his abdominal muscles, 
then at the dimple of his navel, Elrond shuddered and tried 
to hold on to his composure, but he had quickly lost the 
battle.  Pulling his lover into a tight embrace, he buried 
his face in Gil-galad's neck, feeling the steady thrum of 
his lover's pulse against his cheek, and tried to make 
himself believe that this would never end.

It was strange, Elrond thought now, watching their love 
making through the king's eyes, how much he had never 
noticed about himself.  The way his pupils expanded in his 
need, the soft, yearning moans he made as his tongue tasted 
the warm flesh of his lover's throat, the long, slow 
shudder that racked him when the king stroked him, those 
strong fingers wrapping so knowingly about his flesh.  
Elrond could almost feel it all again, his pulse beating 
harder under that hand, his entire world narrowing to the 
sound of his breathing and the dizzying intoxication of his 
familiar scent.  The king had smiled as he noticed the hot 
hardness pressing against his thigh and the way his lover 
was thrusting slightly against him.  Elrond remembered with 
perfect clarity the blazing heat that had built within him, 
driving him towards release, and how badly he had wanted to 
be inside his king when he came.  Without a word being 
said, with no other communication needed between them, Gil-
galad had slightly spread his legs and Elrond moved between 
them.

He remembered now that it had all seemed a little too 
intense, almost frightening, as if he was trying to push 
all the futures that would never be into one, perfect 
moment.  It was better than he might have expected under 
the circumstances, despite the sense of urgency that made 
him clumsy and a bit frantic, to the point that he finished 
far earlier than he'd intended.  The king had not seemed to 
mind, but held him close afterwards, his fingers smoothing 
his lover's messy hair as he gently kissed him.  Elrond had 
known in that instant that he would never give him up--not 
for any price, not even for a peace that might last for all 
the ages to come.  It had been weak and selfish and 
supremely foolish, but he knew in his heart that, given the 
chance to go back, he would make the same choice all over 
again.

"Am I to take it that you do not wish to leave me after 
all?," Gil-galad had asked, and Elrond would have felt 
proud of how breathless the king's voice was, except that 
he was too overwhelmed himself to comment.

As it was, he never had an opportunity, for Arenal suddenly 
stepped into the glade, the dim starlight insufficient to 
allow her features to be clearly seen, but the venom in her 
tone was more than enough to lend force to her words.  
"Since you are so happy with one another, don't let me 
interfere," and she pulled the ring from her finger and 
threw it on the ground.  Elrond twisted Vilya on his hand 
now, remembering how it had been bestowed on him much later 
for a different purpose; he had no idea what had happened 
to that other ring--it had not been needed, for his 
relationship with the king transcended such things.  Arenal 
had turned and left, not hurrying, and Elrond had to admit 
that she had been queenly in her bearing even then.  He had 
not noticed the flower she held and must have mangled as 
she watched them, but apparently Gil-galad had been more 
observant.  Staring at the images on the memory shard, 
Elrond realised that the king had known she was there all 
along.

It was easy to see now that Elrond thought about it, 
although at the time it had not been so clear.  Betrothals 
are not lightly made between the Eldar and are difficult to 
break.  Once his counselors proposed the marriage, it would 
have been difficult for the king to refuse it without 
giving a valid reason.  Arenal was of faultless bloodline 
and unimpeachable breeding, how then could she be said to 
be an unacceptable queen?  Unable to refuse the match 
without dragging Elrond into what was certain to be a very 
ugly situation, the king had managed the matter in his 
usual understated way, by allowing the lady the chance to 
see for herself that this would be no love match, and why.  
If she still wanted the name and title, perhaps the 
marriage could be completed after all, with the 
understanding that Elrond would remain at his side.  If 
not, then she had the chance to break it off, and he had 
apparently understood her enough to know that she would be 
too proud to give the real reason.  To be replaced by 
anyone would be embarrassing, but by a male, and not even a 
full elf at that?

Arenal had indeed said nothing of it, merely commenting 
that she found the king not to her liking.  That there was 
more to it than that had been obvious to all, however, and 
the old rumours about Gil-galad and his young advisor had 
surfaced once again.  Never thereafter had his counselors 
suggested another match, but it also soon became apparent 
that the aborted marriage had weakened the ties between the 
two great elvish hosts.  Thinking on it now from the 
comfortable distance of centuries, Elrond supposed it 
should have been obvious that such would be the case.  But 
then, they had been so hopeful that all could be smoothed 
over, that the sundering of two individuals who had, after 
all, never truly been joined, did not have to mean the 
parting of their peoples as well.  Yet the Sindar had, 
under various leaders, started to drift away shortly 
thereafter, many under the command of Arenal's cousin 
Oropher, and no argument had been enough to prevent it.

Elrond felt himself weakening with the huge effort required 
to maintain the link between him and the king.  He looked 
about the wreckage of what had once been a great mind, and 
sighed in hopelessness.  How could this amount of damage 
ever be repaired?  And yet, somehow he must manage it.  At 
present the king was little better than a newborn. His 
concentration wandered aimlessly, making the smallest 
mental task a great hurdle.  Elrond could not bear seeing 
one who had once planned entire campaigns, down to the 
merest detail, with consummate ease, who had been able to 
recite whole scrolls of ancient knowledge from memory 
alone, who rarely bothered to look up a fact because his 
mind was far better than any library, now nothing but a 
ruined shell.  They had weathered much in their long 
attachment; this, too, somehow they would conquer.  He had 
meant what he had said in his heart that night--he would 
never let him go.


TBC



Title: Wild Justice 24/?

*   *   *

Haldir lay against the soft pillows of his bed, in a room 
filled with light and the fresh scent of flowers from a 
vine the wind kept blowing in the open window.  Despite the 
fact that he had just spent a passionate night with his 
lover, had an excellent breakfast, and been informed by 
Lord Elrond thereafter that he would likely be up and 
walking within a week, a deep frown was etched onto his 
features.  There was no reason for his bad mood, except for 
the alarming possibility that had occurred to him only a 
few moments before.

Lord Elrond had requested at the end of his examination 
that Gildor leave Haldir alone for a few hours so that he 
might get some sleep.  Gildor had acquiesced, walking out 
of the room at Lord Elrond's side after unselfconsciously 
kissing his lover goodbye.  Haldir had fully intended to 
get the recommended rest, for he was tired and the bitter 
liquid Lord Elrond gave him had induced drowsiness almost 
immediately.  However, he did not sleep.  Instead, he was 
halfway to the door of his room before he even realised it, 
and only woke out of his trance when his weak ankle 
suddenly gave out under him.  He managed to get back to bed 
without further incident, but had been sitting there, 
staring at the door with a frown on his face, ever since.

He had never had anything like that happen before.  It was 
almost as if Gildor had pulled him along via some unseen 
cord, drawing him with no apparent effort, rather as if he 
was a dog on a leash!  Haldir had seen enough hapless 
victims to know what this very unsettling experience meant, 
and he was appalled.  Being fond of Gildor was one thing--
even, he admitted it, being excessively fond--but this!  No 
one controlled Haldir of Lorien.  He remained in charge of 
all his relationships, unless he chose to submit for a 
brief period as he had with Lord Elrond.  But even then, he 
always knew what he was doing and was in full possession of 
his faculties.  For someone who had laughed at moonstruck, 
starry-eyed elves, who followed the object of their 
affection around with no concern whatsoever for their 
dignity, the fact that he had just acted no better was 
enough to make him seriously re-evaluate his relationship.

Something Rumil had laughingly said a few days before came 
back to him, and Haldir wondered if perhaps he had 
misunderstood his brother's meaning.  Pulling the bell cord 
beside his bed, he determined to find out if he had 
unknowingly become the laughing stock of Lorien.  Rumil 
arrived a few minutes later, and Haldir gave him no chance 
to avoid the issue.  "Who do you think controls my 
relationship with Gildor?"

"What?"  Rumil looked at him quizzically, balancing a 
silver tray in his hands.  On it was a carafe of water, a 
glass and a bunch of elanor, their dark green stems wrapped 
in a yellow bow.

"You heard me.  I want an answer, brother."

Rumil put the tray on the table beside Haldir's bed and 
placed a hand on his brow.  "Are you feverish?"

Haldir caught his arm and glared at him.  "I want to know.  
Who is it--Gildor or myself?"  Rumil's shifty expression 
was enough of an answer for Haldir, who dropped his 
brother's wrist and collapsed back against the pillows, 
stricken.  "By Elbereth!  This cannot continue!"

Rumil sighed and looked at him with exasperation.  "You 
have a lover who adores you and who you obviously adore.  
Many would feel themselves extremely fortunate to be in 
your position.  Why are you so concerned about such a small 
thing?"

"It is not a small thing!  I will be owned by no one!"

"He doesn't own you.  And, anyway, love means giving up a 
certain amount of control to another, there is no way 
around it."  Rumil put the elanor in a vase, tossing out 
the other flowers, which had wilted.  "Gildor asked me to 
bring you these.  He knows you like them."

"I never gave up any control in my past relationships!  I 
stayed or left as I liked, and acted any way I chose.  This 
will be no different!"

Rumil looked at him archly.  "Your other relationships had 
the staying power of a few weeks at best.  Gildor plans to 
be around for a good deal longer than that, it seems to 
me."

"And I suppose I have no say in the matter?"

Rumil shrugged.  "I grow bored with this topic, brother.  
Shouldn't you be saying these things to him?  Although I 
would wait until I'd calmed a bit, if I were you."  Rumil 
tucked the sheet around his brother's neck and smiled down 
at the sleepy form below him. "Rest, and things may seem 
brighter when you awake."

"I will talk to him tonight," Haldir declared.

He heard the smile in Rumil's voice even as he drifted off 
to sleep.  "That should be an interesting conversation."

*   *   *

"We are ready to depart, my lord."  Erestor glanced up at 
the elf addressing Thranduil.   He had once been a member 
of Elrond's special guard, known then as Tuor of Imladris.  
As a result of Glorfindel's unorthodox gift to the king 
five hundred years ago, he was now Tuor of Mirkwood.

Thranduil, to Erestor's surprise, looked amused rather than 
annoyed.  He also managed to seem his usual collected self, 
despite being shoved up against a tree by an enraged 
Peredhil only a few moments earlier.  Erestor supposed 
that, sooner or later, he would learn to stop 
underestimating the king.  "Ah, Tuor.  No, I think we shall 
be . . . delaying . . . our approach to the mines 
somewhat."

Tuor nodded, but instead of going back to inform the 
others, he lingered.  Something in his expression seemed a 
bit off to Erestor, who watched him without seeming to as 
Lord Celeborn laughingly asked Thranduil why he did not 
simply go fetch their missing members.

Thranduil lifted a blond brow and turned his clear green 
gaze on the Lord of Lorien.  "Walk into a wood and disrupt 
the, er, activities, of the only two living balrog 
slayers?"  He smiled, showing large white teeth.  "I think 
not.  Perhaps we will just wait until they choose to rejoin 
us!"

Erestor was not surprised to see Tuor look confused, as to 
him the remark must have seemed strange at the least.  Yet 
another expression swiftly followed the confusion, one that 
caught Erestor's interest.  "Excuse me, my lord, but how 
long shall I tell the troops we are to be delayed?"  The 
elf's words were reasonable enough, and spoken in an 
appropriately light tone of voice, but his eyes showed more 
concern than they should have over something so trivial.  
For a brief moment, he looked almost fearful.

Thranduil stretched and seemed unconcerned; apparently he 
had noticed nothing amiss.  "I don't have any idea.  Tell 
your troops to use the reprieve to further their rest or to 
practice their techniques; but see that a proper guard 
remains in place.  I don't want anyone sneaking up on us."

Tuor saluted smartly and left.  Erestor gave him a few 
seconds head start, then melted into the forest after him.

*   *   *

Glorfindel watched Elrohir carefully, not sure exactly how 
much his lover had remembered.  His expression when 
threatening Thranduil had been reminiscent of his 
battlefield mien, and his evident ability to take charge of 
their current activities was certainly different from his 
usual docile acceptance of Glorfindel's lead.  However, he 
had said nothing to indicate much one way or the other, and 
Glorfindel was wary of causing him harm by bringing the 
subject up.  He was also finding it difficult to analyse 
the situation with Elrohir pressing him down onto the 
forest floor and stripping off his clothing.

"I have waited patiently for you, lirimaer, but no more.  I 
was tolerant while you played with the king, flirted with 
him for no reason, and tortured me.  But my forbearance is 
not endless and now you WILL pay."  Elrohir tugged the last 
of Glorfindel's clothes away and tossed them across the 
clearing.  "You are mine, have always been mine, and always 
shall be," he added fiercely, straddling Glorfindel's 
thighs and trapping him against the warmth of his body.

The whole scene reminded Glorfindel vividly of the incident 
on the beach the first time they met.  He thought that 
might have been the moment he fell in love with the 
maddening Sindar, even though he had certainly not been 
ready to admit it then, not even to himself.  However, he 
had not been able to get the image out of his mind all day 
long, and he had galloped back to the palace with his head 
spinning.  Who was the outrageous creature who would dare 
assault him, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, recently made 
head of one of the greatest Noldorin families after his 
father returned to the West?  He might be young, but he was 
certainly no one to be treated with such easy contempt!

But no, he had to admit, in truth there had been no 
contempt in the stranger's gaze, although many other 
emotions--surprise, admiration, lust and something else he 
could not name--had been evident.  Glorfindel had felt 
strangely as if he should know this one, even though they 
had certainly never before met.  He would have remembered 
those mocking grey eyes, delighted laugh and easy manner no 
matter where he encountered them.  The stranger had made 
him angry and confused, as well as ashamed of how easily 
his body responded.  But by all the gods, who could have 
looked on him, so perfect and so unconsciously seductive, 
and not felt drawn to him?

Glorfindel had told himself that he was undoubtedly just 
concerned over the upcoming battle, and had let his 
emotions get out of control.  Certainly the elf was 
attractive--unnervingly so in fact--but that was no excuse 
for losing his dignity along with most of his clothing to 
him in the space of a few minutes!  He was nonetheless 
unable to keep himself from asking a number of people about 
the strange elf, who roamed about the countryside as if he 
owned it, and somehow managed to seem more intimidating 
while practically nude with bits of grass in his hair, than 
Glorfindel had felt properly attired and seated atop his 
horse.  No one seemed to know who he might be, however, nor 
were they very interested in the question.  Glorfindel was 
laughingly assured that all the Sindar were half barbarians 
anyway--although most did wear clothes!

He had been unable to stop thinking about him, however, and 
the image of those knowing dark eyes had remained in his 
mind while he readied himself for the evening's ceremony.  
He had been very puzzled, for that one brief encounter 
threatened to overturn all that he thought he knew about 
the Sindar.  Glorfindel had always accepted the common 
attitude among the Noldor that any elves who had not seen 
the light of the Two Trees must be inferior, less 
enlightened and not quite civilized.  Surely they were less 
wise and more given to outbursts of emotion, less in touch 
with the will of the Valar and more childlike in their 
attitudes.  He had met few Sindar, as, although they had 
accepted Turgon as their king in Nevrast, it was primarily 
because a mediator was needed in the constant family 
bickering that went on among the leading houses.  The two 
communities had afterwards shared a sovereign, but stayed 
largely separate.  Only a few Sindar nobles were regularly 
seen at court, and they had tended to bear out the Noldorin 
attitudes--they were haughty, easily offended, and seemed 
more sly and cunning than wise.  Glorfindel had been 
content to have little to do with them, keeping solely to 
his Noldorin friends.

But now there was this annoying, stunning, completely 
unsettling Sindar who did not seem to understand the 
situation.  He should have been honoured to be addressed by 
a noble and a Noldoran one at that!  He should have 
apologised profusely for upsetting his horse and disturbing 
his ride.  Instead, he had acted as if Glorfindel should be 
honoured to meet HIM, and then stole his sash and his horse 
in an amazing show of effrontery and no small skill.  No 
one else could ride Fain, had never been able to do so.  He 
allowed one rider on his back only, which was how 
Glorfindel had acquired him several years before.  He was a 
magnificent animal, but useless to his previous owner, who 
could not stay on his back for more than a few seconds.  So 
it had been with utter shock that Glorfindel saw the 
barbarian leap onto Fain and ride off, having apparently no 
trouble at all controlling him.

He had further confused Glorfindel by proving that he could 
as easily master him as his horse, then had totally 
flummoxed him by letting him go, even though it had been 
obvious that he desired him.  The elf seemingly took no 
offense at being called a barbarian, but he had not acted 
the part.  Glorfindel could not understand why he behaved 
in such a contradictory manner, and was secretly almost 
disappointed when the Sindar let his noble impulses win 
out.  He could not decide whether to be grateful to him for 
releasing him--for the experience had become truly 
frightening when Glorfindel realised that he simply could 
not move unless the other elf permitted it--or angry for 
arousing him with so little effort.  He had still been 
puzzling over that when he went to collect Lord Ecthelion.

Glorfindel smiled in memory of how the glorious figure on 
the balcony had made him catch his breath in wonder.  He 
had taken several seconds to realise that the face--the 
smug, smiling face--of the vision before him was the same 
as that of the infuriating elf from the hideously 
embarrassing experience earlier in the day.  Glorfindel had 
momentarily thought about simply turning and walking away, 
but then the elf's servant had closed the door behind him 
and he had recalled that he had a duty to face, no matter 
how unpleasant of one.

Only it hadn't proven unpleasant.  The gorgeous elf he had 
to escort proved to have equally pretty manners when he 
chose to exhibit them, and the way he was greeted by the 
droves of Sindarin elves who had arrived for the ceremony 
showed that he had quite a reputation; Glorfindel assumed 
it was for something other than seducing strangers.  He had 
again felt almost disappointed when the elf--no, he 
supposed he must remember to refer to him as Lord 
Ecthelion--was dragged away by his friends and well wishers 
for a celebration almost as soon as the ceremony was 
completed.  Glorfindel had dodged his own friends, wanting 
to be alone with his thoughts, and had soon sought out his 
favourite spot high on the hill overlooking the palace.

It had been a beautiful night, but the starlight was not 
soothing to his tattered nerves.  The longer he sat there, 
the more concerned he became.  Being leader of his house 
meant more than acting a part at ceremonies.  It was also 
an administrative and, in times of war, a military 
position.  He would not only be expected to fight well in 
the upcoming battle, but would also have to direct his 
elves, something he had never before done.  There would, of 
course, be experienced commanders there, but he had the 
definite impression that, in the midst of battle, plans 
might well have to be changed at a moment's notice, and one 
mistake could cost many lives.  He had been lost in his 
reverie when Ecthelion found him, and it had amazed him how 
nonchalant the older elf seemed about the battle.  Indeed, 
the fact that his armor was uncomfortable had seemed to 
upset him more than the thought of facing the hordes of 
Morgoth!  Glorfindel had envied him his easy calm, and had 
found, for the first time that night, a measure of peace in 
his company.  Following him back to his rooms had almost 
seemed inevitable.

Now, as Elrohir began to claim him as he'd promised, 
Glorfindel could not help but make comparisons with that 
other joining.  Ecthelion had been an ardent yet gentle 
lover, at least until their shared passion overcame them 
and they both lost control.  Glorfindel had later wondered 
why that first encounter had been so intense, and had 
finally settled on the idea that desperation had played a 
part, namely the knowledge that his first time might also 
be his last.  But of course it had not been--the battle had 
gone well, with Ecthelion lending him much needed support 
yet managing to be subtle about it, and they had ended up 
fighting side by side before the end.  Their one night 
together had turned into two, for of course the victory had 
to be celebrated, and then three, to commemorate returning 
safely to Nevrast, and then four just because they both 
wanted it . . . in the end, the thrill of being together 
had never stopped.

Now Glorfindel wondered if he had known all along that 
there was something special between them, even that first 
time.  There had been others in the long years alone, and 
many had been passionate and skilled, but it had never felt 
like this with anyone else.
He was so caught up in the joy of finally having his love 
back in his arms, that he did not notice they were under 
attack until the battle horns sounded their cry across the 
forest.

*   *   *

Thranduil never knew what happened to the sentries.  They 
should have given warning, but the first he knew of the 
attack was the landing of an orcish arrow a hair's breadth 
from his head.  Before it had fully penetrated the oak's 
wood, he had his first arrow nocked and a second later had 
taken down his attacker.  He soon emptied his quiver as a 
flood of the foul creatures burst across the clearing, but 
did not look for another as they were already upon him.  
Hand to hand fighting with his knives was something 
Thranduil had not done, other than in practice sessions, in 
hundreds of years, but that sort of skill was never really 
lost.  The old familiar sensation of battle excitement 
filled his veins, and dropping into a suitable trance was 
as easy as breathing.

He noticed Celeborn run up the almost perpendicular side of 
a tree as easily as if it had been lying flat, and grinned.  
His Sindar blood was showing; Thranduil made a mental note 
to tease him about it later, for none of the Noldor with 
whom the Lord of Lorien was so closely allied could have 
copied that particular maneuver.   No, Thranduil smiled as 
he grabbed hold of a large limb and then let it bounce 
back, slamming two orcs to the ground as it did so, and 
making them easy prey for his flashing knives, the Noldor 
simply did not have the same attachment to Arda that the 
Sindar possessed.  Galadriel would have had a hard time 
with the elves of the Golden Wood, whose Silvan attachment 
to the trees in which they lived was foreign and 
incomprehensible to her.  Luckily, she had shown the good 
taste to wed a Sindarin lord rather than another Noldor, 
and had bought by it acceptance she would not have received 
otherwise.

Celeborn had emptied his quiver and, from his high perch, 
was unable to easily obtain another, so Thranduil paused 
for long enough to toss him one from their now abandoned 
packs.  He received a jaunty wave in thanks, before the 
deadly rain of arrows from above resumed.  Thranduil 
continued to enjoy himself, cleaving orcs left and right, 
but he also kept an eye on the battlefield as he did so--at 
least what was visible through the thick growth of trees.  
This was not, he quickly realised, an ideal position from 
which to fight a prolonged battle.  The trees were too 
thick to allow him to properly see the number or 
disposition of the enemy, and to thereby form a decent 
strategy.  The number of their attackers also worried him.  
Orcs habitually raided in small parties, usually of no more 
than a hundred and often less than that.  He knew, of 
course, that a much larger party had assaulted the Lorien 
contingent a few days before, but that was before his group 
of archers had joined them.  Even orcs had scouts; and no 
orcish patrol had ever attacked a group of over six hundred 
elvish warriors--it would be suicide.  The creatures 
preferred to vastly outnumber their prey, especially when 
going against elves.  They were raiders and thieves, 
bandits and bullies, who fled any chance of a fair fight.  
The only exception to that had been when those orcs were 
under the leadership of a power they feared far more than 
the elves, such as at Barad-dur.

That was not a thought that brought Thranduil any comfort.  
He glanced upwards as his knives caught an orc head between 
them and sliced it off, the blades meeting in the middle of 
the creature's neck to ring dully against each other.  
Celeborn had acquired a helper in the form of one of the 
Galadrim, and there were now several quivers of extra 
arrows lodged nearby in the fork of the limb on which they 
stood.  Yet Celeborn did not look pleased.  Thranduil had 
never seen that particular expression on his usually 
impassive features.  Little managed to rattle the Lorien 
lord, but he was certainly looking stunned by something 
now.  Deciding to judge for himself, Thranduil grasped hold 
of the lowest tree limb, then pushed off from the ground, 
stepping on an orc's shoulders for added purchase as he did 
so.

A few seconds later and he stood beside Celeborn, who 
continued to nock and fire arrows almost automatically 
despite the savage expression on his face.  Thranduil never 
had the chance to ask him what the problem was, for he 
glanced out over the battlefield only to see for himself.  
The hills that showed above the treetops were black with 
orcs, a countless, surging mass unlike any he had seen 
since the Last Alliance.  It was virtually impossible to 
even discern any green on the hillsides for the writhing, 
jostling hoard that covered it.  Elves battled well 
everywhere he looked, but none could stand against such 
numbers for long.  He had not really believed there were 
that many orcs in all of Middle Earth!  All the way back to 
the mountains they spread, a dirty black cloud that covered 
the good and pure with their stench.  This was about more 
than a few elves, of that there was no longer a question.  
There was no argument to be made over something else 
either.

Grabbing the horn from the Galadrim's waist, Thranduil 
lifted it to his lips.  Celeborn's eyes narrowed in 
distaste, but he said nothing.  He, too, had fought often 
enough in the past to recognise inevitability now.  Instead 
of the battle call that had played earlier, Thranduil 
prepared to form notes he had not heard since Sauron's 
forces swept over his father's in the marshes, leaving most 
of the Sindarin host dead on the ground.  The call had not 
been heard by elvin ears for hundreds of years, but he knew 
all would know what it meant.  Forcing back his distaste, 
Thranduil signaled the call for retreat.

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 25/?

*   *   *

Elwyyda nudged open the door to Lord Elrond's room with her 
foot, and edged inside.  The heavy tray she carried was 
loaded down with food and wine, and she intended to see 
that every bit of it was consumed before she left.  It was 
just as well that her other patients seemed to be 
improving, for their healer was himself in need of aid, but 
everyone else was too much in awe of him to do anything 
about it.

Elwyyda had noticed, when she made her now daily visits to 
Zirak, that Lord Elrond was ALWAYS there.  It didn't matter 
when she dropped by--early morning to middle of the night--
the healer was either sitting beside Zirak's bed holding 
his hand, or else taking him to the baths, or feeding him, 
or reading to him from one of the huge historical tomes 
Lord Elrond seemed to prefer.  It greatly annoyed Elwyyda.

At first, she had simply been upset because she could never 
manage to see her friend alone.  As the days passed, 
however, she became steadily more concerned over the 
deteriorating state of Lord Elrond's health.  She might not 
be a healer, but even she knew you had to eat sometime, and 
rest occasionally, if you were to remain functional.  
Elrond had started to take on a slightly feverish air 
similar to those who had been long in the mines, deprived 
of good food and fresh air.  Elwyyda had started leaving 
his window open, to try to aid with the latter at least, 
and when he asked why, she simply replied that Zirak 
preferred it that way.  That had been that, and her 
supposed knowledge of Zirak's wants had enabled her 
thereafter to persuade Lord Elrond to modify his behaviour 
somewhat.  However, it did not escape her notice that, 
although Zirak was beginning to look better--his eyes were 
brighter and some colour was blooming in his cheeks for the 
first time since she'd known him, Lord Elrond was steadily 
weakening.

Elwyyda sat the tray on the bedside table and observed the 
two figures curled up together on the great bed.  At first 
she was pleased, for both seemed asleep, and since it was 
mid-morning that was a sign that perhaps they'd had a 
decent night's rest for once.  But she became concerned 
when neither stirred, even though she had made no effort to 
be quiet when setting down the tray.  She coughed, to let 
them know that breakfast had arrived, but still there was 
no response.  She briefly thought about going to get help, 
as their stillness was becoming worrying, but the haughty 
servants who ran this household had done nothing to earn 
her trust.  Deciding to be a little more forward, she 
reached out a hand to tug at Lord Elrond's sleeve, and an 
instant later the room fell away.

*   *   *

The minute the orcs came pouring through the forest, 
Glorfindel knew what he was seeing.  Not just an attack--
THE attack, the one Vairë had shown him all those centuries 
before.  He had not been able to tell Thranduil and 
Celeborn about it, as he did not know when it was destined 
to occur and he would not risk altering the future in any 
way.  Things had to go as they were meant to do--at least 
up to a point--or he had no chance of changing the one 
point that mattered.  It pained him greatly to think that 
the scene shown in Vairë's tapestry had to take place just 
as he and Elrohir were once again back together; he had 
hoped for a few years at least . . .

Glorfindel had not spared much time to worry about his 
lover when Gondolin fell.  He had been frantic to find the 
princess and get her safely away, and with the chaos, noise 
and frenzied crowds, he had had little time even to think 
about Ecthelion until he saw him fall.  Until then, 
Glorfindel had honestly believed that nothing could hurt 
his lover.  Ecthelion had always been larger than life and 
supremely confident--and experience in battle had shown 
that he had every reason to be.   But that day had proven 
that even the greatest of warriors can die, if the odds are 
sufficiently against them.  Glorfindel had seen his lover 
do so not once, but twice: on the day they lost Gondolin 
and in the scene from Vairë's tapestry.  But Lord Ulmo 
himself had said it--the past is just the future decided.  
He had not understood that at the time, but in the 
centuries since he had given it much thought.  What he 
hoped Ulmo meant was that everything remains in flux until 
it actually occurs.  He had seen Elrond die in a future 
that, thanks to Ulmo's interference and his own refusal to 
leave Elrond's side at Barad-dur, had not happened.  
Likewise, he was determined that the future Vairë had shown 
him would be proven a lie.

As a tide of orcs burst into the glade, Glorfindel made 
sure to stay alongside Elrohir.  It was almost like the old 
days--fighting back to back as they once had done against 
Morgoth.  But the orcs were not Glorfindel's primary 
concern.  He fought them off with only part of his mind, 
while keeping a sharp eye out for the sneak attack he knew 
was coming.  A large orc appeared to his right, just as 
Glorfindel was holding off two others with his knives.  
Elrohir swung about to face the new attacker, forcing 
Glorfindel to have to move several paces to the left.  He 
ran an orc through with one of his knives, and was so busy 
trying to slip his other weapon past the second creature's 
guard that he almost failed to see prophecy come true, even 
with his forewarning.

A flash of green came from the right, heading straight for 
Elrohir.  Glorfindel knew what it was without having to see 
it distinctly--he had been expecting it.  The last time he 
had seen the great spear, large enough around to skewer a 
wild pig or, in this case, an elf, it had been sticking out 
of his lover's back in Vairë's weaving.  Glorfindel had 
only a split second to intercept it, so he pushed the orc 
he was battling into the path of the weapon.  The spear was 
traveling with such velocity that it passed completely 
through the creature, who looked down at his punctured 
abdomen with an air of surprise, and then continued on to 
tear through Glorfindel's side.

He and the orc tumbled to the ground together, momentarily 
attached by the spear, but Glorfindel quickly pushed it 
back out of his body and finished the goblin with a cut 
across its throat.  He judged his own wound to be severe, 
but not under most circumstances life threatening.  A glade 
filled with orcs is not, however, most circumstances, and 
he knew he was in trouble.  He did not know who the hidden 
assassin was, or if he had any more great spears with him, 
he only knew that he had to protect Elrohir at all cost.  
Just then, a sound he had never thought to hear echoed 
across the forest, and, insanely, the battle in the glade 
stopped momentarily as all paused to listen.  Elrohir 
looked as stunned as Glorfindel knew he himself must--the 
sound was an elvin horn calling for full retreat.

"What is it?  What is happening?"  Elrohir looked confused, 
as if he could not quite believe what his ears were 
hearing.  Then he saw Glorfindel's tunic, rapidly changing 
colour from bright green to deep red.  "You're injured!"

The orcs seemed to realise this at the same moment, and the 
fight resumed in earnest.  Glorfindel could feel himself 
weakening, and although he was taking out a large number of 
their attackers, he would not be able to continue this pace 
for long.  Yet the orcs just kept coming, even though he 
had the impression that the ones they were dealing with 
were just a small part of the whole, for they had gone a 
good way from camp earlier.  If the main elvish host was 
the point of the attack, how many must they be facing?  No 
wonder a retreat had been called!  Still, the battle was up 
to Lord Celeborn and the king to direct, and he had no 
doubts of their ability; his sole concern was Elrohir's 
safety.

Elrohir had always had the Sindarin attachment to the 
natural world, and Glorfindel hoped if he could get him 
into the trees, he could make his escape over the roof of 
the forest.  He managed to slowly move them across the 
glade to the roots of a large tree, which had limbs that 
spread out, touching those of many others around it.  
"Climb up, quickly!"

Elrohir nodded and scrambled up the straight trunk almost 
as easily as if he had had one of the Galadrim's ladders to 
help him.  "Give me your hand!," he shouted down, after 
reaching the first juncture.  But Glorfindel knew he did 
not have the strength left to attempt any tree climbing, 
not and hold off the orc attack at the same time.

"Go ahead; I'll follow you!"  Elrohir used his vantage 
point to begin shooting arrows at the orcs remaining in the 
glade, but did not budge from that spot.  He did not have 
to say anything; Glorfindel should have known--he simply 
would not leave without him.  "Elrohir, you have to get 
away!"

Glorfindel never received an answer, because all fighting 
suddenly stopped once more.  Through the trees came a sight 
Glorfindel had never thought to see--en elf walking 
casually alongside two huge goblins, almost as if they were 
friends.  He recognised the elf in question immediately.  
"Tuor, what . . . "

"You didn't really think I would let them deprive me of the 
pleasure of finishing you off, did you?"  The handsome 
blond, so close in appearance to Glorfindel himself, looked 
mildly inquisitive, rather as if he had simply asked what 
he would like for lunch.  His blue eyes were almost gentle 
as he surveyed him, and his smile held none of the 
haughtiness Glorfindel remembered.  "It is a shame it had 
to come to this.  I always admired you, you know.  Even 
after you humiliated me in Mirkwood, I felt no real rancor.  
After all, you gave me a great gift, did you not?  Too bad 
you have recently decided you wanted it back."

"I have no idea what you mean."  In truth, Glorfindel had a 
pretty good idea, but keeping the elf's concentration on 
him would allow Elrohir time to get away, if only he would 
use it!

"Oh, no?  I suppose, then, that you did not notice the fool 
my lover has been making of himself lately?  Yet it was a 
rare sight--a king following around a mere seneschal, so 
enamored that he would do anything for him.  It completely 
escaped your notice?"  For the first time, a trace of venom 
found its way into Tuor's tone.  "It did not escape mine! 
You left me with him when it suited you, but he never 
really forgot you.  I tried everything to make him do so, 
and for a while I thought I had succeeded.  Then one day, 
after we had had centuries together, he suddenly decides to 
go to Lorien without me.  It was not long before I began to 
receive reports from friends in his entourage of exactly 
why."

Tuor looked Glorfindel over, from head to toe, a slight 
sneer appearing on his face.  "I see no reason why he 
should prefer you over me!  We are almost close enough in 
looks to be twins.  I may not have your reputation, but I, 
too, am a warrior!  And a strategist, as I have proven this 
day.  Oh, don't worry," he commented with a smile, seeing 
Glorfindel's expression.  "The rest of the elves will be 
allowed to retreat.  Just as soon as you and your companion 
are dead."

*   *   *

Elwydda woke to find herself in an almost pitch black room.  
The only light came from shards of glass that someone had 
carelessly left lying about the floor.  How they could 
reflect light when no lamps were visible was strange, but 
enough illumination was provided to enable her to see that 
no one else was there.  Elwyyda called out, but the room 
absorbed her voice, making it sound muffled even to her own 
ears.  No one answered her call; not even an echo came back 
to her.

She cautiously went forward, determined to find a way out 
of this strange place, when a sudden flash of colour 
surprised her.  She walked over to a large mirror that 
reflected back not the darkness and her own face, but a 
comfortable room lit by firelight and filled with books.  
The mirror's surface shimmered and rippled then, and she 
put out a tentative hand to it, only to find herself able 
to pass through as easily as if no barrier existed at all.  
Her arm was lit by the rosy firelight of that other room 
and she felt no pain.  She withdrew it and examined her 
limb carefully, but no harm appeared to have been done to 
it.  Gathering up her courage, she decided to continue with 
her search.  Although the room seemed empty, there were 
parts of it not visible from where she stood.  Very 
cautiously, then, she stepped through the shifting barrier.

As soon as she had done so, it closed behind her, and 
Elwyyda almost panicked when she could no longer see it.  
Her hand dimmed, however, when it passed through the area 
where the barrier had been, and she sighed in relief.  It 
was still there, then, just not easily visible from this 
side.

From far off, she could hear a strange sound, a metallic 
clang like swords ringing together.  She carefully stayed 
in the shadows, using the skills she had learned in the 
mines, and moved slowly down a long corridor towards it.  
Peering around a corner, she saw a strange sight.  Two 
elves, one of whom was Lord Elrond, were fighting together, 
and something in their demeanor told Elwyyda that this was 
no practise session.  Elrond's opponent was tall, with long 
dark hair that almost reached his waist.  Elwyyda thought 
he looked somewhat familiar, but could not place him until 
she saw his eyes.  She almost cried out then, but a hand 
clasped over her mouth from behind and she was jerked back 
around the corner.  For a moment, she thought she was 
seeing double.  The same dark haired elf who was battling 
Lord Elrond now stood before her, but there was a very 
different expression in his bright blue eyes.   This one 
looked as she remembered him, not half crazed like that 
other . . . whoever he was.

"Zirak!," she hugged him quickly, then stood back, admiring 
his beauty.  She truly would not have known him except for 
the eyes.

"Elwyyda--what are you doing here?  No, never mind; it 
doesn't matter.  You must come with me!"  He took her hand 
and quickly towed her back down the hall in the direction 
from which she had just come.

"Zirak, what . . . "

They reentered the library and Zirak pointed out the faint 
outlines of the portal.  "Can you see it?"  At her nod he 
smiled, and hugged her close for an instant.  "Good.  Now 
think carefully.  A connection was made between you and 
Elrond, do you know how?"

"I . . . I just touched him, to wake him up for breakfast, 
and then . . ."

"That's good, that's fine."  Zirak smiled at her 
reassuringly, and brushed one of her braids out of her 
eyes.  "What I need for you to do is to go back through the 
portal to that other room, then concentrate very hard on 
Elrond's bedroom.  See it clearly in your mind, and when 
you open your eyes, you will be there.  Don't panic if it 
doesn't happen at once--just keep trying and you'll 
succeed.  Can you do that?"

"Yes, but . . . "

"And once you have," Zirak continued, a sense of urgency in 
his voice, "it is very important that you go find help 
immediately.  I need an elf, Elwyyda--a warrior.  One loyal 
to Lord Elrond who will do whatever has to be done for his 
safety regardless of what it is.  Preferably someone fairly 
young, who does not remember Lindon.  Do you know any such 
elves?"

Elwyyda nodded.  Of course she did.  "Gildor."

"Good, then you must go get this Gildor.  Bring him to me 
Elwyyda; have him touch Elrond as you did, and show him how 
to get here.  And you must hurry!  Elrond is weakening, and 
I am of little use to him."  Elwyyda saw tears come into 
Zirak's blue eyes.  "Please, Elwyyda, please don't fail me.  
He is the most important thing in my life--the best thing.  
He always was.  I MUST save him, do you understand?"

Elwyyda nodded.  If Zirak wanted to see Gildor so badly, 
she would make certain Gildor was brought to him.  She 
didn't understand all this, but perhaps they would explain 
it to her later.  Zirak helped her up to the portal, which 
hovered a few feet off the ground, and she was once more 
enveloped in darkness.

*   *   *

Glorfindel's mind was working quickly, and he had by now 
realised that the depiction he had seen of his lover's 
death on the wall covering in Mandos had been an accident; 
the spear had been thrown at him, not at Elrohir, who must 
have stepped in front of it in that other time.  Glorfindel 
had, then, already changed the course of events once; all 
he had to do now was insure that the future he had seen did 
not come true in another fashion. "Let Elrohir go; he has 
no part to play in this.  It is between the two of us."

Tuor shrugged.  "He had no part, until you dragged him into 
it.  He has seen me now, and I cannot very well leave him 
alive to tell the king any of this, can I?  With you two 
out of the way, Thranduil is mine.  In time, he will learn 
to appreciate all I do for him, to love me as he always 
should have done--as he would have, if his mind had not 
been fixed on you!"  He gestured up at Elrohir's tree.  
"Kill him," he told the orcs briefly, "but leave the other 
to me."

Two orcish archers took aim at Elrohir, but before 
Glorfindel could make a movement in their direction, arrows 
sped out of the encircling woods, burying themselves in the 
creature's backs.  An instant later and the glade was 
filled with elvish soldiers, Noldor by the look of them, 
and a dark figure emerged behind them, fussily brushing 
pine needles from the sleeve of his wine coloured tunic.  
He looked annoyed and petulant, his lips set in a definite 
pout, but Glorfindel had never been so happy to see anyone 
in his life.

Erestor walked casually through the glade as his Noldorin 
soldiers slaughtered the remaining orcs with brutal 
efficiency.  Side stepping a severed head that rolled into 
his path, he finally reached Tuor, who one of the Noldor 
had grabbed by the shoulders and was holding in a manner 
that looked particularly painful.  Erestor ran a soft touch 
down Tuor's cheek, but his eyes were on Glorfindel and he 
wrinkled his nose.  "You look dreadful.  Why don't you get 
yourself patched up while I deal with this one?"

Glorfindel found that his vision was going blurry and he 
was having difficulty thinking.  "We need to question him.  
There has to be more going on here than . . . "

"I will tell you nothing!"  Tuor spat, glaring daggers at 
Glorfindel.

Elrohir had meanwhile dropped onto the ground at 
Glorfindel's side, and he slipped an arm about his lover's 
waist, pulling him off to the side of the glade where he 
could minister to him.  Glorfindel rested his head on 
Elrohir's shoulder, hearing Erestor's soft laugh behind 
him.  "Oh, I think you will," Erestor told Tuor briefly.  
Glorfindel smiled slightly; rather thought he would, too.

*   *   *

Haldir was looking crossly at Gildor, who had on what he 
had begun to think of as his "reasonable face."  It meant 
that Gildor was silently telling himself to ignore his 
lover's ravings until he cooled down, and then they would 
make up.  Only Haldir had no intention of cooling down, and 
the only way they were going to make up was if Gildor 
decided to properly submit.

"I don't understand why you are upset, Haldir," Gildor was 
commenting quietly.  "If I have done anything to hurt you, 
truly it was unintentional."  He let his fingers softly 
caress the skin of Haldir's chest, visible through the 
opening of his nightshirt.  "Perhaps I can think of a way 
to make it up to you?"

Haldir pushed the questing hand away.  "You are not going 
to distract me.  We need to come to an understanding . . . 
"  He was interrupted by the door to his room bursting open 
to reveal the little dwarf, who was looking even more 
crazed than usual.

"You must come!"  She ran over to Gildor and began tugging 
on the hem of his shirt.  "Please, Gildor!  Quickly!"

"What is it?  Elwyyda, what is wrong?"

Haldir could not believe that his lover would turn away 
from him when they were in the middle of a serious 
conversation, just to bother with the maddening dwarf.  It 
was, however, a symbol of everything that was wrong with 
their relationship.  "Gildor--put her out now!  We need to 
finish this."

"In a moment, Haldir," Gildor said absently, as Elwyyda did 
her best to pull him towards the door.

"No, now!"

Haldir's words had no effect on his lover whatsoever, 
except to make him pause and glance back over his shoulder 
briefly.  "I think this is important, but it should not 
take long.  I will be right back . . ."

"Gildor."  Haldir put as much force into his words as he 
could.  "If you walk out that door, don't bother coming 
back."

Gildor sighed.  "I'll see you in a few minutes, Haldir," he 
said, and he was gone.  Just like that.  Haldir stared at 
the door in disbelief.  The dwarf came by with some trivial 
problem--probably stubbed her toe on the stairs in 
frustration that she hadn't been able to assault Haldir 
recently--and Gildor went off with her with barely a word 
for him.  If Haldir had had any questions about the way in 
which his lover saw their relationship, he had just had 
them answered.

Fine, he thought, glaring at the closed door.  Let him go.  
It doesn't matter.  Haldir briefly amused himself thinking 
how easy it would be to replace Gildor--there were, after 
all, dozens of elves falling over themselves to get close 
to him.  He could have anyone he wanted . . . the only 
problem was that there was only one elf he really, truly 
DID want, and he had just watched him walk away.

Haldir glared at the door some more, then sighed and got 
up, hobbling over to the wardrobe to find something 
suitable to wear.  He and Gildor were going to have this 
out.  His lover could not merely walk out of his life 
without having to give some explanation for his actions.  
If Haldir meant so little to him, fine.  But he was going 
to have to say it, was going to have to put his rejection 
into words.  Pulling a blue tunic over his head, Haldir 
wrenched open the door to his room and looked out at an 
empty corridor.  So where had that cursed dwarf taken 
Gildor, anyway?

*   *   *

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 26/?

*   *   *

Gildor paused and looked around.  A glance behind him 
showed that Elwyyda had been right; the portal was visible, 
but so faint that he would not have been able to see it at 
all if he hadn't known where to look.  The room in which he 
stood was beautiful, with much brightly polished wood, a 
heavy plush carpet on the floor, and lined to the high 
ceiling with an impressive collection of scrolls and books.  
An open tome on a nearby table had an amazing illustration 
of the two trees; it was so lifelike that Gildor almost 
thought he could see the wind blowing through the treetops, 
causing the intertwined silver and gold leaves to flash and 
glisten independently.

He shook his head.  He wasn't supposed to be sightseeing, 
but trying to find Zirak.  He moved across the study to the 
door at the far end, and almost ran into the elf standing 
there.  He did not know him, but it could not be Zirak; 
this elf radiated power and personality, and was also one 
of the most attractive individuals he had ever seen.  
Gildor managed to stop gaping at him after a moment, and 
could only be grateful that he did not seem to have 
noticed.

"You are Gildor?"  The elf's brow wrinkled a little in 
surprise and his beautiful blue eyes looked puzzled.  "But 
I know you, do I not?  Did you live in Lindon once?"

Gildor shook his head and suddenly he knew.  As incredible 
as it seemed, this WAS Zirak.  The elf moved with a fluid 
grace that was completely at odds with the slow shuffle 
Gildor had previously seen him use and he stood tall with a 
kingly bearing, not in a bent, humble attitude.  His hair 
was a rich, deep brown that only missed being black because 
of the warm chestnut tones threaded through it.  They 
glimmered in the dim light, as did the bright, cornflower 
blue of his eyes.  Gildor realised he was gaping again and 
forced himself to snap out of it.  "I . . . I never knew 
Lindon, my lord."  Gildor did not know why he added that 
title to his address, as he had never been informed of 
Zirak's status, but it only seemed fitting.  He simply had 
to be from a noble house--his every word and gesture 
proclaimed it.

"I am certain I know you from somewhere; I never forget a 
face.  But no matter, come with me."  Zirak took Gildor by 
the arm and led him swiftly down the passageway to where it 
connected with a long gallery hung with many portraits.  
It, too, was a beautiful room, with the highly polished 
wood of the floor almost blinding in its brightness under 
several hanging chandeliers, but Gildor had no time to 
admire it.  The fierce battle that was taking place at the 
far end caught his eye at once and he stood, staring in 
shock, as Lord Elrond fought an elf who looked exactly like 
Zirak, right down to the old fashioned, blue velvet robes 
they both wore.  Lord Elrond was in an advantageous 
position half way up a broad, curving staircase, for his 
opponent was below and therefore did not have the height 
advantage.  Their swords flashed almost too swiftly to see, 
and the sounds of combat filled the room.  Gildor had never 
seen such skill, and was rather abashed to think of how 
proud he had been to win the sword contest at Imladris 
several years before.  Lord Elrond had judged it, and had 
had nothing but praise for his abilities; he now saw just 
how amateurish his talents must have seemed to one with 
that kind of prowess.  Yet the other elf was also skilled, 
and seemed to have more power behind his thrusts; slowly, 
Lord Elrond was being driven up the stairs towards a dark 
corridor at the top.

Gildor moved instinctively forward to intervene, but Zirak 
held him back.  "No, you cannot help him.  You do not have 
the strength to fight against his opponent and would only 
be injured or distract Elrond and cause him harm.  That is 
not why I brought you here."  Gildor looked down to see 
Zirak holding out a delicately wrought, mithril dagger.  It 
was a beautiful thing, with unusual etching along its 
polished blade, and a large sapphire set into its carved 
hilt.  "Take it."  Gildor did so, admiring the way it 
caught the light; whoever had made this was a master 
indeed.  "Now," Zirak told him calmly, "I would appreciate 
it if you would kill me."

*   *   *

"He was bewitched."

"What?"  Glorfindel looked up to see Erestor standing over 
him, wiping his hands on a cloth.   He looked calm and 
unruffled, but his eyes glittered with repressed emotion.

"Tuor.  The idiot of Mirkwood.  I can't believe I once 
helped to train that elf."

Glorfindel sat up from his position reclining against a 
tree trunk, to better observe his friend.  Erestor squatted 
inelegantly before him so that they could speak privately.  
"Who bewitched him?"

Erestor sighed.  "That is a good question.  He says that a 
scouting party of orcs captured him a few days ago while he 
was on patrol.  They supposedly took him to a cave in the 
mountains where he was put under an enchantment by a 
shrouded figure.  He was told that, if he informed them 
when and where our attack was to come, he would be 
rewarded.  When he was asked what he wanted, he replied 
you.  Dead.  Preferably painfully.  Of course," Erestor 
smiled evilly, "he assures us that the spell must have been 
responsible for his request, as he has nothing but the 
greatest respect for you."

"Of course."

"Whoever it was apparently convinced him that Thranduil 
would not be harmed, and the Mirkwood elves who did not 
fall in battle would be released.  The belief was conveyed 
that the orcs' quarrel was with Lorien alone."  Glorfindel 
regarded Erestor in disbelief, but his friend just 
shrugged.  "I am simply telling you what he said--I did not 
say that I believed him.  In any case, when we were delayed 
this morning because of Elrohir's little fit, Tuor slipped 
off to warn his new found friends that the previous 
information he had delivered was wrong, and agreed instead 
to assist them by calling off the sentries.  Fortunately, I 
became suspicious and followed him; unfortunately, I could 
not get close enough to hear what he was saying to the two 
figures he met."

"But you might have been alerted by the fact that they were 
orcs."

Erestor shot him a glance but, presumably due to his status 
as temporary invalid, did not respond as he might have.  
"They were heavily muffled up--I never saw their faces.  
And I don't like ambushing people in a forest.  There are 
too many places where reinforcements may be hiding."  He 
paused while Elrohir brought Glorfindel some miruvor to 
drink, then left to tend to the others.  Luckily, other 
than for Glorfindel, they had few wounded.  Considering how 
the battle could have turned out, he considered his own 
wound a minor price to pay.

"I did not discern his plans until he sent the sentries 
away, and by that time the orcs were practically on top of 
us." Erestor looked about the glade, where dozens of orc 
carcasses still lay, disgust on his features.  "I did not 
expect an attack by daylight, but the forest canopy 
apparently dims the light enough that these animals can see 
to fight."

"So how much of his sad tale do we believe?"  Glorfindel's 
faith in Tuor's words hovered at about zero, but Erestor 
seemed slightly more optimistic.

"He was put under some sort of enchantment, of that I do 
not think there is much doubt--I have seen cases like this 
before.  However, his hatred and jealousy of you is also 
undoubted, and the spell would likely not have been 
effective if it had not had that base from which to draw.  
I also believe that, enchantment or no, he was aware that 
elves would die because of his actions, but seems not to 
have cared as long as Thranduil was not one of them.  Since 
he aided the attack by sending away the sentries, he is 
undoubtedly guilty of kin slaying, even though he does not 
appear to have raised a hand against an elf himself."

Glorfindel refrained from commenting that Tuor had been 
perfectly willing to raise a hand against him, and that he 
was likely the secret assassin who had almost caused 
Elrohir's death.  For that alone he would pay, and dearly, 
but he might be of use first.  "Is he willing to help 
mitigate his fault by assisting us?"

Erestor smiled.  "More than willing, after some persuasion, 
although I would not trust him out of my sight.  He thinks 
he can lead us back to the cave where he was questioned, 
and possibly get us inside.  It seems to me that this is 
our best chance to rescue any elves who may be trapped in 
the mines, as the main force of orcs must still be chasing 
our army."  Erestor saw Glorfindel's expression and nodded.  
"I agree with you--I, too, would prefer to aid them--but 
common sense dictates that we take this chance while we 
have it.  We may never have another as good.  Besides, we 
cannot tilt the odds greatly in their favour by rejoining 
the party--there are too few of us--but we CAN do this."

Glorfindel nodded.  He agreed that their odds were 
considerably better with most of the orcish force 
elsewhere. Even thought there were only twenty-four of 
them, and one might well turn traitor given half a chance, 
this was the best opportunity they were likely to get.  
Glancing up at the small amount of blue visible through 
patches in the trees, he noticed that the morning was all 
but gone.  "We had best hurry, then, before night falls and 
gives the orcs an advantage."

*   *   *

Haldir reached Lord Elrond's rooms after a brief search of 
nearby floors.  He found Gildor sitting on the edge of the 
bed, his hand firmly grasping Elrond's, while the master of 
Imladris was curled up against Zirak.  All three appeared 
to be fast asleep.  The scene was so unlike anything he had 
expected that Haldir just stood there until Elwyyda glanced 
up and ordered him out.  She was sitting in a chair on the 
far side of the bed, looking like nothing so much as a 
nanny watching over her infant charges--a brooding nanny 
wearing a deep frown.  Just the sight of her was enough to 
enrage Haldir.

"Gildor . . . ," he put out a hand towards his lover, only 
to have the dwarf let out a screech and come flying at him 
from around the bed.

"No!  Do not touch him!  He will come back when he is 
finished."

Haldir glared at the creature who stood between him and his 
lover, as she had been doing since her arrival at Lorien.  
If not for her, he and his lover would not be having all 
these problems; if not for her, he and Gildor would likely 
never have quarreled.  He was about to give her a proper 
dressing down, which she had needed for some time, but then 
a horrible thought entered his head.  What if he had been 
right all along and she really WAS mad?  What if they had 
brought back a dangerous lunatic who had waited for the 
appropriate moment, and then poisoned all within her reach?  
Haldir felt dizzy from the very thought of Gildor's death; 
if he was too late, he would never forgive himself!

Knocking the dwarf aside harshly, he knelt at the side of 
the bed, frantically searching for some sign of life.  Yes, 
there it was--Gildor was breathing, but only very 
shallowly; the Valar only knew what the mad creature had 
given him!  Haldir moved to take his lover into his arms, 
intending to carry him to the healers, momentarily 
forgetting that his weak ankle would likely make that 
impossible.  It became moot when the room abruptly fell 
away.

Haldir fell with a thud to his knees in pitch-blackness.  A 
second later, the dwarf fell on top of him, knocking the 
air from his lungs and squashing him almost flat; she must 
have been eating well since her arrival in Lorien.  "See?"  
Her harsh tones grated on his eardrum, "You're messing 
everything up!  I should have locked you in!"

"I . . . where is this place?"  Haldir had never seen 
anything like it, and could not imagine how he could have 
been transported anywhere so quickly.  Had someone snuck up 
behind him and hit him over the head?  He rolled out from 
under the dwarf, feeling for any bumps on his cranium as he 
did so, but he seemed fine.  The dwarf could not have 
assaulted him in any case, unless she had acquired an 
accomplice; she had been knocked halfway across the room by 
his blow.  She was, he noticed, still rubbing her arm and 
muttering to herself.

"We must go back," she announced by way of reply.  "You 
will only get into trouble here, as you always do."

Haldir gave her a suitable glare, then ignored her.  He did 
not need her help; he was perfectly capable of getting out 
of this situation himself.  It was the dwarf who gave him 
the first clue of how to do so, however inadvertently.  
Seeing his expression, she moved quickly to where a large, 
slightly cracked mirror rested against the black surface of 
the wall and stood before it, arms crossed over her chest, 
rather in the form of a guard before the portal to a 
treasure house.  "Go back!," she ordered again, and once 
more Haldir ignored her.  Then a flash of colour in the 
mirror captured his attention.  Since it was obviously not 
reflecting his own surroundings, Haldir decided that it had 
to be a doorway despite its appearance.  He hoped it was 
the way out, but at least the room beyond it seemed well 
lit, which made it much more appealing than his current 
position.  The fact that the dwarf evidently did not want 
him to pass only made it still more attractive.

Pushing the dwarf out of the way--a bit more gently this 
time as assaulting females, even maddening, probably insane 
ones, was not to his liking--Haldir stepped through a 
flimsy barrier into a well-lit study.  No one was about, 
but an open door showed the way to a corridor.  The sound 
of combat came to his ears, and he hurried down the 
passageway to where a gallery branched off from the main 
hall, its west facing windows looking out onto a darkened 
garden.  Two sets of people were fighting.  The one on the 
stairs at the far end of the room barely registered with 
him, because the nearest set of combatants included Gildor, 
who was dodging around furniture, trying to elude a tall 
elf Haldir did not recognise.

"Gildor!"

"Grab him!  Haldir, be quick!"  The words had scarcely left 
Gildor's mouth when Haldir had the strange elf in an arm 
lock, and had forced him to drop the ornate knife he 
carried and had been brandishing at Gildor.

"Thank you!'  Gildor came out from behind a large, ornately 
carved chair, and regarded the dark haired elf with what 
looked like pity.  The elf did not struggle once it became 
obvious that he could not break Haldir's hold; instead, he 
concentrated on addressing Gildor in a voice that almost 
commanded obedience.

"Do it.  You must, or all hope is lost."

Gildor shook his head regretfully.  "You are ill," he told 
him softly, "you do not know what you are saying.  We will 
take care of you and help you to regain your senses."  
Gildor looked up and his expression was sad.  "He wants to 
kill himself or, rather, he wants me to do it for him.  You 
must keep hold of him while I help Lord Elrond."

"No!"  Elwyyda's voice came suddenly from behind Haldir, 
startling him as he had not heard her enter.  He glanced 
over his shoulder to see the crazed creature holding one of 
the huge swords that he had vaguely noticed adorning the 
area over the fireplace in the study.  It was almost too 
heavy for her to lift, but she managed nonetheless, 
although the tip wavered slightly.  The sword looked 
wickedly sharp to Haldir and was about an inch from his 
back, roughly over the position of his heart.  If she lost 
her balance, he would likely suffer the colossal indignity 
of being killed by a female dwarf.  "Let him go."

Haldir looked up at Gildor, who nodded slightly.  In one 
swift movement, Haldir pushed his captive into Gildor's 
waiting arms, then spun to disarm the lunatic behind him 
before she committed murder.  Elwyyda struggled when he 
clasped her to him, but he knew her well enough to insure 
that there were no opportunities for her to bite or kick.

"We have to tie them up," Gildor advised.  "One of us has 
to be free to assist Lord Elrond."  Haldir now had a spare 
moment to glance at the other set of combatants, and he 
noticed that Elrond was battling an elf who looked like the 
twin of the one he'd captured.  None of this made the least 
sense, but the important thing was to insure that Elrond 
was not run through; he could get the details later.  
Haldir slid off his tunic belt and wrapped it securely 
about Elwyyda's hands, before tying her to the sturdy oak 
chair.  It probably would not hold her for long, given her 
penchant for causing trouble, but they wouldn't need much 
time.  The elf battling Lord Elrond seemed skilled, but two 
against one were good odds.  Due to his injury, Haldir 
moved to take over from Gildor as the elf's captor, so his 
lover could deal with subduing Lord Elrond's opponent.

"No!  Please, do not interfere!"  The elf began struggling 
in Gildor's hold again, but was held fast.  His voice was 
nonetheless commanding enough to make Haldir pause slightly 
before stooping to pick up the sword Elwyyda had dropped.  
He had intended to pass it to Gildor, but there was 
something in the elf's tone that made it difficult to 
ignore him.  "You will only make things worse--you MUST 
listen to me!"

"Haldir--Lord Elrond needs our aid."  Gildor's softly 
spoken comment was certainly true, for at almost the same 
moment Elrond was forced to leap over the stairwell to 
avoid being skewered, and landed on the slippery floor 
below without his usual grace.  He was breathing heavily, 
while his opponent, who followed him easily, looked cool 
and rested.

"Please, just listen for a moment--I beg you."

Haldir looked into the elf's blue eyes and was lost.  He 
barely heard Gildor ask what he was waiting for; instead, 
he rested the sword tip on the ground and nodded at the 
strangely charismatic elf.  "You have two minutes."

*   *   *

Thranduil waited, patiently, for the party of fifty or so 
orcs to get a little closer.  Celeborn was off somewhere 
nearby, setting other traps with his elves, true to their 
plan to make the forest into a killing field for the 
creatures.  Thranduil was pretty proud of the plan, 
considering that it had been made literally while on the 
run, and they had had at the same time to coordinate the 
retreat of their forces so that they did not become 
separated.  He had forgotten the thrill of battle, of 
thinking on his feet, and making split second decisions 
which all had to be right or disaster could result.  He had 
found it exhilarating, pulling trick after trick on an 
enemy who, although stupid, far outnumbered them.  It had 
been even more of a gamble when it because obvious that 
someone who did have brains was in overall charge, for 
several of his and Celeborn's hastily thrown together plans 
had to be scuttled at the last minute when the enemy took 
effective countermeasures.  Still, they had done well, and 
were now working to pick off as many of the huge orc army 
as they could before it reached Lorien.

Messages had, of course, been sent, informing his own 
realm, Lorien and Rivendell of the danger, and ordering the 
mobilisation of an army to match the hoard steadily working 
its way towards the elvin kingdoms.  But it would take time 
for the news to spread, and time for the soldiers to be 
assembled and outfitted.  No one had anticipated a war; 
with Sauron currently a powerless, disembodied spirit, who 
would coordinate such a thing?  There had not even been any 
rumours of a supposed threat, and he would have known for 
his spies went everywhere.  Unlike the Galadrim who hated 
to leave their forest, he had long known that knowledge was 
power, and had a sophisticated network of informants spread 
throughout Middle Earth.  Little happened that Thranduil 
did not know about, but this had caught him completely by 
surprise.  Thus neither he nor anyone else had made 
preparations to deal with the return of evil.  It was a 
mistake he would insure was not repeated in future, but the 
important thing at the moment was to insure that there was 
a future at all.  He and Celeborn had decided while jumping 
from limb to limb in a mad, tree top retreat, to use their 
small force to slow down the orcs as much as possible and 
insure that many never reached their intended destinations.

Sounding a birdcall across the forest, Thranduil alerted 
Legolas, who was hidden in the undergrowth with several 
other warriors, that the creatures had been spotted.  A 
second later the group of orcs reached the optimal 
position, and Thranduil cut the cord near his hand.  
Immediately, a lightweight net of fine, Lorien rope fell on 
their heads, gossamer as a spider's web and just as strong.  
The creatures let out a collective roar and tried to fight 
it, but only succeeded in further ensnaring themselves.  As 
the hidden elvin warriors emerged and began insuring that 
these orcs, at least, were no longer part of anyone's 
battle plan, Thranduil wove a spell to keep their cries 
from being heard by other orcs in the area.  A few minutes 
later and all was complete, except for the sticky task of 
separating the strands of rope from the butchered bodies it 
ensnared.

Nodding once at Legolas, Thranduil merged with the forest 
again, his dark green tunic a bit more spattered with orc 
blood than before, but that was a decoration he would wear 
gladly.  Reaching out with his senses, he searched for the 
next little group to be dispensed with.  The trees 
whispered to him that a larger unit of perhaps two hundred 
orcs was nearby, just over a small ridge.  They would soon 
be passing through a gully where, he was assured, they 
would be easy prey.  He smiled.  He had a long way to go to 
repay the vile creatures for the slaughter they had 
inflicted on his people in the Misty Marshes, as well as 
for the elves he had lost this day, but the prospects 
seemed fair to making a good start on it.  The orcs would 
rue the day they ever left their mountains for the green 
elvish forests.

*   *   *
TBC



Title: Wild Justice 27/?

*   *   *

The cave was just a cave, and a boring one at that--nothing 
more than a small round indentation in the rock situated 
behind a narrow crevice.  It could have been where Tuor met 
his mysterious stranger, or it could have been simply a 
hole in the wall; there was no way to tell.  One thing 
seemed certain, however; it did not contain an alternate 
route into the mountain.  Erestor backed Tuor dangerously 
close to the ledge by the cave's entrance, to the point 
where his heels were actually dangling off the edge, before 
politely asking why he had deceived them.  Tuor swallowed, 
but his voice was steady when he replied.
"I assumed there was an entrance to the mines here, since 
this is where I met my . . . contacts, but I never actually 
saw one."

Erestor considered pushing him off the side of the 
mountain, just to see how many bumps he would take on the 
way down, and something of his thoughts must have shown in 
his eyes, for Tuor blanched visibly.  After letting him 
worry for a few seconds, Erestor released him.  He had 
received the impression that Glorfindel had some sort of 
plans for Tuor, and he made it a point never to interfere 
with someone else's revenge.

Erestor was loath to try the same entrance as on their 
previous trip, as their killing of the guards on the way 
out must have made it obvious that they knew about it.  
Surely, after the recent battle, the entrance would be well 
fortified.  But when a painstaking search of the cave 
disclosed no other way into the mines, he reluctantly 
agreed that they had no choice.  There was no way to tell 
how long it would be before the main body of orcs returned, 
and they had to be long gone by then.  "With any luck, our 
enemies will assume that we would never try that way 
again."  Erestor raised a brow but did not bother to 
contradict Glorfindel, who was obviously trying to raise 
the elves' morale.

Erestor was soon distracted from his gloomy thoughts by an 
argument that flared up between Glorfindel and Elrohir.  
They were whispering, albeit in rather savage undertones, 
but it was easy enough for elvish ears to hear them.  
Erestor bustled the other elves out of the cavern, giving 
Camthalion orders to personally watch over Tuor as he did 
so, then returned to the cave to mediate.  How these two 
had ever managed to be a couple for centuries without 
killing each other and everyone else around them was a 
continual source of amazement to him.  There was certainly 
nothing tepid about their relationship.

" . . . and that is final!"  Glorfindel was looking as 
livid as Erestor could ever remember seeing him as he 
glowered at his young companion.

"I have passed my majority.  You can no longer order me 
about."  Elrohir looked calmer than his lover at the 
moment, his face almost serene, but Erestor did not take 
heart from that fact.  He remembered the expression well 
from the elf's childhood; it denoted that he had made up 
his mind and was no longer even considering another point 
of view.  Erestor had found that arguing with him when he 
wore that face was an exercise in futility.  The Peredhils 
could be the most stubborn elves in all of Arda when they 
chose, and it was clear that Elrohir had done so.

"I am not going to argue with you, Elrohir.  If you attempt 
to follow us you will be tied to a tree and left there!"

"As orc bait?"  Erestor decided to take the plunge.  If 
they had a common source of irritation in him, perhaps they 
would stop looking daggers at each other.

"Stay out of this, Erestor."

Erestor would have liked to oblige, as he did not normally 
tease his friend when he was in a mood, but he had little 
choice.  Valuable time was being wasted while they argued.  
"We must go, Glorfindel.  The longer we wait, the greater 
risk we take.  What seems to be the problem?"

Elrohir answered for him, looking disgusted.  "Glorfindel 
wants me to remain behind with the wounded!"

"You are our only healer!  They require your attention."

Elrohir shrugged off his lover's comment.  "None is in any 
danger, as I told you.  I have dressed their wounds, all 
they need now is a little time to recover.  Even at the 
moment, though, they are perfectly capable of defending 
themselves against a small band of orcs, and if a larger 
group was to come across them, what use would one more elf 
be?  As long as they stay out of sight, they should be 
fine."

Erestor personally agreed with this assessment, but it was 
clear that Glorfindel did not.  He was being unusually 
protective, which was odd as Elrohir had demonstrated that 
he was able to defend himself nicely even without his 
memories.  He had fought well in the orc attack several 
days before--Erestor had been quite proud of him--and a 
number of Elrohir's arrows had been sticking out of orc 
bodies in the glade that morning.  It was probable that 
Elrohir would be safer outside the mines rather than in, 
but it was also true that they needed every elf for this 
plan to have a chance at success.

"You need me," Elrohir was saying, echoing Erestor's 
thoughts.  "You don't know what we'll find in the mines, 
and our numbers are small enough already."

"I don't care," Glorfindel began, and Elrohir's face 
flushed with anger at the command in his lover's tone.

"Glorfindel, if I might speak with you for a moment?"  
Erestor grabbed his friend's arm and forcibly towed him out 
of the cave to a spot in the forest some distance away.  
"Are you quite mad?"

"Let go of my arm and stop interfering!"

"I will stop interfering as soon as you stop acting like an 
idiot.  One is enough for our party, don't you think?  Or 
is Tuor's madness catching?  You know perfectly well that 
the hard line approach is unlikely to work with Elrohir."

"I will not permit him to come with us--it is too risky.  I 
meant what I said, Erestor--I will tie him up if I have to 
and leave the wounded with orders to do whatever is 
necessary to keep him from following us.  Even a slight 
injury would be better than . . . "

"So now you are planning to break his leg while we are 
surrounded by orcs and could be ambushed at any moment?  
What has he done that you wish him dead?"

Glorfindel looked truly haggard for a moment as he ran a 
distracted hand through his hair.  His braids were less 
than their usual perfection and his eyes looked tormented.  
"His death is what I am trying to avoid!  He CANNOT come, 
Erestor."  He sighed, "I do not have time to explain right 
now, but as strange as it may sound, Elrohir was supposed 
to die today.  I prevented it, altered the way things were 
meant to happen, but now I am consumed by fear that I 
actually only delayed them.  He has not yet realised fully 
who he is, and therefore he is vulnerable.  I will NOT take 
him into certain danger!"

Erestor regarded his friend from under hooded eyes.  
Glorfindel seemed, to those who did not know him well, to 
have a sunny disposition and an open character.  His blue 
eyes could look completely guileless when he wanted, and he 
did possess a strange innocence, despite his many 
experiences.  But that candid look had never fooled Erestor 
into believing that it was all there was to Glorfindel.  He 
had been suspicious of him for years after he showed up at 
Imladris one day, seemingly out of the blue, claiming to be 
the famous balrog slayer of Gondolin.  Although a few elves 
had sworn to his identity, Erestor had argued vociferously 
with Elrond against accepting him into his service.  It had 
been to no avail, but he had made it his business to watch 
him closely thereafter.  He had only decided to trust him 
after Glorfindel saved Elrond from the attack of a huge orc 
at Barad-dur, which Erestor had seen coming but been too 
far away to prevent.  Yet he had never allowed himself to 
believe, no matter how close they later became, that he 
knew all of the seneschal's secrets.  "Elrohir was supposed 
to die?"

"I told you, I don't have time to explain.  You must trust 
me, and help restrain him!"

Erestor cocked an eyebrow and struggled to keep the sarcasm 
out of his voice.  He was not entirely successful.  "How 
quickly you forget.  Elrohir was always less obvious than 
his brother, but he was also quite the prankster not so 
long ago.  Have you forgotten his dare to Elladan?  To see 
which of them could free themselves first from the 
restraints he cajoled the servants into putting on them?  
Poor Elladan was left tied to a chair in the map room for 
the better part of the day before I found him.  He was 
livid, as it had only taken Elrohir about fifteen minutes 
to get loose, and from Lorien rope at that!  So tell me, 
what exactly do you plan to use as restraints?"

"I don't know, but there must be a way. He HAS to be 
persuaded to remain, or the prophecy may yet come true."

Erestor glanced over to the small grassy area before the 
cave where Camthalion was practicing his archery.  He had 
tied the traitor to a dead tree and appeared to be using 
his head as a target.  White fletched Lorien arrows 
outlined the elf's skull, most missing the flesh by only a 
fraction of an inch, while a terrified Tuor struggled to 
stay absolutely still.  Erestor smiled; nice technique, as 
long as he didn't miss.  Then again, that would not be so 
terrible either. "I have an idea."

*   *   *

Celeborn waited with ten of his Galadrim in the branches of 
the trees near the edge of the woods.  In front of them was 
an open space of perhaps eighty yards where no trees grew.  
Bright sunlight cascaded over the pretty green sward, 
causing the flowers nestled amid tufts of grass to reach 
their heads hungrily towards the sky.  It was perfect, too 
bad that it would shortly be covered with corpses.  Still, 
after the day he had had, Celeborn was beginning to see the 
beauty in a pile of dead orcs--as long as it was a very 
large pile.

He tensed as he heard the sounds of the approaching swarm.  
They were so confident in their numbers that they did not 
bother to even attempt stealth.  Not that it would have 
mattered; the trees were proving very cooperative in giving 
warning of their approach.  They had a vested interest in 
seeing the creatures that despoiled their woods on a 
regular basis were forced to pay for it.  Celeborn had 
never really realised before just how vindictive trees 
could be.  He smiled; he would have to make sure the 
mallyrn didn't hear about this; no sense giving them ideas.

Just then the huge party of orcs, at least five hundred 
strong, burst into the open, complaining foully about the 
light as they tried to shield their eyes with hands and 
loose bits of cloth.  Celeborn had never known exactly how 
well orcs could see in daylight, but considering some of 
the complaints they had been making about the dim light 
under the trees, he did not think it was very well.  He had 
taken the chance that the bright sunlight of midday would 
all but blind them, and it seemed he had been right.  The 
leaders struggled on in the general direction of the woods 
on the far side of the field, but their wavering steps made 
it obvious that they were pushing on in the correct 
direction from memory rather than sight.  The blinded 
soldiers behind them kept crashing into the leaders and 
each other, their curses and shouts echoing around the 
forest.

Holding up a hand to prevent his elves from moving too 
soon, Celeborn calmly waited for the stinking mass to fully 
leave the shelter of the trees before giving the signal to 
attack.  Just then he felt a caressing hand on his 
shoulder.  He was so wound up that he almost gave the 
signal too early in his surprise.  What elf would dare be 
so overly familiar with him?  He glanced back to see 
Thranduil's large grin lighting up the gloom.  He should 
have known; nothing seemed to phase the Mirkwood king's 
good humour.  In fact, he appeared to be enjoying himself.

"My groups have killed almost a thousand already, Celeborn.  
What's your total?"

Celeborn surprised himself by not being angry, either at 
the implication that he must certainly have tallied up 
less, or at the warm hand that showed no sign of being 
withdrawn.  There was something impressive about 
Thranduil's simple, almost childlike enthusiasm for the 
hunt.  He was so different from the more formal elves 
around whom Celeborn spent most of his time that, despite 
his tendency to be extremely annoying on a frequent basis, 
his company was quite refreshing.  All of a sudden Celeborn 
caught some of the king's pleasure in the chase.  "About to 
surpass yours.  Attack!"

Celeborn fell from the tree as he spoke, landing on the 
back of the large orc that had paused directly beneath him.  
It was the last of a few stragglers who had been loath to 
leave the trees.  It needn't have worried about being 
uncomfortable on its way across the field; with a stroke of 
his knives, Celeborn made certain it never left the 
shadows.

Killing the rest of the orcs was almost depressingly easy, 
as they were as good as blinded in the sunlight.  The work 
was quickly done, but there was no time to rest.  Thousands 
more were making their way slowly but steadily towards 
Lorien.  They were yet four days travel away by horse, so 
at least double that on foot, but the thought gave Celeborn 
little ease of mind.  Like elves, orcs could travel for 
long periods without rest, thereby cutting the distance, 
and as soon as night came, their sharp eyes would be more 
than a match for those of the elves.  They had to kill as 
many as possible before twilight fell, and then find some 
way to track them through the darkness without having them 
use the night as the elves had used the day to blind their 
enemies.  It was going to be a long fight.

*   *   *

Gil-Galad looked into the steady blue gaze of the blond elf 
opposite him, and tried to think.  How to explain all that 
had passed, or at least as much as he remembered of it, to 
anyone in the ridiculous space of two minutes?  How to put 
into words that which he longed only to forget once more?  
But he had to try, or all hope was lost and Elrond would 
surely die.

"Do you know what happened to Sauron after the Last 
Alliance?"

The elf who Gildor had called Haldir narrowed his eyes and 
looked suspicious.  "Everyone does.  Why do you speak of 
this?"

"Because everyone is wrong."  Gil-Galad glanced back at the 
combatants as he spoke.  Elrond was weakening and his 
opponent was not slow in pressing his advantage.  There was 
no time for diplomacy under the circumstances.  "Sauron 
knew he could not triumph over Middle earth as long as the 
elvish forces remained strong, but he had not succeeded in 
besting us in war, even at the height of his power, so how 
could he hope to do so as a disembodied spirit?  He decided 
that what he could not win by force he would take by 
stealth and cunning.  He had one of his servants, the Lord 
of the Nazgul, assemble an army and equip them with mithril 
weapons from a secret mine.  The army is finally ready and 
is on its way here now.  It is to attack from without while 
he destroys from within.  His plan is to bring all elves 
under his control by taking on the guise of someone they 
will follow without question."

"No elf would follow Sauron.  You lie."

"Not knowingly follow, no, but has not Sauron deceived 
elves before while in disguise?  He came once as the 
deceiver Annatar, and was prevented from gaining complete 
control then only because Cirdan discerned his true nature, 
as did I."

"And who are you, to be so wise?"

Gil-Galad hesitated, but he preferred not to reveal his 
real name if it could be avoided.  Under the circumstances, 
it could backfire and insure that nothing else he said was 
taken seriously.  These two had never known him, so why 
should they believe him to be the High King, one they had 
been taught was long dead?  He settled for a vague truth.  
"Not who I once was.  Sauron has long been with me, been a 
part of me, because of the witchcraft of the Lord of the 
Nazgul.  No one can live with his presence and not be 
altered by it.  That is why you MUST kill me, for I cannot 
control him much longer, and as soon as he breaks free, I 
will not be able to determine my actions.  He is a great 
deceiver, and good at reading the hearts of others.  
Wearing my face, he will be able to convince most of the 
elves to follow him anywhere, even into certain 
destruction."

Haldir regarded the elf in front of him with puzzlement.  
His words were those of a lunatic, but his face was 
earnest.  Haldir had no trouble believing that this elf 
genuinely thought he was telling the truth, but no one 
could believe such a tale.  "You say Sauron is a part of 
you?"

"Not a part exactly, no, but he has long resided with me, 
for his soul took up residence in my body many years ago.  
He used every trick imaginable to delude me into following 
his lead."  Gil-Galad could tell that Haldir did not 
believe him; the skepticism on his face was obvious, and he 
was glancing towards the combatants with increased 
frequency.  As much as he hated to hurry this, for it would 
sound even more odd without adequate background, he had no 
choice.  "Sauron found that he could not break my will, so 
he tried to weaken my resolve by punishing me in the mines.  
Over the centuries, he destroyed much of my memory and 
greatly weakened me physically, but it was only recently as 
I neared death that he gained a tenuous hold over me.  He 
did not dare to wait to try and strengthen it for fear that 
I would die and he would be again without physical form.  
So the Nazgul ordered the guards to let Elwyyda escape, 
knowing that she would tell her story and my people would 
come for me."

"Enough of this!"  Haldir interrupted as Lord Elrond was 
sent spinning into a large urn.  It shattered, scattering 
earth and plant material all over the previously pristine 
floor.  "I do not know what illness afflicts your mind, but 
there is no more time for talk!"  Haldir grabbed Zirak and 
thrust the sword into Gildor's hands.  "Do what you must, 
but have a care--that one is skilled, whoever he is."

"No!"  Gil-Galad managed to put a restraining hand on the 
sword as Gildor tried to move past him.  "You must not!  
That is Sauron himself that Elrond faces, and I can do no 
more than I already have to restrain him.  If you try to 
help you will only be killed!  But if you destroy me, 
Sauron's spirit has no way to deceive the elves.  He cannot 
use another body, for all of the other high-ranking elves 
he captured were killed when he tried to merge with them.  
I alone managed to survive the process.  The only others 
who still live are those he considered beneath his notice.  
If I die, it will take him centuries, possibly millennia, 
to return, if he manages to do so at all!"

Gildor paid no attention, but wrested the sword from Gil-
Galad's grasp while Haldir pulled him back by arms wrapped 
firmly about his waist.  Seeing that Gildor meant to 
foolishly go to his death and being unable in his weakened 
state to break Haldir's hold, the king played his last 
card.  People had often said that he could command armies 
with his voice alone, and that his presence was almost a 
tangible thing.  Gil-Galad himself had always believed that 
that had more to do with the position he occupied than any 
inherent trait, but now he hoped he had been wrong.  "Stop!  
I am Erenion Gil-Galad, last of the High Kings of the 
Noldor!" Gildor spun around at his proclamation, his 
expression one of shock, awe and dawning comprehension.  
"You are obviously Noldorin, Gildor, so you and all your 
family owe me allegiance!  As your lord and king I command 
you, kill me now!"

*   *   *

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 28/?

*   *   *

Elrond leapt back as Sauron's blade cut a gash in the air a 
hair's breadth from his chest.  Grabbing hold of the heavy 
velvet curtains at the window, he yanked them from their 
sturdy pinnings and threw them over his opponent's head.  
Unfortunately, although the maneuver did save his life, it 
did little to slow down his adversary, who deftly shredded 
the curtains and once again took the offensive.  Elrond was 
under no illusions as to the eventual outcome of this 
contest.  He was descended of a Maiar, but such blood in 
him ran thin, whereas Sauron was fully Maiar and had been 
trained by the Ainur Melkor for centuries.  Ultimately, 
Elrond knew he would lose; that he had been able to hold 
his own this long he could only attribute to Sauron's 
current weakness and Gil-Galad's interference.

Although he hated to even think of it, Elrond recognised 
that a link of sorts had been formed between Sauron and the 
High King over the centuries in which they were bound 
together; Gil-Galad was able to exert some manner of 
control, or at least restraint, over the evil force that 
dwelled within him, but for how long was impossible to 
tell, and Elrond was running out of time.  The strain of 
keeping the connection between him and the king was 
beginning to show; his movements were more sluggish than 
usual and his ability to think clearly was evaporating.  
But he could not stop, could not give in, or Sauron would 
overpower the king and force him to do his bidding.  He had 
to hang on a little longer and pray for a miracle.

Beyond the physical strain of the combat, was the bitter 
disappointment of finding out the true state of affairs.  
He had been so encouraged by the king's evident improvement 
over the past week, that he had allowed himself to believe 
that everything might actually end well.  That very 
morning, when he made the connection between them, it had 
seemed that his prayers had finally been answered.

Gil-Galad's mind had seemed different somehow, when Elrond 
entered the darkness and tried to determine where to begin 
the process of repair.  He had managed a few minor 
improvements in the past few days, but the extent of the 
damage made it difficult to know how to proceed.  He kept 
to his plan to begin slowly, as he had little experience 
with trauma of this magnitude, and to gain practice from 
healing the minor injuries before he faced the more severe 
and probably more complex ones.   Approaching a large 
mirror that was only slightly cracked, he gazed into it, 
trying to discern which memory it housed.  All he saw, 
however, was the main library at Lindon, and no one 
appeared to be about.

He waited, but minutes passed and no sign of movement was 
visible except for the fire crackling in the grate.  It was 
a puzzle, for the mirrors were supposed to be receptacles 
for the king's memories, yet he was not even in the scene.  
For a moment Elrond considered the possibility that he was 
simply seeing things from the king's perspective, a feeling 
with which he was beginning to be familiar, but that was 
not possible in this instance.  He had spent many hours in 
this room and knew it well.  There was no way for anyone to 
view things from that perspective, unless they were 
standing in the middle of a bookshelf.

Moving closer, Elrond twisted about to try to see more of 
the scene, and then he noticed it--a faint ripple across 
the surface of the mirror, rather the way a leaf dropped 
into a still pond will slightly disturb the waters.  
Instinctively he put out a hand to touch it, having never 
seen any of the other mirrors do this, only to have his 
hand pass through the surface and into the room beyond.  He 
froze for an instant, thoughts racing through his mind as 
he tried to imagine what could be causing this, but the 
only idea that caught his imagination was that, perhaps, 
this was the king's way of attempting to contact him.  
Elrond had yet to manage a meaningful conversation with the 
king, who could only give an occasional weak reply to very 
basic questions.  Anything more than inquiries about his 
comfort or food preferences received only a beautiful, but 
blank, stare in return.  It had been extremely frustrating 
to have to converse with one of the greatest minds he had 
ever known as if he was no more than a dim-witted child.

But Elrond had sensed on several occasions that Gil-Galad 
was trying to communicate--such as in the strange 
occurrence with the book.  Elrond had been reading aloud to 
the king from a volume of elvish history, concentrating on 
the fall of Gondolin.  He had placed it on the table by the 
bed when the king drifted off to sleep, but when he picked 
it up later that day, his bookmark was gone and it lay open 
to the tale of the Last Alliance.  The somewhat lurid 
painting on the left page showed Isildur ready to cut the 
ring from the hand of a menacing Sauron.  Elrond had winced 
at the sight and quickly closed the book, having never 
liked reliving the last battle he had fought beside his 
king.  He preferred to dwell on older history, which did 
not resonate so painfully.  He had dismissed it as the work 
of a servant, and taken up the story where he had left off; 
but when he went back to it the next day, it was again 
showing that horrible painting.  He had asked a few 
servants about it, but no one admitted to the act and he 
had finally put it from his mind.  But now he wondered . . 
.

Elrond decided to accept the invitation, if that was indeed 
what it was, and without another thought stepped through 
the mirror into the library he knew so well.  It was a 
strange feeling to be back, as the last time he had seen it 
he had been in mourning for the king, almost out of his 
mind with grief, and now he entered once more in search of 
him.  But his initial impression had been correct; although 
the room was exactly as he remembered it, no one was there.

Elrond exited into the hallways and paused, listening.  It 
was strange to be here again, in the place that held for 
him so many memories both sweet and tragic, but even 
stranger to hear no laughter, no songs, no light tread of 
elvin feet, no pretty maids gossiping or soldiers boasting 
. . . one thing the High King's court had never been was 
silent, yet this place echoed as if nothing but ghosts 
lived here.  Elrond repressed a shudder at the thought of 
how close that might be to the truth.  The only inhabitant 
now was not far from a ghost, although even he seemed to be 
absent.  Elrond was almost glad, for he didn't know how he 
would react to seeing his king whole and uninjured once 
more, his health and beauty fully restored, just as he had 
been when last he walked these halls.  The very idea sent 
such a flow of excitement through him that Elrond actually 
had to clutch at the wall for support.  Being back here in 
Lindon, if only in a shadow of it, along with the 
possibility of being able to talk to the king once again, 
was all too much; the weeks of strain struggled against his 
usual calm to make even breathing difficult.

Elrond leaned against the wall and briefly allowed himself 
the indulgence of wishing all the years away.  If only he 
could go back, if only this place could be real, and all 
the errors and mistakes of the past could fall away . . . 
It had all been his fault, every miscalculation: he had 
allowed himself to be drawn away from his lord's side in 
battle, thereby making the king vulnerable to Sauron's 
attack; he had failed to see the king's danger before it 
was too late and had not prevented his injuries; he had not 
looked long or hard enough for him after the battle was 
over, and had thereby condemned him to centuries of misery; 
he had usurped in all but name his position, and in his 
pride had assumed that not taking the title of king 
exonerated him from assuming powers he was never meant to 
have.  Elrond sank to his knees as the burden of grief and 
guilt became too much--so many mistakes, so many stupid 
errors, and yet none of his failings had hurt him, but 
rather the one he said he loved.  But how could he have 
loved him in truth, and treated him so?

And then, suddenly, it was like a veil was lifted from the 
scene.  The colours brightened, and the air became rich 
with the smell of spicy food being prepared in the 
kitchens, oiled leather and hay from the stables just 
outside, and the faint, slightly sweet scent of the candles 
in their sconces.  All the sounds he had previously missed 
came washing over him too, but Elrond barely noticed.  For 
his eyes were fixed as if hypnotized on the only thing in 
this strange world that mattered, the elf who came striding 
down the corridor, dressed in a tunic of his favourite 
royal blue, sucking on the end of a quill as Elrond had 
seen him do a thousand times when pondering something.   
Elrond knelt there, gaping like a simpleton, until the king 
almost ran into him.  Then Gil-Galad looked up from his 
book, with that dazed expression he always had when 
surprised out of contemplation, and regarded Elrond with 
astonishment.  "Elrond, whatever are you doing there?  Are 
you ill?  Don't you remember that we have a council meeting 
in a few minutes?"

Elrond just continued to gape, aware of how silly he 
probably looked but unable to respond.  It was somehow 
worse than when he had recognised the living skeleton they 
had brought in as the High King.  This elf was even more 
strong, vibrant and alive than he remembered him, and it 
made Elrond's betrayal all the more obvious.  He had been 
the one who reduced this glorious creature to the shell he 
now was; how did he dare talk to him, dare even raise his 
eyes in his presence?  "Elrond?"  The king knelt before him 
and regarded him with concern, his hand smoothing the hair 
over Elrond's ears in a gesture so tender and so familiar 
that it was truly torture.  Yet Elrond leaned into it, 
unable to stop himself, craving more of that touch that he 
had been so long denied.  Before he could stop himself, he 
grasped the king--his king, always his--around the neck and 
drew him down into the kiss he had been waiting centuries 
to give.  And it was in that instant, when their lips met, 
that Elrond knew that something was terribly wrong.

He had been so surprised that he did nothing, just let the 
king take over the kiss, which he did with confident ease.  
It was a passionate, experienced expression . . . of 
absolutely nothing.  The feeling Elrond had known so well--
the warmth, the love, the caring--was completely absent.  
This kiss was only a gesture, and a hollow one at that.  
When they broke apart, Elrond managed, in a voice that 
sounded hoarse and quite unlike his own, to assure the king 
that he was perfectly well, and had merely felt dizzy for a 
moment.  "Good, then come with me--we have that cursed 
meeting to finish, and then lunch will be upon us."  Gil-
Galad smiled, but his beautiful eyes did not reflect it.  
"I would much prefer to spend the entire day with you, my 
love, but duty calls.  Still, there is tonight."

Elrond nodded and followed him down the corridor, trying to 
seem as nonchalant as his turbulent emotions would allow, 
and attempting to concentrate his mind on the puzzles at 
hand.  Why was Gil-Galad unaware that this was a memory?  
And if he was a part of the memory, why could Elrond 
interact with him as he had not been able to do with any of 
the other scenes he had witnessed?  And more worrying 
still, why was he so very different in essence that Elrond 
remembered?

Luckily, the council session proved to be one which, while 
Elrond did not recall it specifically, was so much like 
many others in which he had taken part over the years, that 
it required little of his concentration.  Titton was 
droning on about new taxation procedures in his usual dry 
monotone, while Gil-Galad and the rest of the council 
pretended absorbed interest.  In reality, most were 
probably day dreaming, and would only wake up when Titton 
began his summation, which would be much briefer and more 
to the point than anything else he would say all day.  It 
usually also contained enough information to allow a 
judgment to be formed without listening to the preamble.  
Elrond himself was too flabbergasted to concentrate on 
anything, and could only hope no one would ask him for a 
response.  His head was reeling and he could not make any 
sense of the insanity into which he'd landed.  Then a flash 
of blue at the doorway caught his eye.

Elrond decided he was going insane.  He'd been under too 
much of a strain lately, that was all there was to it.  
What he thought he was seeing was simply impossible.  He 
turned his attention back to the shining wooden surface of 
the table in front of him and tried to sink into it and 
absorb the impressions of the tree from which it had been 
formed.  This sort of thing usually soothed him, but not in 
this case.  This tree had died in agony, after having been 
struck by a bolt of lightening during a storm, and for some 
reason he was unable to see any of the more pleasant 
memories that must have preceded that.  All he could sense 
was the way the lightening had felt like liquid fire as it 
spread through the tree, searing living tissue into dying, 
charred cinders . . . Elrond jerked his attention back to 
the discussion at hand before he embarrassed himself by 
crying out, but he still found it impossible to 
concentrate.  Titton's droning made him want to throttle 
him, or perhaps to stand up and scream, but he was trapped 
by not knowing how real any of this was; although he had 
often fantasized in long meetings about killing Titton in 
various imaginative ways, he really did not think the elf's 
inherent dullness warranted it.

Eventually, his eyes moved back to the doorway of their own 
accord, and there it was, that oh so familiar hand, still 
wearing Vilya and waving at him energetically from the 
bottom of the doorframe.  He wondered what position an elf 
would have to be in to do that--was the High King actually 
lying on the floor?--but no, that could not be the king, 
for he was sitting at the head of the table looking bored.  
Elrond finally could take it no longer and abruptly stood, 
murmured an apology about not feeling well, and fled the 
room.  Outside in the corridor he looked about, but found 
no phantom of his imagination lurking about.  It was small 
comfort under the circumstances.  He sought out a stone 
seat in the gardens, long a favourite spot for privacy.  It 
was enclosed on three sides by an old vine, its main stem 
as thick around as a small tree trunk, which this time of 
year cascaded falls of bright green leaves about the little 
bench, all but obscuring it from view.

What was happening to him?  Was the king's mental 
instability affecting him, or was it possible that the 
opposite was true?  What if, while intending to help the 
king, he was actually hurting him by merging when his own 
emotions were so unsteady?  In Gil-Galad's weakened state, 
he might well be unable to handle the influx of feelings 
from Elrond's mind, which could in turn be causing even 
more instability in his own . . . Elrond's confused train 
of thought was interrupted by another flash of blue, this 
time from beyond the leaves of his bower.  Deciding to find 
out once and for all what was going on, he reached around 
the side of the vine and pulled the elf beyond into his 
arms.

A brief "oh!" was all he received in reply, until the elf 
twisted about, enveloping Elrond in a heartbreakingly 
familiar embrace.  This time, when their lips met, there 
was no feeling of disorientation, no strangeness, no 
doubts; all was as it had always been and Elrond was, as 
ever, entranced.  "I'm sorry, but I've been wanting to do 
that for so long . . . "  The elf in his arms looked at him 
with the same slightly uncertain expression Elrond had 
often pondered and never understood.  It was as if Gil-
Galad was unsure of him, and was grateful for any period of 
time Elrond chose to give him.  It had never seemed to 
matter how many times Elrond assured him of his beauty and 
charisma, of the fact that he was lucky to have the king 
waste any of his valuable time with him, that half of the 
elves in Lindon would joyously and immediately take his 
place, none of it ever seemed to penetrate.  That charming 
uncertainty and complete absence of arrogance was one of 
many things that had been missing earlier.  The other elf, 
whoever he was, might look just like the king, but he 
definitely did not feel like him.

"What . . . who . . . ?"  Elrond tried to put his confusion 
into words, but the king held two fingers up to his lips, 
quieting him with a gesture that was probably not supposed 
to be sensual, but managed nonetheless.

"I will explain, but we can't stay here.  He is already 
looking for you, to continue the charade until you drop 
your guard.  He would have killed you earlier, but he 
sensed that I was near and preferred to wait until you were 
alone.  He knows I am weak and cannot watch him all the 
time . . . "

"Hush."  It was Elrond's turn to quiet the king, who was 
growing agitated.  "I don't understand, but I will follow 
you anywhere."

"Quickly, then."  Gil-Galad rose from the bench and, 
clasping Elrond's hand, drew him swiftly but silently 
through the winding pathways of the gardens beyond the 
great kitchens.  Elrond had always preferred these wilder 
and homelier gardens to the more formal, manicured types 
that fronted the castle.  Despite long years away, he found 
the beds of turnips and squash, cabbages and beans quite 
familiar, and could have made his way through the herb 
gardens beyond from their scent alone.  They soon made 
their way to the forest, which was really only a small 
patch of trees surrounding a pretty lake.  Almost 
completely round in shape, it had some added mineral in the 
water that caused it to have a green tint even under a 
bright blue sky, resulting in its prosaic name of Laica.  
Elrond had always thought of it was a great jewel, adorning 
the already breathtaking beauty of Lindon, and it made his 
heart glad when the king settled alongside it, hiding the 
two of them in the long grasses.

Elrond wasted no time.  If he was going insane, so be it, 
but at least he intended to enjoy the trip.  "Amin lava, 
A'maelamin, you have captured me!"  Drawing the king down 
on top of him, Elrond delighted in the weight and solidity 
of his lord, which was so lacking in the body he had been 
tending recently.  His thoughts turned dark briefly then, 
at the knowledge that this was not, could not, be real, but 
when Gil-Galad's lips met his he forgot everything else.  
The kiss was surprisingly passionate on the king's part, 
and Elrond gave into it gladly, reveling in the unusual 
forcefulness of his lover.  They used no words and needed 
none; the old patterns effortlessly reasserted themselves 
and it was almost as if they had never been apart at all.

Elrond slid the blue velvet tunic off and gently settled 
his lover back onto the meadow, overcome as always by his 
beauty.  His crisp white shirt soon joined the tunic on the 
grass, and Elrond was able to taste again the skin of his 
lover, smooth and taut and ithil pale against his flowing 
dark hair and the bright green blanket surrounding them.  
Elrond paused even as the king threaded his hands through 
his hair, pulling him closer.  He felt unworthy to take 
even more pleasure from one who had given so much and 
received so little from him in the past.  "Melethryn," he 
paused, wishing for some of Gil-Galad's eloquence and 
failing to find the right words.  How to say that he had 
never deserved the king, had never been worthy of a 
fraction of the care he lavished on him, and in the end had 
unknowingly betrayed him?  How to tell the heartbreaking 
truth that Gil-Galad was far better off without him?

"I know, I know," the king murmured against his neck, hip 
lips causing shudders of pleasure to cascade through 
Elrond, "we do not have time for this.  But oh my beloved, 
how I have missed you!"  He caught Elrond again in a deep 
kiss, almost as if he was trying to merge their souls as 
well as their bodies, and all other thoughts fled as the 
king began to whisper words of his love and passion, of 
Elrond's purity of soul and beauty of heart, and of the 
long, empty years when he could not hold him.

"But that need never be true again," Elrond assured him 
fiercely, "I do not know why you want me--I have never 
known--but as long as you do, I will be beside you."  And I 
will never fail you again, he promised himself, kissing his 
lover as if he would never let him go.  He suddenly noticed 
as he pressed his lips to his king's eyes, that he was 
weeping.  "Do not cry, beloved.  I will never leave you, 
never fail you, I swear it!"

Gil-Galad shook his head, his tears becoming more obvious 
as he struggled to control them.  "Elrond," he whispered 
brokenly, "you do not understand.  It is I who have failed 
you, as I have all the elves.  I should have been stronger, 
but I . . . "

"Were never anything but a weak, puling coward of a 
creature who I still cannot believe I have managed to put 
up with all these years!"  Elrond spun around at the harsh 
words, to see another Gil-Galad standing at the top of the 
bank, sword in hand.  "If you were not the means for me to 
destroy all the elves, I swear I would have killed you 
centuries ago, just for being so annoying."

Elrond rapidly looked between the two, searching for some 
clue as to what this was all about, but all he saw on 
either face was revulsion and hatred.  The newcomer 's 
expression gave proof that he meant every word of his 
statement, while the High King looked as if he would love 
nothing more than holding his double's head under Laica's 
waters until he drowned.   "Get behind me, Elrond," Gil-
Galad ordered, and the tone he used was not one that 
brooked argument.

"You cannot protect him forever," the double looked past 
the king to where Elrond had quickly scrambled to his feet.  
"I will enjoy killing you.  You were always in the way, 
always the impediment to everything I tried to do.  This 
one would have given in years ago, except for you.  I could 
never manage to erase the memory of you from his mind, and 
he clung to it like a raft in a storm."  He smiled, "But 
thanks to your acceptance of my little invitation, I will 
not have that problem for much longer!"  The double 
launched himself from the bank and Elrond reached 
instinctively to his hip for his sword, but his hand 
encountered nothing but soft cotton material.  He never 
carried arms in Lorien, for what would be the need?  His 
mental projection was clothed just as he had been when he 
made the connection to the king, in a soft grey robe 
without so much as a piece of armor or even a small knife 
on his person.

Elrond did not understand how it occurred, for the High 
King had also been unarmed, but suddenly a sword was in his 
hand and he swung it up in time to prevent his double from 
cleaving Elrond in two.  The two weapons did not ring 
together so much as explode, and the High King fell to his 
knees in apparent agony from the force of the blast.  His 
double rolled over in the grass, seemingly stunned for an 
instant, but he righted himself almost at once.  "That 
won't work, you fool! How many times have you tried to kill 
me?  How many times must you fail before you realise it 
cannot be done?  I am stronger than you--accept it.  Attack 
me again and it will be years before you're conscious 
again, if ever--because after I finish your precious little 
elves, I will take great pleasure in destroying the rest of 
you!"

"Don't threaten me, Sauron," Gil-Galad replied, getting 
slowly to his feet and placing himself once more between 
his double and Elrond.  "It weakens you to attack me and 
you know it.  Your plans will fail if you waste too much 
energy fighting me, or perhaps I'll die--and that would 
scuttle all your hopes, wouldn't it?"  The king kept his 
eyes on his double, the sword raised unwaveringly in front 
of him, but he addressed Elrond.  "I am sorry, Elrond, I 
had hoped to have time to explain this in detail, but that 
is apparently denied me.  What you saw in my mind 
concerning the Nazgul's experiments was true, except the 
part about them failing.  Sauron made me show you that, but 
it was only another of his lies.  The experiments WERE 
generally useless, just resulting in the deaths of the 
elves involved, but for some reason I survived the process.  
Sauron and I have been . . . cohabiting . . . now for quite 
some time.  He wants to use me to distract and divide the 
elves while his army attacks, but I am not keen on the 
idea."

Sauron was leaning on his sword, looking bored, as the king 
explained.  Elrond knew he should feel horrified by what he 
had just heard, but at the moment was too stunned to feel 
much of anything.  The High King and Sauron, sharing a 
body?  It was too bizarre to be believed.  Yet the evidence 
was right before his eyes, had been there for some time, 
for he had felt something wrong from the moment Gil-Galad 
returned to him.  Then after the session with Thranduil, 
when they had seen the Nazgul's handiwork for themselves, 
he should have at least suspected the truth, but he had 
been blind.  The idea of the most beautiful soul he had 
even known being invaded by . . . by . . . that thing . . . 
A rush of rage filled him at even the thought.  Sauron had 
destroyed his happiness, killed thousands of elves at 
Barad-dur, tortured his lover almost to death, and now had 
returned to finish his work.  No.  It would not happen that 
way.

"You want to attack me, don't you?"  Sauron smiled, and it 
was grotesque to see that distorted expression on the 
king's features.  "Go ahead.  Take your lover's sword and 
run me through."  He tossed his own weapon aside, and it 
came to rest largely in the water, its hilt just peeking 
out of the gently lapping waves.  "I am defenseless, what 
is stopping you?  Or are you as much of a coward as he is?"

"No Elrond!"  Gil-Galad, put out an arm to restrain him.  
"He knows you cannot win against him.  This is his arena, 
his game!  He knows the powers of the mind much better than 
you do--he has had centuries to learn them.  He can call 
another weapon to him in an instant.  Come with me and I'll 
return you back to the portal.  You must warn the others of 
what is happening, tell them to listen to nothing I say!"

"Yes, Elrond, listen to your king.  Run away and save 
yourself."  Sauron smiled even broader, as if genuinely 
amused.  "But know this.  If you do, he dies today.  If you 
warn the elves of my plan, then he is of no more use to me, 
so why should I keep him alive?  And he will die in torment 
and agony, let us be very clear on that."

Elrond regarded with horror the very personification of 
evil, and suddenly it did not look to him at all like his 
king.  The physical beauty was still there, but the 
radiance, the wonderful inner light that had been Gil-
Galad's trademark, was missing.  How could he have ever 
thought that this foul, diseased creature was his king?

"Elrond, come with me!"  Gil-Galad managed to drag him up 
the bank, keeping him close by his side all the while.  
They made it as far as the castle's main hall, seemingly 
unobserved by the elves who laughed and chatted about them, 
but then the doors leading to the library wing closed in 
their face as they tried to enter.

"Come Elrond," Sauron called as they turned, and a sword 
appeared just in front of Elrond's face, hovering there 
although not held up by any hands.  "The choice is yours.  
Do you betray your king, or do you fight for him?  Do you 
run away and leave him to my tender mercies, or defend him 
as your honour requires?"  Elrond could tell that Gil-Galad 
was saying something, but he could not hear it over the 
rushing in his ears.  Sauron's words, however, echoed with 
a strange clarity.  "Come, Elrond, think on it.  If you 
defeat me, your lover lives with you in peace.  That is 
what you've wanted, isn't it?  What you've prayed for?  I 
was once Annatar, the giver of gifts; consider this my gift 
to you--a fair chance to win.  For after all, I am weak, 
too, in this guise, and all my battle aids and allies are 
far beyond my reach.  You may win all you desire, if you 
are brave enough to take it."

The sword lowered until it was actually nudging Elrond's 
hand, while Sauron's voice, clothed in the honeyed tones of 
the one Elrond loved best in all the world, went on.  "Of 
course, you may lose, and then I will kill you, but think 
of how you will feel if you leave, knowing that you are 
betraying your lord to a certain death.  Would not that be 
far worse than dying here, today, defending him?"

Elrond's hand closed about the sword, his own promise 
ringing in his ears as powerfully as Sauron's words.  He 
did not really think he could win, but he simply could not 
fail his king yet again.  It would be physically impossible 
to walk away, knowing what would happen to Gil-Galad as 
soon as he did so.  Sauron's eyes gleamed as Elrond's hand 
tightened about the hilt.  "That's good, my little 
Peredhil.  Now we will correct some things that went wrong 
in the past!"

*   *   *

TBC

Amin lava, A'maelamin--I yield, my Beloved.



Title: Wild Justice 29/?

*   *   *

Elrohir looked suspiciously at Erestor.  His father's chief 
councilor was wearing his innocent face, all big dark eyes 
and a sanctimonious expression, which was never a good 
sign.  On the other hand, he did have a point.  "But what 
if he really doesn't know?  What if he just sits there and 
picks at his nails or something?  I am not going to baby 
sit that . . . that traitorous son of an orc while you two 
face the mines alone!"

"I am not suggesting that you do.  But none of us wants to 
take the main entrance, do we?  And he DOES know another 
way in, Elrohir, I'm convinced of it."

"And yet you couldn't get him to tell you?"  After the 
scenes he had witnessed in Lorien, Elrohir found it 
difficult to imagine Erestor failing to obtain any 
information he wanted from anyone, especially a coward 
liked Tuor.

"I AM persuading him to tell us.  There are many ways to 
attain your desires, Elrohir; as you grow older you will 
learn that not everything requires a sword.  I am simply 
choosing a different method for this job, one that will 
give us the information we want faster than forcing it out 
of him.  Not that that doesn't have a certain appeal . . . 
"

"So you'll do it?"  Glorfindel broke in.  Elrohir regarded 
his lover thoughtfully.  His blue eyes were large and 
hopeful, and for some reason he looked ridiculously young 
at the moment.  Elrohir was tempted to ask him why he 
claimed to be in love with someone whom he obviously 
believed a half-wit, but refrained.  It would only insure 
him a chance to become very well acquainted with a tree, at 
least until he could slip out of the layers of rope 
Glorfindel would use to tie him to it.  As Erestor said, 
there were many ways of attaining one's desires.

"All right, but this had better work."

"It will."  Erestor looked appropriately solemn, but a 
relieved smile broke out over Glorfindel's face.  Honestly, 
Elrohir thought in amazement, someone really needed to give 
him a few lessons in deception.  On the other hand, it was 
rather nice being able to read him so easily.  Odd how love 
could change one's perceptions; not so long ago, Glorfindel 
had been as difficult for him to read as anyone else.  
"Just wait for us to leave, then watch him closely," 
Erestor continued.  "As soon as he makes his move, follow 
him until you see where the entrance is, then come and get 
us."

"And you'll be waiting where you said, just past the bend?"

"Absolutely."  Erestor's eyes never wavered, and his tone 
was firm.  Elrohir almost smiled.  He was good.

"Very well, Erestor, this shouldn't take long."  Elrohir 
managed to look sulky while happily contemplating tying 
Tuor to a tree as soon as the group departed, then 
following them at a distance.  There was no way they were 
leaving him behind.  Just because Glorfindel had somehow 
persuaded Lord Ulmo to resurrect him once didn't mean it 
would happen again, and Elrohir firmly intended to insure 
that it wasn't necessary.  His lover had already been 
wounded once protecting him, and that was more than enough.

The little band shouldered their weapons and disappeared 
over the ledge where, as Elrohir knew perfectly well, they 
would not wait for him at all.  He did not have much time 
to deal with Tuor, but he needed to make sure the others 
were out of earshot first.  Gagging Tuor would be easy 
enough, but the three wounded elves who remained behind 
would certainly cut up rough about it.  Glorfindel was the 
idol of most young elves, be they from Imladris or no, and 
they had assured him with shining eyes that they would 
carefully watch Elrohir.  He had not been able to hear 
their professions of loyalty, but he hadn't needed to do 
so--the narrowed glances they sent his way had told the 
tale clearly enough.  Fortunately, two of them were staying 
behind because of leg injuries, making it unlikely that 
they could follow him when he ran off.  The other had lost 
a large amount of blood from a knife wound in the stomach, 
and although not in any real danger, would not be 
performing any heroics for some time.  They could still use 
their lungs, however, so Elrohir sat himself on a fallen 
tree trunk and concentrated on cleaning his sword while he 
counted off the seconds.

It was just as he was nearing four hundred, and debating 
how much more of a lead he could afford to give them, when 
he noticed something.  Tuor twitched.  It wasn't an obvious 
movement--indeed, the other elves did not seem to have 
remarked on it at all--but it was definitely a twitch.  
Watching him as Erestor had taught him to do, without being 
obvious, Elrohir saw him glance repeatedly at the mouth of 
the cave.  Now, this was a problem.  Did he stick with the 
original plan and follow the group off to the main 
entrance, which they would likely reach in less than an 
hour, or did he stay and keep an eye on Tuor?  He was 
virtually certain Erestor had been lying, but there was 
always the off chance that he hadn't, and even if he HAD, 
it didn't mean that he was wrong.  Tuor might actually be 
up to something, and if so, it was only fair that Elrohir 
give him a chance to try his luck.  Then he'd tie him to a 
tree and leave the others to shoot arrows at him.

Having arranged things to his satisfaction, Elrohir got up 
and moved over to the wounded, keeping his back to Tuor, 
who was seated some distance away.  While murmuring 
encouragement at the trio, checking their wounds and giving 
them more miruvor, Elrohir nonetheless kept his senses 
attuned to Tuor, whom he soon heard rise, stretch, and walk 
casually towards the cave as if it was a perfectly natural 
thing for an elf to do.  Elrohir gave him a few seconds' 
head start, then just as casually followed him.  This might 
prove interesting after all.

*   *   *

Celeborn collapsed on the limb of a particularly high tree, 
absolutely exhausted.  He could never remember running so 
far so fast in all his life, and honestly thought he might 
faint.  He would have liked to move to the ground, as his 
position sprawled along the limb was a bit precarious in 
his current state, but he had used the last of his strength 
climbing the cursed thing to begin with and didn't have the 
energy.  He hadn't known Thranduil's crazy scheme was 
likely to kill him!

The branch shook slightly as the Mirkwood ruler settled 
himself beside Celeborn's head.  Celeborn wanted to make a 
sarcastic comment about the king's appearance, which was, 
infuriatingly enough, as pristine as always except for a 
few stray splatters of orc blood.  He even had the perfect 
line--that he'd never before believed the reports that 
Mirkwood elves actually used shellac on their hair, but was 
revising his opinion--but unfortunately did not have the 
extra breath to deliver it.  Elbereth, but he now knew it 
was possible to die from exhaustion!

"Have some miruvor, Celeborn--you look awful."  Thranduil 
tried to pass him a flask, but Celeborn weakly waved it 
away.  Why waste a precious drink on a dying elf?  "Come 
now, stop acting like you're half dead.  It was a good run!  
You should get out of that conference hall of yours more 
often--you're getting soft!"  Thranduil didn't wait for a 
reply, which was just as well as Celeborn's throat had 
almost closed up in rage, but dragged his head into his lap 
and poured enough miruvor down him to cause him to choke.

"Would you stop that!"  Celeborn sputtered and wheezed, his 
words largely garbled as he tried to avoid asphyxiation, 
but Thranduil must have understood for he let up trying to 
drown him.

"Then sit up and look about.  Isn't this perfect?  My spies 
told me about this place long ago, but I've never had the 
chance to see it myself until now.  Glorious!"  Thranduil 
slapped his thigh, thankfully not the one on which 
Celeborn's head was pillowed, and grinned down at him.  
"Then again, you do look comfortable," he commented, 
combing his fingers through the slightly tangled silver 
mass that spread across his legs.  From this angle he was 
all teeth and big green eyes, although those sensual lips 
were also nicely in view, especially when they unexpectedly 
descended on his.  Celeborn shifted, wondering how many of 
his elves were witnessing this and might chance to mention 
it in his wife's hearing, then Thranduil's tongue slipped 
past his lips and he momentarily forgot to care.

Thranduil had kissed him before, of course, on one very 
memorable occasion, but his memories of that night were 
hazy.  He had felt very strange the next morning and still 
had half a suspicion that Elrond had drugged him, but was 
unable to prove anything.  In any case, he had tried to put 
it from his mind as much as possible, as he had given his 
word not to require revenge, and recent events had helped 
by giving him numerous other things to think about.  Now, 
however, he decided that he probably should have worried 
about the king's intentions, but that talented tongue gave 
him no chance to protest as it curled sensually around his.  
He told himself that he could always plead exhaustion to 
Galadriel.

"Why did you do that?," he asked in what he hoped was a 
casual manner when, his lengthy exploration finally 
complete, Thranduil released him.  Or, at least, he allowed 
him to breathe once more, but the big warm hand on his 
chest stayed where it was, insuring that Celeborn remained 
trapped in the king's lap.

"Because I felt like it.  Don't you ever do things just 
because you want to?"

Celeborn winced.  The last few times that had happened, he 
had ended up tied to Elrond's bed in an extremely 
humiliating manner, then hung suspended upside down while 
being molested by two drunk elf lords.  He had since 
decided that spontaneity might not be his style.  "Not 
usually."

"Well that's your problem!  You should get out more.  Come 
to the Greenwood sometime, and I'll show you about.  We'll 
have a grand time!"  As Thranduil's hand was currently 
sliding down his chest in a rather obvious manner, Celeborn 
did not bother trying to resist a smirk.  He wondering if 
the king had a duplicate of Erestor's infernal wheel tucked 
away in those extensive dungeons of his; he wouldn't put it 
past him.  "I think we should deal with the situation at 
hand before planning holiday arrangements, don't you?"

Thranduil sighed, and stopped his exploration.  "Someone 
should loosen you up sometime," he muttered, taking a drink 
from his flask.  At least, that was what Celeborn thought 
he heard, but when he indignantly asked him to repeat the 
statement, Thranduil merely smiled and agreed that they 
needed to get on with their mission.

The two dropped to the ground a few minutes later, feeling 
somewhat refreshed for their brief rest and drink, but 
Celeborn was still unsteady on his feet.  He was frankly 
amazed that Thranduil did not appear to be so as well, for 
they had covered a good thirty miles at an all out run, 
something that had left even the more fit elves gasping for 
breath.  However tired they all were, they had at least 
accomplished their goal of reaching the obscure Pallas Pass 
ahead of the orcish army, which would probably not arrive 
until dawn at the earliest.  When it did, it would get a 
rather large surprise, assuming that it did not change 
direction before then, and that the elves' strength held 
out for the colossal task ahead.

"To work!"  Thranduil rubbed his hands together in glee, 
seemingly unfazed by the chore to be completed.  Celeborn 
was less sanguine, especially once he noticed the state of 
his tunic, which was torn, blood spattered and sweat 
soaked.  Oh well, it would be in even worse shape by dawn, 
by which time he'd probably resemble and orc himself, while 
Thranduil would no doubt look precisely the same.

The king began pointing out to the elves, who were 
reluctantly pulling themselves back to their feet, where to 
begin, making rapid calculations of the optimum points from 
sight alone.  Celeborn stood and watched him, waiting for 
his heart rate to drop to something approaching normal, and 
was rather surprised when it didn't seem so inclined.  
Thranduil strode about, the sun gleaming on his golden 
hair, white teeth flashing as he laughed and chatted with 
his elves, clapping this one on the back for making a good 
suggestion, joking with another about the number of orcs 
they would obliterate in the morning, while his sharp green 
eyes searched the rocky hill on which they stood for the 
best possible vantage points.  It was an impressive 
display, even Celeborn had to admit, but it did not explain 
his current blood pressure.

"Thranduil, can I get your opinion on something?"  He had 
waited for the elves to be employed some distance away 
before disturbing the king, who looked as if he was having 
a splendid time ordering everyone about.  Celeborn had 
located a small stream, which fed into the much larger 
River Gladden not far away, and was attempting to wash out 
his clothes.  He hated being dirty, as all elves did, but 
his current state bordered on filthy and he simply could 
not put up with it any longer.  He had pulled off his 
tunic, which he did not intend to ever put on again, and 
his shirt, which he was scrubbing on a rock.

"What is it?"  Thranduil's voice came from behind him, and 
Celeborn smiled.  Be more spontaneous, hm?  Do things just 
because you feel like it?  The king would regret giving him 
that advice.

"Look here, what do you make of this?"  Celeborn pointed 
out a spot in the shallows, and as soon as Thranduil leaned 
over for a look, he gave that firm backside a strong push.  
Thranduil made a good effort to maintain his balance, but 
toppled over after a brief struggle, landing face first in 
the bubbling stream.  He emerged a few seconds later, 
dripping wet and wearing a small, wiggling fish in his 
hair.  Celeborn couldn't help himself; he collapsed in 
laughter on the bank, some of the tension of the past few 
days evaporating as he saw the grand king of Mirkwood with 
his perfect coiffure plastered to his skull.  "At last!  I 
finally. . . know what it takes . . . to mess up that hair 
of yours," he gasped out between chuckles.  Thranduil just 
sat there, water dripping off his nose, and waited until 
Celeborn's laughter ran its course.

"I can think of more pleasant ways to do that," he 
commented softly after Celeborn had calmed down, then 
launched himself at him with no warning.  Thranduil over 
came Celeborn's desperate attempts to clutch at the few 
patches of grass on the rocky bank, and pulled him kicking 
and squirming into the stream.  "You are a disgrace to 
elvin kind, do you know that?," he demanded, dunking 
Celeborn under the swiftly moving waters.  "I have known 
men who are cleaner after a day's battle!  You smell like 
an orc."  After dunking him several more times, Thranduil 
ruthlessly stripped him of his sodden leggings and tossed 
them onto the bank out of reach.  "Now we will see about 
restoring some of that famed beauty and grace of yours, 
before the orcs are able to smell you ten miles away and 
take another route!"

"Let me go, you . . . "  Celeborn's demand was interrupted 
by another dunk and by the feeling of Thranduil's hands 
sliding over his body.  His heart immediately sped up 
again, and he realised he had a problem, for the water was 
not nearly cold enough to prevent a rather obvious reaction 
to the king's ministrations, something Thranduil was not 
slow to notice.

"Ah, what do we have here?  And I thought you were tired!"  
The king's large hand grasped Celeborn and began sliding 
lowly up and down his length.  The heat of his palm was 
magnified by the contrast with the cool water, and the 
possibility of being caught at any minute added a delicious 
frisson to the mixture.

"Release me--someone will see!"

"I'm glad that is your only objection!"  Thranduil not only 
did not release him, but slid a hand around his wet 
buttocks to draw him closer, kneading the flesh as he went 
with evident enjoyment.  His other hand continued its work, 
causing Celeborn to lose all hope of controlling his 
reaction.  He glanced about, but no one was in view.  Of 
course, that didn't mean anything; Thranduil's elves could 
move as silently as cats.

"Thranduil . . . "

"Oh don't worry--they are far too busy to pay attention to 
us, and anyway, when did you become such a prude?  I heard 
some stories about you before your marriage that . . . "

"That was a long time ago."  Celeborn gasped at the 
combined sensation of his swollen erection being massaged 
skillfully in front while the king's finger slid into him 
from behind.

"Old skills are never forgotten," Thranduil said piously, 
before sinking his teeth into Celeborn's earlobe.  Celeborn 
returned the favour, biting the king's shoulder a few 
seconds later to keep from screaming aloud as he came and 
alerting everyone to what was happening.  Thranduil jerked 
slightly in surprise.  "Based on our, er, previous 
encounter, I didn't think you liked it rough.  However, 
glad to oblige," he commented, before pushing Celeborn up 
against the bank and spreading his legs with a practised 
motion of his knee.  His teeth nipped up Celeborn's ear to 
mangle the sensitive point, then dropped to attack his 
neck.  Those big warm hands spread his buttocks easily and 
a second later a cool substance trickled down between them.  
It was soon being massaged deep within him as Thranduil's 
questing fingers went back to work.

"Where . . . where did you get that . . . "

Celeborn heard a throaty chuckle before the digits were 
withdrawn and replaced by a much larger, hotter intrusion.  
"It is actually . . . hair pomade . . . but useful . . . 
for so many . . . other things . . . "

"So your secret is out," Celeborn managed to gasp, as he 
began to be pounded strongly into the dirt of the bank.  So 
much for his bath.  Oh well, he would just have gotten 
dirty again anyway . . .

*   *   *

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 30/?

*   *   *

Gildor looked in shock at the king, the sword falling 
unnoticed from his hand.  He hardly realised it when he 
slowly sank to his knees, awe and wonder overcoming all 
other thoughts.  All his life he had read about the last of 
the great Noldorin monarchs, heard his father sing his 
praises and tell, with tear filled eyes, about the days 
when Lindon the Great had stood strong and free, a beacon 
to all the elves of Middle Earth.  He had also seen his 
pain when he spoke of the High King's fall, witnessed his 
pride and sorrow that he had died as might have been 
expected, in defense of his people.  Gildor could scarcely 
believe what he was seeing now, but he did not doubt for an 
instant that it was real.  The regal bearing, quiet 
dignity, and great beauty of the legends were all there for 
anyone to see.  Gil-Galad lived; the great king lived!  Oh 
how blind he must have been not to see it before!  Gildor 
looked up at him with shining eyes--how different life 
might be for the elves, now that their king had returned.

"Gildor!", the king addressed him again, more sternly even 
than before, "you have your orders--do as I command.  Kill 
me!"

Gildor felt like someone had struck him, and was grateful 
that he knelt as he surely would have lost his footing 
otherwise.  The joy of the previous moment fell away and 
horror swept through his mind.  No!  This could not be 
happening!  He surely could not mean what he said.  His 
king could not return just to abandon them again, and in 
such a way. And to expect him to . . . it was madness!  
Gildor had never raised a hand against another elf in his 
life, had never even thought about doing so.  He killed 
orcs on occasion, for what other choice did any of them 
have if their lives and those of their people were to be 
preserved?  But he regretted even that, and avoided it 
whenever possible.  Unlike some elves, he never sought out 
combat, but rather viewed it as a tragic necessity.  And to 
be asked to kill one of his own, and the High King at that?  
It was too much.  "My Lord," Gildor bowed his head humbly 
in submission, wondering how he dared to even think about 
disobeying, but his words were firm. "Ask me anything but 
that, even to my own life, and you shall have it, but I 
cannot . . . "

"Of course you cannot!  Gildor, get up and go help Elrond!  
The elf is mad--why do you listen to him?"  Haldir looked 
confused and almost disgusted at the sight of his lover 
bowing at the feet of their captive.  Gildor suddenly 
realised that Haldir did not believe the king's words.  
Nothing in his background had prepared him for this, so how 
could he?  Yet surely he could hear the command in that 
voice, see the light in those eyes?  But his lover's 
expression made it clear that he did not, and his eyes were 
not focused on the amazing sight of the High King returned, 
but on the combat that was still being waged behind them.  
Haldir's comment brought back the precariousness of Lord 
Elrond's position and Gildor glanced back to see him 
stagger and fall, his sword kicked from his hand by his 
opponent.  By the Valar, the High King had said that was 
Sauron himself!

Gildor watched, dumbstruck, as the creature gave a 
triumphant smile and placed a booted foot on Elrond's neck.  
His lord struggled weakly, but it was clear that his 
strength had been depleted and he could not thrown off 
Sauron's hold.  "Well, it looks as if we have come to the 
end of this little melodrama at last, doesn't it?  Are you 
watching, Ereinion?  I want to be very certain you remember 
THIS, at least!"  Sauron's sword came to rest on Elrond's 
chest, just heavily enough to lightly dent the fabric.  
"Now, how shall I proceed?  I am open to suggestions.  How 
would you like to see your precious Elrond die?"

The High King looked at Sauron, but he addressed Gildor in 
a low tone; yet there was no less ring of command in it for 
its softness.  "If you will not kill me, then have your 
friend release me.  Now, Gildor."  Gildor immediately 
grabbed Haldir and spun him away from the king, relieved to 
have an order he could obey.

"What are you doing?  Let me go--he'll get himself killed!"  
Gildor ignored his lover's words--indeed, he barely heard 
them--for all his attention was focused on the High King's 
actions.  Gil-Galad did not hesitate, but ran straight at 
the two combatants, his blue robe billowing out behind him, 
no sign of a weapon in his hands.  Sauron looked surprised, 
but had no time to act before the king was upon him.  But 
to Gildor's amazement, Gil-Galad did not attack, but 
instead threw himself on Elrond.  The instant he did so, 
the king disappeared, vanishing in a flash of blinding 
light and in a sound like thunder that sent a tremor around 
the room.

Before Gildor could wonder what any of this meant, Elrond 
jumped back to his feet, throwing off Sauron's hold as if 
it was suddenly an insignificant thing.  Somehow, a sword 
was in his hand, although Gildor knew that Sauron had 
kicked Elrond's weapon far out of reach, so how could he 
have it now?  Yet somehow he did, and with powerful strokes 
he began forcing his opponent back toward the stairs.

Gildor was suddenly thrown off balance, and he and Haldir 
tumbled to the floor as the room about them began quaking 
and shuddering as if a giant hand was shaking it from 
without.  It felt like an earthquake Gildor had once 
experienced in the mountains, but how could that be?  There 
were no such tremors in Lorien.  Then the light from the 
overhanging chandelier started to flicker and grow dim, and 
the temperature dropped perceptibly.

"What is happening?"  Gildor could only shake his head at 
Haldir's question; he had no idea.

"Haldir, Gildor--get out of here!  Take Elwyyda with you 
and go!"  Elrond's commands were punctuated by fierce 
thrusts at his opponent, who was barely managing to counter 
the rain of blows descending on him.  It was obvious that 
he was seriously outmatched, but that made no sense at all.  
A few minutes before, he had mastered Elrond easily.  What 
had changed?

Before he and Haldir could disentangle themselves enough to 
comply with Elrond's command, Sauron stumbled on the 
stairs. He dropped his guard for a brief instant as he 
tried to regain his balance, and Elrond's sword ran him 
through.  The blow was so strong that it left him 
momentarily pinned to the wall, an expression of disbelief 
and rage on his features, before he also disappeared, 
vanishing into a dark vapor that streamed away into 
nothingness.

Elrond wasted no time, but turned and ran back down the 
stairs, using his sword to sever Elwyyda's bonds.  The 
little dwarf looked stunned almost into unconsciousness, a 
feeling with which Gildor could strongly identify, but 
Elrond simply swept her into his arms and ran for the door.  
"Hurry!," he threw over his shoulder, and both Haldir and 
Gildor scrambled to obey.  The chandelier fell at that 
instant, barely missing them as it shattered in a thousand 
sparkling pieces that scattered like ice across the floor.  
The whole room was shuddering violently now, and a roaring 
filled Gildor's ears so that he could not hear whatever 
Haldir was yelling at him.  They both reached the door just 
as a terrible ripping sound spread through the room, 
cutting past the other deafening noises. Gildor glanced 
back to see the chamber behind him simply vanish into 
blackness.

Haldir grabbed him by the arm and they pelted down the 
corridor after Elrond and Elwyyda, dodging falling sconces 
from the walls and keeping their footing as best they could 
in the wildly bucking hallway.  Gildor did not have time to 
look behind him again, but a cold breeze nipped at his 
heels, and he was sure the corridor was vanishing behind 
them as the room had done.

The four of them ran into the library and tore through the 
flimsy barrier back into the darkness beyond, Elrond making 
the jump with Elwyyda still clutched against him. Haldir 
followed him handily despite his ankle, but Gildor fell as 
he tried to do likewise.  Shudders from the corridor were 
now affecting the library as well, causing it lurch from 
side to side like a ship in a storm, but a second later 
Haldir's strong arm re-emerged from the portal and dragged 
him through.  The room beyond was not as he remembered it, 
but was obviously suffering from whatever calamity was 
happening all around them.  Mirrors fell from the walls to 
shatter in splinters all over the floor.  A heavy red mist 
began swirling about their feet and quickly began to rise, 
filling the room.  The library they had just left was 
engulfed by strange blue flames; Gildor saw the lovely book 
with the painting of the two trees curl up and turn brown 
as fire consumed it.

"Gildor!  Stop daydreaming!"  Elrond's words pulled him 
from his reverie and he felt a sting across his face as his 
lord struck him, hard.  "You have to concentrate or you'll 
die!  You cannot stay here."  Elrond looked at the three of 
them, and his expression was grave.  "This body is dying, 
and will take any souls with it who remain inside at the 
point of death.  I will hold off the inevitable as long as 
I can, but you MUST get out.  Concentrate on my room in 
Lorien, picture it clearly in your minds and see yourselves 
waking up."

Gildor tried to do as he was told, but the raging inferno 
of the library was spreading to mirror after mirror; he saw 
beautiful gardens, sun drenched seascapes and throngs of 
laughing, happy elves in a ballroom, all consumed by the 
spreading fire that leapt easily from one mirror to the 
next.  Then Haldir disappeared, winking out of the 
flickering light of the room in a flash of silver.  Elwyyda 
followed, although less easily, her form growing dim 
several times just to solidify again, but finally she too 
faded away.  "Now you, Gildor," Elrond urged him, his face 
pale and beaded with sweat.  "I cannot hold much longer--
you must go!"

Gildor tried to comply, but the noise, sound, and icy 
flames that spread cold instead of life-giving heat, were 
an impossible distraction.  Every time he envisioned 
Elrond's room, another crash nearby jolted him back.  Sweet 
Elbereth, he thought in desperation, what if I cannot do 
this?  Then Haldir was beside him again and he looked 
furious.

"CONCENTRATE!  Gildor--do you hear me?"  Haldir grabbed him 
by the upper arms and shook him violently.  "See only me; 
hear only me!  Forget everything else and see us together 
in Elrond's room--do it now!"  Gildor's vision was filled 
with the sight of his lover's face descending on his, and 
the feel of Haldir's lips pressed against his own. 
Suddenly, he could not hear the cacophony anymore, could 
not see the flames or feel their cold.  As always when he 
kissed Haldir, the world fell away and he was surrounded, 
submerged, and enthralled by the warmth and beauty of the 
elf in his arms.  The next instant everything changed.

Gildor opened his eyes to a scene that almost looked 
surreal after the inferno he had just left.  The windows 
were open in Elrond's rooms in the royal palace, and a 
light breeze blew over the bed where he and Haldir lay next 
to his lord and the High King.  Elwydda was nearby, 
unsteady on her feet and clutching at the back of a chair 
for support.  Her eyes looked huge in her little face, and 
she was as pale as a ghost.  Gildor wanted to comfort her, 
but the next second he realised that Haldir was still lying 
motionless by his side, as were the other two.

"Haldir!,"  Gildor shook the limp figure, but nothing 
happened.  His lover was barely breathing, and his skin 
felt clammy to the touch.  "Haldir?"  Those beautiful 
features were as pale as a marble statue's, and an icy fear 
clutched at Gildor as seconds past yet nothing happened.  
"Haldir," Gildor begged, his voice breaking as tears began 
spilling down his cheeks, "oh, gods, Haldir, please wake 
up!"  Gildor cradled his lover to him, horror filling him 
more profoundly than he had ever felt it.  No!  Haldir HAD 
to make it back, he had to!  After everything they had been 
through, to lose him now would be worse than death.  To go 
back to that horrible, lonely existence he had lived for so 
many years, without even the comfort of knowing that he 
could occasionally see the object of his love, would be 
torture beyond anything death could devise.  They had so 
much life ahead of them; he had always thought there was so 
much time . . .

"Haldir . . . please," Gildor whimpered, his heart feeling 
as if it had stopped in his chest, his breathing painful.  
"I swear to you, just wake up and I WILL make you happy.  
Oh gods, Haldir, you can have anything you want . . . "  If 
his lover died to save him, it would be an act in vain, for 
Haldir had become so much a part of him that Gildor truly 
doubted he could live any longer without him.  He would 
follow him to Mandos soon enough, for grief itself would 
kill him as surely as any orcish blade.

Then the long lashes below him fluttered and the beautiful 
blue eyes opened.  Gildor regarded his lover in shock, the 
relief that washed through him so profound that he could 
not speak.  Haldir regarded him blankly.  "What . . ."  He 
managed nothing further, for Gildor was kissing him 
passionately, pressing him down against the soft mattress 
as if he would never let him up.

"You're back!  You came back to me!"  Gildor clutched him 
fiercely, only releasing him when Haldir began making 
slight choking noises.

"Where . . . what about the others?"  Haldir gasped out, 
his hand falling on Elrond's still form.  Gildor realised 
that Lord Elrond was not moving, and saw that his face was 
as bleached of colour as Haldir's had been until a moment 
before.  A slight pulse still beat in his neck, but 
otherwise there was no sign of life.

"Gildor, what is wrong?  Why doesn't he awake?  We are all 
here."

Gildor shook his head; again, he had no answers.  Then a 
second miracle occurred, and the chest under Haldir's hand 
began to rise and fall.  A second later Lord Elrond's eyes 
fluttered open and he looked about, first at Elwydda, to 
whom he gave an encouraging smile, then at Haldir and 
finally at Gildor.  Haldir did not seem to notice anything 
amiss, but then, he did not know Elrond very well.  Gildor, 
however, spotted it at once.  He was not shocked, for his 
nervous system seemed to have shut down in self-defense, 
and he was therefore able to contemplate the change with 
some equanimity.  His lord had always been famed for his 
beautiful dark grey eyes--indeed, whole poems had been 
written about their beauty alone, and how they complemented 
his dusky grace.  But, although the elf on the bed looked 
like Elrond in all other particulars, Gildor noticed 
immediately that this elves' eyes were a clear, rich blue.

*   *   *

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 31/?

*    *    *

Gildor sat on his bed, hugging Haldir to him and trying to 
think.  They had left Lord Elrond at his request a few 
moments after waking up and gone back to their room to 
rest.  Gildor did not know about his companion, but he 
personally felt like he had run a marathon in the hour or 
so they had been . . . wherever they had been.  It had all 
been so traumatic and had happened so fast, that he had not 
had time to think about it, but had simply reacted.  Now, 
as Haldir slept quietly in his arms, Gildor rested his chin 
on his companion's head and slowly reviewed it all.

He realised that, physically, he had never gone anywhere.  
When he touched Elrond in response to Elwyyda's slightly 
incoherent instructions, he must have formed a mental link 
with his lord; since the High King had been there as well, 
he and Elrond must have already linked before that.  Gildor 
was distracted for a moment by the thought that he had 
actually been in the High King's mind--it was an honour he 
could scarcely believe had been afforded to him--and he 
tried to recall every detail of his experience.  Oh, how he 
wished his father was still in Middle Earth, so he could 
tell him about it!  Gildor had so often wanted to see the 
great city--not to mention the king himself, whom he almost 
felt he knew from his father's many stories--but Lindon had 
been just a memory by the time he was born.  Of course, he 
realised that what he had seen this day was no more than 
that, but the High King' great mental abilities had been 
another part of his legend, so Lindon must have been very 
like that.

Gildor pushed aside a pang of regret that he had not had 
the opportunity to explore a bit more, and tried to focus 
on the situation at hand.   The High King still lived, of 
that he had no doubt.  He knew what he had witnessed, and 
more importantly, that Elrond was aware that he knew.  
Somehow, the two greatest elves of recent history had 
merged into one, with the High King's soul apparently 
taking up residence in Elrond's body.  Gildor had no idea 
how this was possible--he had never even heard of such a 
thing--but then, he had never known that what they just did 
was possible either.

Haldir moved slightly against him and Gildor decided his 
lover might be more comfortable lying flat, so he gently 
eased out from under him and stretched him out.  Haldir 
immediately reached for him, however, so Gildor snuggled 
back into his arms, careful not to disturb his rest.  He 
smoothed the pale gold of Haldir's hair out across the 
pillow, grateful for any chance to touch him, to be near 
him.  He didn't really want to think about the serious 
problem he was facing, but just to hold Haldir all day and 
make passionate love to him later.  He did not so much as 
want to let him out of his sight after what had happened, 
so afraid was he still that something might happen to him.  
He had never known that love could make someone so 
vulnerable, so dependent on another's well-being.  It was 
almost as if Haldir was an extension of himself, and 
anything that hurt him wounded Gildor as well.

However, he knew where his duty lay, and it wasn't in 
indulging himself, so he reluctantly turned his thoughts 
back to the issue at hand.  Lord Elrond and the High King 
had merged, that Gildor knew to be a fact.  The king had 
very distinctive eyes, and he had seen them shining out of 
Lord Elrond's face; he could not have mistaken it.  Which 
left him with a serious dilemma.  He allowed himself the 
luxury of slowly stroking Haldir's arm, delighting in the 
feel of silken skin over hard muscle, as he debated his 
options.

He could simply forget what he had seen, and allow Lord 
Elrond to handle it.  He was Gildor's sworn liege lord, 
after all, with the power to command him in all things.  If 
he had sent Gildor on a difficult assignment, even one sure 
to claim his life, he would have accepted it and followed 
his duty.  Unfortunately, in this case, things were not so 
clear cut.

What was his duty, exactly, and to whom?  The Noldor, 
including his father, had sworn allegiance to the king for 
themselves and their issue for all time.  Gildor was 
Noldorin, so did not his family's oath bind him as well?   
Yet he had personally sworn an oath to Elrond when entering 
his service.  It was a difficult question, but ultimately, 
Gildor knew, his first loyalty lay with the king.  The oath 
he had taken to Elrond post dated that taken by his family 
to the High King, and when he had sworn himself to Elrond's 
service, he had believed the king to be long dead.  Gildor 
remembered seeing his parents off at the Grey Havens when 
they took ship for Valinor.  His father had never recovered 
from his sorrow at the fall of the world he had helped to 
build and the king he had joyfully served for so long; he 
had had no heart to build another, nor wish to serve anyone 
else.  Gildor knew what his father would expect of him 
under the circumstances, and it decided matters.  He had to 
help the king, whatever the price.

But what if he doesn't want your assistance, a little voice 
asked.  Gildor sighed.  His conscience was a bit 
overactive, and never left him in peace.  What if he is 
happy with Elrond?  Gildor repressed a snort of disbelief, 
not wanting to wake Haldir.  He did not see how the king 
could be satisfied living as little more than a parasite 
within another.  Sauron had deprived him so long of a real 
life and true freedom, it was simply not to be born that 
Elrond was now doing the same.  But Gildor had seen it in 
his expression; no words had passed between them, but ideas 
were conveyed nonetheless.  Elrond had no intention of 
letting the king go.  His narrowed look at Gildor when he 
saw the shock on his face had said that as plainly as if he 
had shouted it.  Gildor knew a warning when he saw one, but 
he could not heed this one.

But what if he really is happy?  That same voice was louder 
this time, more insistent.  Gildor really wanted to listen 
to it, for going up against Lord Elrond, his sworn lord and 
long his kindly benefactor, not to mention one of the most 
powerful elves in all Middle Earth, was almost repulsive.  
He felt like a traitor at the very thought.  In a real 
sense of the word, he loved Elrond.  It had been at 
Imladris that he found a home once his parents sailed 
beyond the sea; it had been there that he was welcomed, not 
as an impoverished elf with few years and fewer skills, but 
as the son of a valiant warrior and an asset to the realm.  
Lord Elrond had been almost a surrogate father to him, 
providing food and clothing, training and shelter, then 
giving Gildor valuable assignments that brought him a 
measure of financial security as well as the even more 
valuable feeling that he was being useful.  They had never 
been on close personal terms, for Gildor, like most elves, 
viewed his lord as something untouchable, distant, radiant-
-rather like the stars themselves--to be aadmired and loved 
and held in vast esteem.  He would have died for him, but 
he could not do this.  He could not betray the High King 
for him.

But you really don't know what he wants, do you?  His 
little voice piped up again.  Is it a betrayal or not?  
What if the king WANTS to stay with Lord Elrond?  Who are 
you to separate them, or to even think of doing so?  You 
are vassal to both and owe your loyalty to both--why not 
let Lord Elrond's wisdom suffice for this?  Gildor shifted 
uncomfortably next to his lover, and pulled Haldir a little 
closer to him, craving his warmth.  He dearly wished he 
could ask his aid with this, for Haldir's level-headedness 
was a trait he desperately needed at the moment, but he 
dared not risk it.

Gildor had seen the confusion in Haldir's eyes that 
morning, when he knelt before the king.  Haldir had not 
understood any of what had happened, and how could he?  He 
was Silvan, not Noldor.  As much as Gildor loved him, he 
knew that there were certain things about himself that 
Haldir would never be able to understand.  He would say the 
same as Gildor's little voice--just leave it to Elrond, it 
is none of our business.  But it WAS his business, if the 
king was being trapped against his will.  As much as he 
most sincerely wished otherwise, he was duty bound to find 
out.

*   *   *

Elrohir peered over the ledge into a murky chasm.  Even 
with elvin sight, the place was dark; a human would have 
found it pitch black, but he could make out the basic 
outline of shapes moving below him.  He could also hear 
voices, echoing eerily in the cavern's vastness, and it was 
all he could do not to shoot Tuor in the head.  The 
traitorous bastard had known where the hidden entrance was 
all the time--he had never so much as hesitated in making 
straight for it.  If Elrohir had not been close on his 
trail, he would have disappeared without a trace.  As it 
was, Elrohir had managed to squeeze in through the narrow 
opening Tuor had somehow caused in the rock face just 
before it slammed shut behind him.  Now he was witnessing 
the completeness of Tuor's betrayal, as he told everything 
to a group of orcs he had met inside--that most of the 
elvin army had fled, pursued by the huge orcish force, that 
a small band of elves was about to try to force their way 
into the main entrance, and that their objective was the 
rescue of the elvish mine slaves.  Instead of killing the 
cowardly traitor as he deserved, however, Elrohir waited.  
His usual tendency to impulsiveness was not afflicting him 
at the moment, but something else was.

It was like his dream of the previous night was returning, 
but this time he was awake.  Elrohir knew he should have 
been worried that he was losing his mind, but he felt no 
apprehension of any kind.  Instead, he was strangely calm, 
almost peaceful, rather as if he had fallen into a battle 
trance without realising it.  Instead of the darkness, he 
saw a brilliantly sunlit day; instead of the bleak 
interiors of the cave, he saw a grassy plain and a 
magnificent elf on a pale horse next to his own.  Behind 
them spread a huge elvish army, colourful banners waving 
cheerily in the breeze.

**  "You are looking worried, lirimaer.  What troubles 
you?"

Glorfindel turned to face him, his concern briefly masked 
by an unconvincing grin.  "Nothing.  I relish the thought 
of destroying Morgoth's forces.  As you said, they will rue 
the day they heard the name of Beleriand!"

Elrohir hid a smile; apparently, guile had never been his 
lover's forte.  "True, King Fingolfin has an excellent 
plan.  Do not worry, young one, we will be triumphant, I 
promise you!"

Glorfindel did not look much relieved at this assurance, 
however, and Elrohir worried about him.  He was so young to 
be facing a trial of this magnitude, which could make even 
the most experienced of elves tremble.  He wished he knew 
what to say to take his lover's doubts away, but then, 
perhaps he was better off to be somewhat timid.  
Overconfidence had killed many an elf by causing them to 
become careless in battle.  Elrohir, of course, intended to 
insure that Glorfindel never left his sight.  He would 
watch over him and make certain he came through the coming 
contest alive.**

"Where are the slaves?  I will guard them while you deal 
with the attacking party."  Tuor's voice brought Elrohir 
back to the present with a jolt.  He shook his head to 
clear the image.  Elbereth, but it had seemed so real, 
almost as if he had actually been there!  .

"Zurgug will take you to them.  We will deal with the 
others."  A huge orc answered Tuor's question, his coarse 
syllables causing Elrohir to wince and wish to bury a knife 
in his throat.  Instead he continued to wait and watch, as 
Tuor was led downward into the darkness by a hunchbacked 
orc with a tiny lantern, while the three larger orcs in the 
party started up the narrow, rocky incline towards him.  
Elrohir waited until they were almost level with his hiding 
place in the shadows of an overhang, then tripped the one 
who had spoken to Tuor into the ravine.  His cries had not 
even died away before the other two, now headless corpses, 
followed him.  Elrohir watched them fall with considerable 
satisfaction, but then he paused.  Where to go now?

His day dream had no doubt been the result of his mind 
trying to persuade him that revenge on Tuor, however good 
that might feel, or even recovery of the lost elves, was 
not his primary objective.  He had to insure the well being 
of Glorfindel and the others, who would doubtless soon 
arrive at the cave's entrance.  Yet he had just insured 
that the orcs would not receive prior warning of their 
arrival and could not lay an ambush, so did his duty not 
now lie with the enslaved elves?  They were the reason they 
had come so far and risked so much; could he abandon them 
now for the selfish reason of guarding his lover's life?

He looked down into the passage where Tuor and his guide 
had disappeared.  These caves were a rabbit warren of 
intersecting passages; if he let them get away, he might 
never find them again.  On the other hand, if he snuck up 
behind the guards at the entrance, there was a good chance 
he could clear the way for his party and then they could 
search together.  The decision he reached after several 
agonizing seconds was largely the result of his belated 
realisation that he should have kept at least one of the 
orcs alive to lead him to the entrance.  He had no real 
idea how to get there otherwise, so he supposed following 
Tuor was the only real option.

Elrohir moved quickly once his mind was made up, pausing 
only when he heard the orc's heavy footfalls change 
direction or slow down.  It seemed like he followed the two 
of them for hours on a winding path down into darkness so 
extreme that even his elvin eyes had difficulty discerning 
anything.  The air felt stale and musty this far into the 
earth, and Elrohir had to concentrate to insure that his 
breathing did not become laboured and give him away.  With 
only the dim light of the far away lantern to guide him, he 
also had to use all his senses to avoid scraping against 
one of the narrow passage's walls and alerting Tuor to his 
presence.  Finally, the tiny pinpoint of light from the 
orc's lantern stopped, and Elrohir strained to hear what 
the creature was saying to his companion.

"This is the lot.  We grouped them all in here in case of 
an attack--the master knew your friends wouldn't give up so 
easily.  But the elves will never find them--even most of 
our people don't know of this place."

"You are sure this is all of them?"  Tuor seemed strangely 
excited about something, but Elrohir could not imagine what 
it could be.

"Yes, like I told you.  There was one other, but he escaped 
a few weeks back.  Just make sure nothing happens to this 
bunch--they're the master's favourite pets!"  Elrohir's 
hand tightened on his sword as the ugly creature cackled 
with glee and savagely kicked a nearby elf.  Then he hung 
the lantern on the wall for Tuor and starting back in 
Elrohir's direction.  The light outlined his body perfectly 
as he shuffled forward, and Elrohir smiled into the 
darkness.  A few seconds later, and he stuffed the now dead 
orc into a crevasse in the wall before moving silently 
forward.

Tuor had picked up the lantern and was examining the elves 
one by one, pushing the light into their faces although 
they shied back from it in confusion.  It had probably been 
so long since they had a source of illumination that close 
to them that it hurt their eyes, but none of the small 
group of twenty or so made a protest.  "Is any of you 
Oropher, King of Greenwood?"  Tuor's voice sounded excited 
and apprehensive, all at the same time.  "I am Tuor, 
consort to your son Thranduil, and have come to free you!"

When none of the elves responded to Tuor's rather pompous 
declaration, he began to grow agitated.  "Come, I know 
you're here somewhere!  They never found your body at 
Barad-dur--you must be here!"  He dragged one elf up by the 
hair, pulling out some of the delicate strands as he did 
so, and causing the heavy chains the elf wore to slap one 
of the others full in the face.  "Your son is worried about 
you--do you not want to comfort him?  I know you probably 
bear little resemblance to him by now, but I WILL find 
you."  Tuor pushed the elf away after carefully examining 
his face, and the fragile creature knocked heavily against 
the wall, letting out a small cry.

"Curse it, where are you?"  Tuor looked about almost 
frantically, shoving the lantern into face after face.  
"Thranduil will love me forever if I find you.  You must be 
here--why are you hiding?"  He grabbed another elf by the 
few tattered garments it wore, and hauled it upright.  "No, 
not you," he muttered.  "Thranduil inherited his green eyes 
from his father, I always heard said."  His voice grew 
dreamy and a strange smile came over his lips.  "Like 
emeralds in sunlight, like the deepest depths in a spring 
of clear water . . . ," he suddenly snapped back from his 
reverie and shook the helpless elf in his hands.  "Where is 
he?  Tell me or I swear I'll kill you all!"

"Oh, I don't think so."  Elrohir emerged from the shadows, 
his sword glinting slightly in the shuddering light from 
Tuor's wildly swinging lantern.  "I, however, will take 
great pleasure in ending your miserable life."

Tuor looked at him in shock, some of the crazed light going 
out of his eyes.  "Elrohir!  What . . .  I thought you were 
tending to the wounded."

"I'm more interested in preventing even more elves from 
suffering because of your selfish lust, Tuor.  Put him down 
and draw your weapon; I give you that much.  I could have 
shot you from the shadows and you would never have known 
what hit you, but I prefer to see an elf die with a weapon 
in his hands.  Even an elf like you."

Tuor sneered, and drew the elf in his arms even more 
securely in front of him.  "I'm not that much of a fool!  I 
saw you fight today, and I prefer another solution."  He 
put a dagger to the elf's throat, so tightly that a small 
trickle of blood ran onto his hand.  "Put down your sword 
or this one dies."

"What if he is your precious Oropher?  Wouldn't that ruin 
your plans?"

"He isn't, or are you blind as well as foolish?  His eyes 
are grey."

Elrohir could not tell one way or the other in the 
darkness, but he supposed Tuor should know.  "So his life 
doesn't matter?"

Tuor smiled.  "To you, it probably does.  That's your 
weakness--the same as all the elves!  You spend your life 
protecting the weak and helpless, when they are only a drag 
on our race!  WE could dominate Middle earth if only we had 
a few leaders with foresight and cunning, and the will to 
lead us!  Instead, dwarves and men and other piddling races 
are allowed to spread ever more insidiously across our 
lands, while we shrink in numbers every century.  Only our 
enemies have the intelligence to know what life is really 
about--taking what you want and forcing others to bend to 
your will!"

"And that is what you are doing?  Bending Thranduil to your 
will by bribing him with his father's life?  Do you really 
think he will be fooled?  That Oropher, if he is here, will 
not tell him what you did and why?"

Tuor looked uncertain for a moment, then he smiled once 
more.   "They have been so damaged that I doubt most of 
them have enough of a mind left to understand anything.  I 
will tell the king how I, at the risk of my own life, 
rescued his father from terrible imprisonment, while you 
and your gallant party were butchered by orcs as you tried 
to assist me.  You will be remembered in stories and song, 
Elrohir, as will that ridiculous popinjay Glorfindel, but I 
will be alive and it is to me Thranduil will turn soon 
enough."

Elrohir shook his head; Tuor really WAS mad, there was no 
doubt about it.  Either that, or just evil, and Elrohir 
vastly preferred to think of him as mad.  In any case, he 
had to be dealt with--there was now no other option.  The 
question was, how to do it and not risk the life of the elf 
he was using as a shield.  Then Elrohir saw it, a withered 
arm that was waving to him energetically from behind Tuor's 
head.  It looked oddly disembodied, as Elrohir could not 
see to whom it belonged in the dim lantern light.  He did 
not stop to think, for there was no time, but merely pulled 
a knife from his belt and tossed it over Tuor's head, still 
sheathed in its scabbard for safety's sake.  The waving arm 
caught it and disappeared into the throng.

"What was that?  What did you just do?"  The lantern light 
so close to his face was making it difficult for Tuor to 
see much beyond it, Elrohir supposed.  He never had the 
chance to answer him, as the next second the elves fell on 
Tuor, uttering hoarse battle cries and wrenching their 
fellow prisoner from his arms.  The traitor disappeared 
under a pile of ragged clothes and flailing, dirty limbs, 
his surprised shout soon muffled by their bodies.  Elrohir 
kept an eye on the pile, to make certain Tuor did not 
manage to escape, but otherwise did not interfere.  
Instead, he moved to examine the skeletal elf who had been 
thrown against the wall earlier, where he still lay 
bleeding from the head.

Elrohir poured as much healing energy as he dared into him, 
not wanting to risk harming the fragile body any further, 
and a moment later the elf's eyes opened. He looked 
familiar, although Elrohir could not say why.  "By the 
Valar!," the elf murmured, his tone awe struck as his eyes 
devoured Elrohir's face, "I always said you would come for 
us!  The others thought me mad, but I always knew."  Claw 
like hands clutched at his shirt, and a small smile broke 
out over the elf's haggard features.  "I knew it."

"Yes, we'll get you out of here.  But tell me, friend, are 
there any more like you in the mines?"  Elrohir had no 
intention of taking the word of an orc that they had 
assembled all the elves together.  Perhaps these poor souls 
might know where their fellow prisoners were, if any still 
lived.

The elf looked confused.  "Do you not recognise me, Lord?  
But of course," he sighed, and looked suddenly ashamed.  "I 
must look horrible to you.  My apologies.  I promise to 
return myself to a more proper appearance before once more 
taking up my duties."

"Your duties?"  Elrohir was confused.  Of course, he 
reasoned, the elf was probably even more so and doubtless 
did not know what he was saying.  It hurt his heart to see 
his people in this condition, and a low rage burned his 
stomach, crying for revenge.

"Oh please, my Lord, never say I cannot serve you again!  I 
will do anything--the most humble task will be an honour, I 
assure you!"

The elf looked so distressed that Elrohir could only hug 
him, ignoring his stench as best he could, and murmur 
reassurances.  "Of course you can serve me if you wish.  
There is room for anyone who wishes to come with me to 
Imladris.  But tell me your name, friend, that I may call 
you correctly."

"I am Lothion, my Lord."  The poor elf's eyes flooded over 
with tears, but Elrohir barely noticed.  Lothion . . . why 
was that name so strangely familiar?  "See, I told you so!"  
His new servant cried out to his fellows, as the elves in 
the pile slowly withdrew themselves from Tuor's remains.  
Elrohir looked at the mangled body and knew he should feel 
some sorrow, some pity, for the creature, but he could not 
manage even the slightest twinge of either.  Indeed, he 
felt like joining in the cries of triumph from the 
surrounding elves that echoed off the walls of the little 
cave like the voices of an army.

"I told you he would come for us!  Did I not say as much?  
Lord Ulmo will not forget us, he will send our champion 
back to us!  Did I not say so?"

"That you did, Lothion, every day for centuries."  The elf 
Tuor had used as a shield approached Elrohir and looked at 
him searchingly for a moment.  Elrohir idly noticed that 
Tuor had been wrong; this elf's eyes were most definitely 
green.  Then the battered body folded and he knelt at 
Elrohir's feet.  "My Lord Ecthelion," he said in a 
strangely choked voice, "we are yours to command."

*   *   *

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 32/?

*   *   *

Elrond swirled his wine about in his glass and smiled at 
it.  Lately, he had been smiling at everything--walls, 
light fixtures, the vase of roses in his chambers--he 
almost felt like he could smile at an orc, should one 
happen by.  For the first time in years, he actually felt 
at peace.  There were no more ghosts haunting his dreams, 
no more restlessness, no more guilt.  He could not recall 
the last time he had felt this light--it was almost like 
intoxication, only much, much better.

"You look happy."

Elrond looked up at Gil-Galad, seated in a comfortable 
chair near his own, and his smile grew even wider.  They 
were back in Lindon, of course--they would always be in 
Lindon now, and it would never fade, but be forever as 
beautiful and tranquil as he remembered it.  They sat in 
his old bedchamber, which they had decided to use 
communally as there were no longer any nosy servants to 
fool or bothersome courtiers to evade.  Delicious freedom!  
Elrond couldn't help it, he burst out laughing.  "I was 
just thinking how many times I had to stuff myself into 
that cursed wardrobe in your chambers, when someone came by 
unannounced.  Remember Titton dropping in and spending 
three quarters of an hour droning on about suspected tax 
evasion by the sheepherders in the southern reaches?  My 
foot went to sleep and I almost did, too, waiting for him 
to finish.  I can just picture his face if I had tumbled 
out of your wardrobe and landed nude at his feet!"

"He probably wouldn't have noticed; he did tend to be very 
focused when making a report."

Elrond chuckled.  "He must have been drinking!  Even Titton 
knew better than to intrude at eleven at night for such a 
trivial reason . . . "  He stopped at the king's abashed 
expression.  "You never told me!  Stuffy old Titton was . . 
. enamored with you?"

"I suppose that is one way of putting it."  Gil-Galad 
smiled and shrugged.  "You never liked him, but the two of 
you were important councilors and needed to work together.  
Yes, Elrond," he held up a hand, "I know he could be a 
terrible bore at times, but he was also meticulous with his 
reports and one of the best record keepers I ever knew.  
Everyone always praised my memory, but in reality it was 
very rarely called upon.  Titton was always there with any 
information I needed in short order, even something going 
back hundreds of years.  He was invaluable that way.  I did 
not want the two of you to be at odds any more than you 
already were, so I didn't mention his occasional . . . 
advances."

"Advances!"  Elrond shook his head in disbelief.  The idea 
of stodgy old Titton making an advance on anyone, much less 
the High King, was truly absurd.  Still, it did bring up an 
interesting question. "When he helped to arrange your 
marriage, did he know . . . ?"

Gil-Galad shrugged.  "I never asked him, but I would assume 
so.  He was never the most observant of elves, although he 
could spot a scroll out of place in the library in the 
blink of an eye.  But he must have wondered why I 
continually spurned him.  It could have been a subtle form 
of revenge, I suppose; the idea did occur to me at the 
time."

"But you said nothing."

The king smiled and let his fingers intertwine with 
Elrond's.  "That was always the difference between us.  You 
wanted to know the why of everything.  But no one can keep 
track of all that goes on, especially in other people's 
minds.  It is too tiring to even try."

"You are so serene."  Elrond felt the old soothing calm 
pour from their linked hands and spread throughout him.  He 
did not know how he had survived so long without it.

"Of course.  I could afford to be.  I had you to do my 
worrying for me!"

"But there is nothing to worry about any more.  For us, 
there never will be again."

The king kissed Elrond's hand briefly and let it go.  
"Except the small matter of my funeral tomorrow.  It will 
be an interesting experience to attend.  I had always 
expected to be there, but not consciously so!"

Elrond felt his smile fade slightly and he unconsciously 
gripped the king's hand again.  "I could make an excuse not 
to attend.  I don't want you to feel . . ."

"It will not bother me, Elrond!  After my time with Sauron, 
I would have looked on death as a blessed release, I assure 
you.  But you have saved me even from that eventuality."  
He drew Elrond to his feet and kissed him lightly.  "I am 
glad you are not angry with me for what I did.  Most people 
would have felt it to be a terrible invasion of privacy."

Elrond stroked fingers down the king's back, marveling at 
how solid, how real, he felt in his arms.  "Having you with 
me like this is pure bliss.  I would not have had you act 
otherwise, you know that."

The king smiled, and drew him toward the bed.  "I did not 
have time to ask your permission, so I am relieved you feel 
that way."  He pulled Elrond close and gently smoothed his 
lover's hair.  "But something worries you--I can tell.  You 
cannot hide things from me now, you know."

Elrond allowed himself to be divested of his night robe as 
he tried to think how to phrase his reply.  Now that they 
were joined, Gil-Galad could have simply read his thoughts 
had he wished to do so, yet Elrond knew the king would 
never take that liberty without permission.  He smiled as 
his lover began kissing his way down his chest.  Such an 
intrusive action would not even occur to the king, a fact 
that never ceased to amaze him.  Elrond could, and usually 
did, resist temptation, but his lord did not need such 
self-control; Gil-Galad simply had the purest soul he had 
ever known.  How to tell him that he felt unworthy to bear 
it?  That he might somehow taint the king by his sometimes 
foolish or ignoble thoughts?  He put off that conversation, 
and instead admitted to a smaller concern.  "Gildor knows."

"Yes, I saw that on his face, too.  The dear child is not 
good at hiding his feelings, is he?"
Elrond was having trouble keeping up with the conversation, 
as the king's head continued downward.  He had had many 
lovers in the years since he lost Gil-Galad, but none had 
even come close to taking his place.  Being back with him 
again was breathtaking, exhilarating and completely 
satisfying.  Elrond didn't care if he never woke up.

Elrond pushed the problem from his mind; after all, what 
could Gildor do?  "We'll worry about him tomorrow."  His 
smile returned at the thought that, from now on, everything 
they did would be "we."

*   *   *

Elrohir looked at the kneeling figure before him and tried 
to say something in response to the elf's absurd 
declaration, but nothing came out.  He closed his mouth so 
that he would no longer be gaping like a fish, and 
swallowed, feeling dizzy.  Ok, he thought, pull yourself 
together, Elrohir.  Deep in a mine filled with orcs is 
hardly the place to fall apart.  Get them out of here, find 
Glorfindel and the others, and THEN you can have a nice 
nervous breakdown all by yourself.  No, DON'T think about 
Erestor's crazy comments; don't think at all, just get them 
out!

Elrohir cleared his throat and tried again.  "We have to 
get out of here, before anyone comes to check on you.  Do 
any of you know the way back?"  Elrohir had tried to keep 
track of the winding turns himself, but he really hoped one 
of them had a better idea of the way to the exit than he 
did.

"I do." The elf at his feet looked up, and despite the 
emaciated appearance and general filthiness of his attire, 
there was something reassuring about him.  He did look as 
if he knew what he was talking about.  "I tried to escape 
once, long ago, and almost made it before they caught me.  
But first we must be released from these."  He held up a 
manacled arm, which had a large, heavy looking chain 
attached to it.  His shackles were clipped to those of the 
elf nearest him, whose chains were in turn fastened to the 
elf beside him and so on.  Many of them also wore heavy 
iron bands about their bony necks, which looked horribly 
painful to Elrohir.

"Hold still," he told the kneeling elf, and rummaged around 
in his tunic until he found one of Erestor's skeleton keys.  
He had liberated it from the chatelaine's huge key ring a 
year ago, needing to move about Imladris at night without 
running into all sorts of barriers.  Erestor had a fetish 
about locking things up; even the baths in Elrohir's wing 
of the palace were routinely closed after midnight, once 
the security guards made their final rounds.  That had 
never made any sense to Elrohir--what in Arda did Erestor 
expect to go missing from the bath chambers, a marble sink 
perhaps?  But the key allowed him easy access without 
having to explain why he needed to bathe in the middle of 
the night.  He only hoped it would work here, as he doubted 
his sword or knives would be much use against solid iron.  
"There, that's done it.  Now you."  Elrohir motioned the 
next elf closer after Erestor's key worked its magic on the 
first one's chains, and soon they were all rubbing their 
wrists and necks gratefully.

"All right.  Which way?'  Elrohir turned back to the first 
elf, who was regarding him with a tentative look.  "You did 
say you knew the way out."

"Yes, my lord, I believe I do."  The elf hesitated, and 
Elrohir grew impatient.

"Well, go ahead, lead us out of here."

"Very well, this way," the elf moved towards the passage, 
and the others followed him unquestioningly, but Elrohir 
noticed that he kept glancing back with a worried frown on 
his face.  Normally, Elrohir would have asked what was 
wrong, but at the moment, he really didn't think he wanted 
to know.  There was a pressure building in his neck and the 
base of his skull, like a headache waiting to erupt, and it 
became worse every time he even thought about letting any 
of his many questions batter their way to the front of his 
mind.  He squashed them down, and when he saw a familiar 
sunlit day shining to him from the end of a corridor, he 
resolutely looked in the other direction.  You are far 
underground, he reminded himself, and it is just an 
illusion, a trick of the mind.  He was NOT going to start 
hallucinating again, not now at any rate.  Whatever was 
wrong with him would just have to wait until he could get 
back to Lorien and see Ada.  Suddenly, he very much wished 
his father were with him.

The elf did seem to know where he was going, however, and 
easily led them through the tunnels without hardly a pause 
to reorient himself.  Elrohir was so caught up in his 
thoughts that he did not notice anything wrong until they 
passed through a large cavern with a pool in the centre 
that reflected hanging stalactites in the still water, 
making it look rather like a gaping mouth when seen from 
the ledge above.

"Wait."  Elrohir grabbed the elf's arm, preventing him from 
moving forward any further.  "I know I didn't come this 
way.  I think you're lost."

"No," the elf struggled in his grip, "this is the way out.  
I promise you!"

"No, it isn't.  You're confused."

"I think we should listen to Lord Ecthelion."  Lothion 
piped up from behind Elrohir, and was seconded by several 
other elves.

"Don't call me that."  Elrohir sighed.  He didn't have time 
for this right now.   "Let's just go back and see where we 
made a wrong turn.  It can't be that difficult to find the 
right way."  He only hoped his words were true, although he 
no longer had any real idea where they were.  He shouldn't 
have let someone else lead, so it was partially his fault.   
That's what came of daydreaming, but the cursed images 
filling his brain were becoming harder and harder to 
ignore.

The elf who had been leading them suddenly collapsed at 
Elrohir's feet, sobbing wildly.  Elrohir looked at him with 
incomprehension for an instant--what was wrong now?  Great, 
he had let a mentally unstable elf guide them and now the 
creature was lost and so were they.  Elbereth help us, he 
thought fervently; it was only a matter of time before the 
orcs found them, and they had only his and Tuor's weapons 
for the whole group.  Not that any of them looked much able 
to fight anyway.

"I . . . I am sorry, my lord, I should have told you!  But 
I can't just leave him, and I thought you might say no!"

Elrohir sighed.  He was absolutely certain he didn't want 
to hear this.  Why was nothing EVER simple?  "Leave who?"

"The elf that . . . other one . . . was asking about.  My 
liege lord and cousin, King Oropher."

"King Oropher?"  Elrohir's mind reeled.  But surely that 
was just a fantasy of Tuor's diseased brain?  Certainly 
Oropher himself could not be here, could he?

"I know we need to escape, lord, but I am sworn to protect 
him, and I failed.  I let him be taken at Barad-dur, and 
now I MUST help him!  I will not leave without him!"

What followed was a cacophony of questions, comments and 
loud complaints from the other elves, many of whom were 
Sindar and had apparently not been told that their king was 
a prisoner.  Elrohir eventually managed to calm them down, 
even though he personally agreed with most of their pointed 
comments towards the elf at his feet, who was called Amras.  
"He made me swear not to tell you," Amras cried, cowering 
and looking fearfully behind him at the enraged elves.  "He 
thought it would only add to your torture, if you knew your 
king was here also!"

"All right, enough!"  Elrohir dragged him back to his feet 
and glowered at all of them.  "Do you know the way out--and 
don't lie to me!"

"Y-yes, lord."

"Then take these others and lead them to safety.  You will 
find three elves just beyond the cave entrance, if you go 
out the way I described to you.  They have food and water 
and will aid you.  Stay with them and stay out of sight.  I 
will find Oropher and bring him out with me."

There was, of course, a great deal of argument about this, 
but Elrohir's somewhat unkind comments that the elves could 
be of little use to him in their current state eventually 
persuaded them, and they agreed to do as he asked.  He 
spent a few minutes questioning Amras about the probable 
location of the king, then equipped him with Tuor's weapons 
and watched him lead the others back up the corridor.  He 
leaned against the cave wall and tried to concentrate on 
the receding sound of their light footfalls and nothing 
else.  He wouldn't put it past Amras, who had looked a bit 
crazed when Elrohir demanded that he leave Oropher's rescue 
to him, to double back and attempt to help with the 
liberation of his lord.  In the elf's current state, that 
would be tantamount to suicide.

Elrohir tried not to think of how bleak his own situation 
was at the moment, alone, surrounded by a merciless enemy 
who could discover him at any time, and probably more 
mentally unstable than Amras would ever be.  As if in 
response to his thoughts, a sudden portal opened in the 
dark cavern, spilling light everywhere and showing a scene 
that he remembered from his history books, but which could 
not possibly be real.  Yes, he thought, as another time 
engulfed him, you are definitely barking mad, old son.

*** All around him, people screamed and ran.  A fruit 
vendor had his stall upset by the frantic crowd as he was 
trying to stuff as much of his wares as possible into 
baskets draped over the back of a mule, and apples and 
pears scattered everywhere, tripping people up and adding 
to the general chaos.  A plump elf-wife, her arms full of 
hastily thrown together bundles, careened into him after 
tripping over the scattered fruit, and Elrohir barely 
managed to keep her on her feet.  After sending her on her 
way, he grabbed the back of the vendor's collar and shouted 
into his ear.

"Get out of here!  Leave your fruit--are a few baskets of 
apples worth your life?  Just go, while you still can!"  
The elf looked at him wildly for a second, then stumbled 
off into the teeming throng, pulling his loudly braying 
mule behind him.

"Lord Ecthelion, the North Gate is under assault!"  A young 
elf from Glorfindel's house skidded to a stop in front of 
him.  Elrohir knew his face, but the elf's name eluded him.

"Where is your lord; why is he not helping to reinforce the 
gate?"

"I do not know, lord.  The last time I saw him, he bade me 
help look for the princess.  The king has charged him with 
getting her away safely, but she was not in her palace 
rooms."

Elrohir nodded.  "Obey your lord; I will see to the gate."  
As the elf ran off, his white and gold uniform bright 
despite the drifts of smoke clouding the scene, Elrohir 
breathed a sigh of relief.  Yes, Glorfindel, he thought as 
he began rounding up his elves and turning the chaos into 
something resembling an organised defense, get the princess 
out.  For if you are leading her away from the city, that 
means you will be safe also.  Having learned that his lover 
would soon be well away from the burning city and free from 
danger, Elrohir turned his mind completely on making their 
enemies pay a dear price for the taking of Gondolin.**

Elrohir clutched the wall behind him and panted, 
desperately wanting to scream but not daring to make a 
sound.  Several orcs had entered the caves, but had not yet 
seen him.  Their coarse voices had broken him out of 
whatever trance he had fallen into, however, and for that 
he was almost grateful to them.  Slipping silently behind a 
large stalagmite, he waited for them to pass through, 
scarcely even breathing.  They were obviously unaware of 
trouble, for neither seemed to be making attempts to avoid 
detection.  That could be either good or bad, Elrohir 
thought.  It meant that, on the one hand, the elves he had 
freed had probably not been discovered yet, for certainly a 
general alarm would have been sounded if they were.  On the 
other hand, however, it also meant that Glorfindel's team 
must not have assaulted the cave entrance yet, or else, if 
they had . . .

Elrohir bit back worry over his lover's fate and tried to 
concentrate.  He could not help Glorfindel at the moment, 
any more than he had been able to do . . . he clamped down 
on that thought hard and forced it into the back of his 
mind.  He had NOT been at the fall of Gondolin.  He had not 
even been BORN then!  He was not going to give in to 
madness and ruin this mission.  He slapped himself hard 
across the face, and felt a little better.  Get a grip, 
Elrohir, and do your duty.  Find Oropher.  Get him out.  
Then find Glorfindel and the others and do the same.  Kill 
any orcs in your path, but do it silently.  Do NOT 
daydream, hallucinate, or whatever you've been doing 
lately.  Having arranged his schedule, Elrohir lurched out 
from his hiding place, the orcs having had sufficient head 
start in front of him.  Just follow the plan, he told 
himself as he slipped into another corridor, and try to 
stay sane!

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 32/?


*   *   *

Elrohir knocked his head against the side of the cave wall, 
relishing the brief burst of pain that drove the images 
from his mind, at least momentarily.  For someone who 
always made elaborate plans and thought things out ahead of 
time, he was being remarkably lackadaisical, some saner 
part of his mind informed him.  Instead of devising a 
complex scheme to liberate Oropher, he was having 
difficulty just keeping his stumbling feet going in the 
direction Amras had said would lead to him.  He hadn't 
encountered any more orcs, which was fortunate as he was no 
longer bothering to conceal himself.  It seemed too trivial 
to worry about when the dreams were assaulting him so 
mercilessly.

Each step he took seemed to bring another wave of past 
thoughts, sights, sounds and emotions flooding over him.   
The tunnel down which he was traveling seemed to be 
composed not of stone, but of scene after scene from some 
other time, all as clear as if they were happening in the 
present.  He dared not look too long at any one, in case 
the dreams enfold him and he forget entirely where he was, 
but it was a great temptation. To his left, a glittering 
parade wound its way up a steep hill towards a shimmering 
jewel of a city gleaming bright under a summer sun.  To his 
right, a battlefield was strewn with hundreds of bodies, 
looking as if a great cataclysm had taken place, yet in the 
foreground of the scene he and Glorfindel were embracing, 
obviously wildly happy.  Elrohir kept his eyes ahead, but 
it did no good; the dreams were clever, it seemed, and as 
he rounded a corner, one leapt out at him, drawing him in 
despite his attempts to fight it off.

**The scene was a military camp, that much was obvious.  
Elvish tents littered a grassy plain that looked rather 
torn up.  Several large bonfires burned along the horizon, 
and somehow Elrohir knew they were consuming corpses from 
the day's battle.  He shuddered and turned away from the 
sight, searching his mind to determine which war this was 
and how many elves had died in it.  Then the tent flap in 
front of him was thrown back and Glorfindel looked out.

"Is that for me?"

Elrohir was confused until he noticed the bottle in his 
hand, around which someone had wrapped a lopsided bow made 
out of what looked to be part of a torn banner.  "Er, yes.  
That is, I thought . . . a celebration?"

He felt strangely shy, looking into the large blue eyes of 
his companion, which were gazing at him searchingly.  "The 
day went well, but we'll have another fight on our hands 
tomorrow."

Elrohir had no idea if this was a refusal or not, so he 
stood there, feeling a bit foolish and wondering why he 
didn't just walk away.  There were others who would like to 
spend the evening with him--he remembered now that he had 
barely managed to tear himself away from a boisterous 
victory party going on in his own tent.  It had been 
started by several of his elves who had dropped by to 
present him with the sword of the orc commander he had 
slain.  They had lingered, euphoric after their total 
victory, and soon their friends came looking for them.  
Then others heard the sounds of laughter and merriment and 
hurried over with bottles in their hands.  Elrohir had 
quickly tired of being asked to recount over and over the 
story of his duel with the orc captain, and gave up all 
hopes of getting any sleep.  He waited until the crowd was 
so large that it was unlikely they would notice the absence 
of one elf, even the tent's owner, then he slipped out, 
fashioning his own make-shift present on the way.  Which it 
now seemed might not be needed.

"I . . . well, I should be going.  I just wanted to drop 
this off and, er, congratulate you.  You fought well, 
Glorfindel."  Elrohir turned away, not relishing the 
thought of returning to his crowded, noisy tent, when a 
hand was placed on his arm.  Turning back, he saw 
Glorfindel biting his lip and regarding him out of 
uncertain eyes.

"You can stay if you like.  After all, it doesn't really 
mean anything, does it?"

At Elrohir's startled expression, Glorfindel actually 
blushed and looked even more flustered.  "I'm sorry; I 
didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Elrohir wondered what else, exactly, he could have meant, 
but he followed him into the large tent that Glorfindel's 
status as family leader afforded him.  It was almost as 
luxuriously furnished as his own, if more plainly.  Yet 
Elrohir liked the subtle blues, greys and dark golds, and 
the overall understated elegance of the decor; it wasn't 
his style, but it suited Glorfindel, allowing his blond 
beauty to be the focus of attention.  Of course, he would 
have been so for Elrohir anyway, who admired him as he 
moved gracefully about, pouring the wine and assembling a 
quick meal of fruit, cheese and bread.  The latter was a 
bit stale, but Elrohir didn't mind.  Food was not his 
interest.

Glorfindel sat, a little awkwardly, on the camp chair 
opposite him, leaning elbows on the small table like an 
elfling ignoring his elder's lectures on proper posture.  
His blond hair fell about his face and his huge eyes were 
black in the dim light from the overhanging lantern.  He 
looked terribly young and unsure of himself, and suddenly 
Elrohir wished he was back in his own tent.  He had not 
intended for this to turn into a serious discussion, but 
had just wanted a . . . well, a celebration.  They had 
survived the day, after all, and looked likely to survive 
the war.  True, there would be more fighting on the morrow, 
and probably for another week or more after that, but 
today's battle had decided things.  The rest was merely a 
mopping up operation, which should go well if they kept 
their heads.  Wasn't that worth celebrating?

Yet Glorfindel seemed strangely somber, and Elrohir 
wondered why.  Of course, he had slain a large number of 
orcs that day, possibly, Elrohir realised, for the first 
time.  If he had never killed before it would explain his 
somewhat despondent expression, so out of place in a camp 
where everyone else was making merry.  Elrohir wanted to 
say something to lighten the mood, but had trouble finding 
the right words.  "It, er, it is more difficult, the first 
time."

"Really?"  Glorfindel looked interested, so Elrohir 
struggled to continue, wanting to bring him out of his 
melancholy.  He thought about his own first kills, but 
could not remember spending any time mourning the orcs in 
question or being distressed over their deaths.  Of course, 
in his case, it had been somewhat more personal.  A small 
party of the creatures had seen an elf traveling alone and 
thought he would make good prey; they had soon found out 
their mistake, and Elrohir had kept both his gold and his 
head.  He could remember feeling pride that he had been 
able to apply his father's lessons so well in actual 
experience, and relief that no other travelers would be 
molested, at least not by that particular party.  But no, 
he could not recall even a moment of sadness.  "The pain 
will pass, in time," he said, trying to offer what comfort 
he could.

"It was not particularly painful," Glorfindel commented 
thoughtfully.  "Actually, I quite enjoyed it.  Didn't you?"

Elrohir drank some wine and wondered what to say to that.  
All right, yes, he supposed that there was a certain rush 
that came with combat, although he did not know if it was 
exactly enjoyable.  Still, perhaps Glorfindel was referring 
to his relief that he had led his elves so well.  For an 
untried commander, he had evidenced skill, grace under 
pressure and overall showed great promise.  "I . . . don't 
think enjoy is quite the word I would use.  I suppose it 
was . . . satisfying."

Elrohir wondered at the rather confused glance Glorfindel 
gave him then, and at the sudden clasping of his 
companion's hands on the table, tightly enough to leach the 
colour from his knuckles.  "You . . . found it satisfying," 
he repeated, as if he did not know quite what to make of 
that statement.

"Of course.  It is always rewarding to feel that a 
difficult task has been finished satisfactorily."

Glorfindel looked at him with something like dismay coming 
into his beautiful eyes.  "D-difficult?  Finished?"  He 
stood so abruptly that he overturned his chair and did not 
even appear to have noticed.  "I see."

Elrohir sighed to himself and put down his glass.  He had 
obviously said something to distress his young companion, 
but he could not imagine what it could have been.  But 
then, giving comfort had never been his strong suit.  He 
rose and came up behind Glorfindel, wondering if he should 
put his arms about him or make some other gesture, but he 
hesitated; so far, his attempts to cheer up the handsome 
elf had apparently had the opposite effect.  "You seem 
upset, lirimaer.  Did I say something wrong?"

"Oh no.  You said exactly what I expected."  Glorfindel 
would not turn to face him, but Elrohir now knew that 
something was seriously wrong.  His companion's voice shook 
almost as if . . . but no.  Why would he be that upset?  
They had won, hadn't they?

"It is natural to be a little . . . emotional . . . after 
your first time, but that will pass."  Elrohir gave into 
temptation and pulled the slightly heaving body back 
against him, wrapping his arms securely about Glorfindel's 
waist.  "I won't lie to you.  It will never become entirely 
easy, but the distress you are feeling will grow less, I 
promise."  Elrohir felt slightly ashamed of himself; here 
he was, supposed to be concentrating on helping his young 
lover through a difficult emotional experience, and all he 
could think about was how good, how warm, how perfect he 
felt in his arms.  "You should feel proud of yourself," he 
whispered into Glorfindel's ear, thinking that some praise 
might be helpful.  "I've told everyone I met about your 
skill."

Glorfindel spun around abruptly, his red-rimmed eyes 
suddenly flashing fire.  "You did WHAT?"  Elrohir stepped 
back slightly, wondering if his lover was feeling all 
right.  Why would he object to having his skill in battle 
praised to other warriors?  "You told them about me?  Who, 
who did you tell?"

"Why, many people.  And those I didn't see personally have 
surely heard by now.  There was a large party in my tent 
when I left, and when I tired of talking about myself, I 
entertained them with stories of your prowess.  They were 
quite impressed."

"I don't believe this."  Glorfindel looked at him with an 
expression that managed to mingle fury with deep hurt.  
Elrohir glanced down at his wine glass; had he perhaps had 
too much?  None of this was making any sense.  "I knew you 
didn't care about me," Glorfindel raged, "That I was just a 
brief fling and that you would move on almost at once.  I 
knew why you came here tonight, before you even said a 
word, and I would have been gracious about it, too, I had 
already decided.  But this!  You have ruined my reputation 
with your tasteless boasts, and that I cannot forgive."  He 
began looking about for something, tossing pillows and 
clothing every which way, while Elrohir's brain spun.

What, exactly, had they been talking about?  Surely, 
Glorfindel couldn't think . . . "Lirimaer, I . . . "

"Don't you EVER call me that again!," Glorfindel snarled, 
then gave a cry of triumph.  A second later Elrohir found 
himself pinned against the tent pole, a gleaming sword 
pointed at his breast.  "I challenge you," Glorfindel 
informed him, his eyes snapping fire.  "Get your sword or I 
will lend you one of mine, but I will be satisfied 
tonight!"

Elrohir couldn't help himself.  He knew it was not only in 
extremely poor taste, but also very stupid, to grin widely 
with a sword point a few inches from his heart, but his 
facial muscles simply would not obey his brain's hysterical 
commands to stay still.  "All you had to do was ask 
nicely," he purred, wondering a bit at his own audacity, 
before knocking the sword from Glorfindel's hand and 
letting his momentum carry the both of them to the soft rug 
that covered the ground.

"Get off me!  Let me go!  You are nothing but a barbarous, 
horrible . . . "

Elrohir cut off the diatribe by simply covering 
Glorfindel's mouth with his own.  He knew he needed to 
explain, to clear up the absurd misunderstanding, but a 
tide of sensation was carrying him away.  The elf under him 
squirmed and fought, but Elrohir mastered him easily.  
Letting his tongue slide around one shapely ear, he 
murmured seductively, "I thought you wanted satisfaction.  
That would be easier to insure if you cooperated."

Glorfindel was panting fiercely, but was obviously still 
boiling angry.  "You . . . you would dare to take me 
unwilling?"

"No.  I won't have to."  Elrohir was slightly shocked by 
his comment; he had never dared to speak to Glorfindel in 
such a way before, had not even contemplated doing so.  But 
he could not deny that the challenge of making the enraged 
Elda beneath him give in to his passions was very tempting.  
"You want me," he murmured, slowly removing his knife from 
his belt.  Well, why not?  He'd fantasised before about 
cutting his lover out of his clothes, and yet had never 
been in a position to actually do it.  The robes Glorfindel 
were wearing on this occasion were nothing special, and 
Elrohir would gladly buy him a thousand more to compensate.  
"You DO want me," he repeated, sliding the razor sharp 
blade up the side seam of Glorfindel's tunic.  "Why not 
admit it?"

Glorfindel regarded him through slightly hazy eyes, but his 
breath was coming fast and he was quite flushed for someone 
who felt no passion.  Of course, Elrohir thought as he 
stripped away the tunic fabric and began on the shirt 
below, that blush could also be caused by anger.  He'd have 
to find out.

His job was soon done and all Glorfindel's golden skin lay 
bared to his sight.  He ran an appreciative hand over its 
warm, silken texture, loving how his companion's eyes 
followed his every move, the way he arched up to meet the 
hand that glided slowly down his chest, and how his 
desperate arousal rose to meet him.  "No," Glorfindel 
moaned, as if denying his body's betrayal.

"No?"  Elrohir suddenly stopped his exploration, and sat 
back on his heels.  He was still fully dressed, and 
technically there was nothing stopping him from simply 
getting up and walking away.  Nothing, that is, except a 
complete lack of will power where Glorfindel was concerned.  
Still, he would go no further until he had his lover's 
explicit permission.  He wasn't going to have him coming 
back the next day and trying to say he forced him.  "Well," 
he commented, rising suddenly to his feet, "I suppose I'll 
just have to be going then."  He repressed a grin about the 
fact that it was Glorfindel himself who had taught him this 
particular ploy, so long ago it now seemed.

"Going?"  Glorfindel looked almost horrified at the 
thought.  "Going?," he repeated, as Elrohir searched about 
for his cape.  Where had he tossed the thing?

Elrohir shrugged, "You said no.  That ends it, I'm afraid.  
Which is too bad, as I was looking forward to providing 
that satisfaction you seemed so concerned about."  He 
located his cape at last and draped it about his shoulders.  
"I suppose I will have to return to that boring party, and 
regale them with some more of your battlefield exploits.  
Pity."

He had only taken a couple of steps when Glorfindel's voice 
called him back.  "Battlefield?  You were talking about . . 
. my combat skills?"

"Of course, what else?"  Elrohir kept his expression 
neutral, although it was extremely difficult.  "And 
remember what I told you, don't let your first kills upset 
you.  Many elves have problems with guilt after their first 
time in battle, but keep in mind that we did not start this 
war, and are only defending ourselves and our people."  He 
regarded Glorfindel for a moment longer, trying and failing 
to wrench his eyes away from that long body and 
unconsciously seductive pose.  "Let me know if you need 
anything, Glorfindel.  We are friends, after all, aren't 
we?"

Glorfindel looked at him from out of eyes that were 
suddenly suffused with happiness.  "Friends," he confirmed.  
Then he rose in a lithe motion that made Elrohir's mouth 
suddenly go dry.  "And for tonight, maybe lovers as 
well?"**

Elrohir came back to himself with a feeling of serious 
disorientation.  The darkness of the mines was nothing like 
the warm glow of Glorfindel's tent, and the chill dampness 
bore little resemblance to the warm summer's night he 
remembered.  No, he corrected himself, not remembered.  He 
could not remember something that had never happened.  He 
looked fearfully about the dark corridor, but the colourful 
images had dissipated, at least for the moment.  He 
breathed a sigh of relief, then hurried on his way.  He had 
no idea how much longer he would be lucid, and needed every 
minute if he was to rescue the king before another illusion 
took him over.  He did not even want to think about what 
would happen if something like that occurred in a moment of 
crisis, such as a battle.  Would his enemies run him 
through while he was dreaming?

A small voice of reason piped up, insisting that he flee 
the mines as quickly as possible.  Surely Glorfindel and 
Erestor could rescue the king?  He had no doubts that they 
could, if they could find him.  Unfortunately, he had no 
way to contact them and give the directions, and in order 
to reach the area where Amras had said Oropher was being 
held, they would have to fight their way through almost the 
entire mine.  Whereas, when they did attack, it would 
provide a distraction Elrohir could use as cover to release 
the king.  He was the only one in a position to do it, and 
he knew where his duty lay.  He only hoped he remained 
rational enough to do it before the images completely 
consumed him.

*   *   *

Gil-galad looked up from his book in surprise, feeling an 
alien presence nearby.  Where was Elrond?  There was no one 
in the study except for him, as his lover was presumably 
still asleep.  After centuries of learning the hard way 
about the problems that could arise when two beings shared 
a body, Gil-galad was trying to be as unobtrusive as 
possible while Elrond adjusted to their new situation.  He 
could, of course, see through Elrond's eyes if he chose, 
but that might constitute an invasion of privacy and he 
shied away from even the thought.  Elrond had saved him; he 
owed him more consideration than that.

Still, the presence was there, and as it drew closer, he 
realised with some surprise that he did not need Elrond's 
eyes after all.  Whoever it was had decided to visit him as 
a mental presence rather than a physical one.  He also 
received the impression that this soul was not a threat to 
either himself or his lover.  He therefore sat quietly as 
the door slowly opened, but could not repress a blink of 
surprise when a familiar golden head cautiously peered 
around it.  "Galadriel!  What a wonderful surprise, my 
dear--do come in."

Gil-galad had not seen the beautiful elf since he had last 
been in Lindon, and normally would have been pleased to 
renew an old acquaintance.  However, the alarm on her 
lovely face stopped him before he could go on.  "My dear, 
what is it?  Are you unwell?"  He thought briefly of waking 
Elrond, in case the healer's arts might be needed, but she 
held up a hand to stop him.

"No, I am well.  It is just the surprise . . . we all 
believed you to be dead."

"Even you?"  Gil-galad led her to a chair and pressed a 
glass of wine into her hand.  He would have thought with 
her skills that she might have glimpsed the truth, but 
judging by her expression, whatever she might have known or 
guessed had not prepared her for seeing him again.  
Galadriel took a sip from the glass, then looked at it with 
astonishment.  Gil-galad laughed, "If you relate to the 
world only through the mind, why not imagine the best?"

Galadriel glanced about, apparently noticing her 
surroundings for the first time.  "This is Lindon," she 
said in wonder.

"My old study, yes.  Elrond and I prefer to exist in Lindon 
whenever we can.  I do not believe either of us ever truly 
left, not in our hearts, in any case."

Galadriel nodded and sipped her wine silently, making no 
effort at further conversation.  Gil-galad had never been 
troubled by lulls in discussions, but preferred for people 
to take their time and speak whenever they were ready.  He 
amused himself by creating a small flock of butterflies 
outside his window, which swirled and danced in pretty 
patterns on the morning breeze.  It was so liberating to be 
free of Sauron's ceaseless taunts and his own physical 
illness that every experience was a joy.  He was happy to 
simply sit quietly, the blessed absence of pain in itself a 
form of great pleasure, and wait for Galadriel to speak.  
He had a fairly good idea why she had come anyway.  He had 
known Gildor would talk to someone, since there was no real 
way for the child to contact him on his own without 
alerting Elrond, and Galadriel was an obvious choice.

"You . . . are happy here, living like this?"  Galadriel 
finally broke her silence, and watched him carefully as she 
finished her wine.

"I am happy living," he responded placidly.  "It has been a 
very long time since I did anything other than merely 
exist."

"But . . . " Galadriel seemed lost for words, and clasped 
her hands tightly in her lap after setting her glass on a 
small table.  "I don't mean to sound presumptuous, my lord, 
but is this . . . life . . . of yours really that much 
different from the one you have been experiencing all these 
years?"

Gil-galad regarded her thoughtfully, wondering how to 
explain and also why she of all people would need such a 
clarification.  Galadriel was more familiar with the 
abilities of the mind than any other elf he knew; it seemed 
strange to him that she could not see the obvious in his 
case.  "I find it difficult to know how to describe what 
these last centuries were like.  Here you are, a mental 
projection only, yet you feel the breeze from the window, 
you smell the flowers, you taste the wine . . . and yet it 
is not life?"

"But these things are not real . . . "

"Some philosophers say the same about the physical world, 
that it is all merely an illusion to deceive our minds, or 
a projection of universal realities we cannot hope to truly 
understand while in bodily form.  I am no philosopher 
myself, but I have learned a few things through the years.  
The soul experiences life through the body, but can exist 
without it.  I have accumulated enough knowledge to allow 
my soul to create virtually any scene I desire for its 
inhabitation; in addition, I experience all that Elrond 
does, see as he sees when I wish to do so, and feel what he 
feels.  Yet I can be separate from him, too, as you see.  
What is restricted about this life?"

"But . . . what about meeting other people, and having your 
own experiences instead of merely living through another?  
Is that not important as well? Living in a perpetual dream 
world cannot . . . "

"I meet everyone Elrond does, Galadriel, yet you do not 
accuse him of having a restricted life.  And I am not 
dreaming."  He gestured about.  "You see this study and 
pronounce it unreal, but it is simply the surroundings my 
soul chooses to occupy.  You select your own surroundings, 
too, and tailor them to your needs, as you did in Lorien.  
Does it really matter if hands build a structure or if the 
mind creates it?  Freed from my wrecked body, my soul can 
now remember all that it was, and look forward to what it 
can be.  I perceive no limitations."

Galadriel just looked at him for a long moment, her 
expression blank.  When she spoke, it was slowly and 
carefully, and she watched every nuance of his expression.  
"No one knows that you live still, except for myself and 
Gildor.  What do you think the attitude of most elves will 
be to the news that you survived the war, were brought back 
to Lorien where your body died, and now live as a part of 
Elrond?"

"First my dear, you must understand that I am not a part of 
Elrond nor he of me.  We share a body, true, but our souls 
and minds are as distinct as ever they were.  Or do you 
think Sauron was a part of me all those years?  I can 
assure you, that was never the case.  As far as the elves 
reacting to my admittedly odd story, that will never be an 
issue unless they are informed of it."

Galadriel looked shocked.  Gil-galad almost smiled to see 
it, for he remembered her as virtually immune to such 
common emotions.  He had always liked both her and 
Celeborn, but secretly thought they should let go of some 
of their dignity and enjoy themselves more.  He had never 
been able to see them having, say, a pillow fight or 
skinny-dipping as he and Elrond were known to do when they 
could get away with it.  Dignity, he had always believed, 
was best served if it was not too much dwelt upon.

"You mean not to tell them, then?"  A worried furrow 
appeared on Galadriel's pretty forehead, and she twisted 
her diaphanous scarf in her lap.

"Elrond and I have yet to discuss it, but I believe that is 
the idea we favour."

"But . . . but do they not deserve to know that their king 
has returned?"

"Deserve?"  Gil-galad mused over that for a few minutes, 
trying to think of a way to say what he must without 
insulting the lovely creature opposite him.  He did not 
want to create a sense of guilt in her, or to add to the 
heavy burden of cares he already saw reflected in her eyes.  
Oh Galadriel, he thought sadly, I would gladly give you 
some of the joy I feel if it were possible, for you look as 
though it has been years since you knew any peace.  All he 
could do, however, was to explain his point of view as 
kindly as circumstances allowed.

"Galadriel . . . the elves reordered themselves after my 
disappearance.  You and Celeborn govern here in Lorien, 
Elrond in Imladris and Thranduil in Greenwood.  My years 
leading our people are done; I am not needed now."  He 
shook his head at her mutinous look, and smiled.  "You can 
argue with me all you like, but you know it is true.  I 
feel that I have done as much for our people as I can, 
although, if my council is needed in future, you will 
certainly be able to avail yourself of it.  But as far as 
the comment that I owe my people anything else--no, I don't 
believe I do.  And I am tired, my dear, so very tired.  The 
struggle with Sauron took all the strength I had.  I wish 
now only to be with Elrond, and to help him overcome the 
guilt he has lived with for so many years.  He has suffered 
more than you know, more, I almost think, than I did, for 
at least I never blamed myself for what occurred.   My duty 
is to him now."

"But if you departed for Mandos, your spirit would be 
reborn and someday, you could be with him again."

"I am already with him," Gil-galad explained patiently, 
"why would I wish for us to be separated for thousands of 
more years?  Especially when he needs me now?"

Galadriel sighed, and began to appear frustrated.  "You 
have no body.  You are only a spirit and . . . "

"Which is what we all will be in time."  Gil-galad took her 
hand and held it gently, trying to find the words to make 
her understand.  "The fate of all the elves is to fade to 
spirits alone before Arda passes away.  I always believed, 
as we are taught to do, that such is almost a curse, and 
like most I was greatly distressed to think of leaving the 
material world behind.  I have come to view things 
differently because of my experiences, for I discovered 
that I remain the same, however my soul manifests itself.  
I am still who I always was, just housed differently, so to 
speak.  Someday, Elrond and I will leave this body, too, 
but our spirits will always be intertwined.  Until then, I 
am content to dwell with him however I may.  Do you 
understand?"

Galadriel looked at him searchingly once again, her eyes 
wet as she struggled with his explanation.  He knew she 
could not fully comprehend what he was trying to tell her, 
but hoped that she would trust him enough to accede to his 
request nonetheless.  "I was once sworn to your side," she 
finally said, "I cannot oppose your wishes.  But I also 
cannot speak for Gildor, and I am not certain what he will 
do.  I will try to explain to him that you are . . . 
content . . . as things stand, but I do not know whether he 
will accept it."

"That would be most kind of you."  The king rose 
courteously as she stood, and was preparing to bid her 
goodbye when she suddenly spoke again.

"If you really wish things to remain unknown, there may be 
a way to avoid difficult questions, and to put Gildor's 
fears to rest at the same time."

"I would be greatly interested in hearing such a solution," 
he commented, and was pleased when a smile lit up her face.

"I am in Imladris now--Gildor sent a messenger bird to me 
with his request--but I will return to Lorien soon.  Try to 
stay out of sight until I can see you in person."

*   *   *

TBC


Title: Wild Justice 34/?
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; 
Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story 
arc.  Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One 
Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.

*   *   *

Elrohir edged further along the narrow passageway into 
which the already slim corridor had shrunk.  It was 
terribly claustrophobic, with a rough ceiling so low that 
it snagged strands of his hair as he moved forward, and 
there was barely enough room even for his slim form to pass 
through.  Normally it would have had him hyperventilating, 
his hatred of enclosed, underground places as great as any 
of his kind, but fighting off another bout of his mental 
problem was providing a useful distraction.  So it was that 
he barely noticed the confined quarters and did not even 
flinch when the tunnel drew in even more, forcing him to 
begin to walk hunched over like one of the orcs who 
habitually used it.

It abruptly let out onto a small ledge beyond which was a 
sheer drop into blackness.  Elrohir clutched at the rough 
walls behind him and maintained a tentative toehold on the 
crumbling pathway.  Edging along it, he resolutely kept 
reciting snatches of poetry, old song lyrics, anything to 
keep his mind too preoccupied to permit it to focus on 
another illusion.  He knew he was running out of time, 
however, as the familiar bright colors were beginning to 
swirl around the edge of his vision once more.

After following the little ledge along what felt to be an 
endless path through a darkness almost thick enough to 
feel, Elohir at last reached the rubble-strewn floor of the 
cavern.  He knew there were sharp rocks littering the 
ground because several of them poked painfully into his 
ankles as he made his way cautiously forward.  He could not 
see them, however, as there was almost no light at all this 
far underground; by comparison, the dim passages above 
seemed as bright as day.

He was beginning to despair of locating anything in the 
pitch-blackness, when a flood of light suddenly erupted 
around him.  At first he thought that a party of orcs must 
have arrived carrying some of their tiny lanterns, as even 
the illumination from those largely useless objects would 
seem bright to him at the moment.  A second later, however, 
he realised his mistake.

**The smoke was making it difficult to see, but Elrohir had 
no difficulty at all in picking out the two huge balrogs 
who were wreaking havoc as they carved a path up the great 
hill towards the castle.  Around their feet, hundreds of 
orcs swarmed, defiling the beautiful city with their very 
presence.  The balrogs seemed oblivious to them, crushing 
several under their feet with apparently no concern at all.  
Thankfully, most of the city's inhabitants had already fled 
this sector, leaving him and most of Glorfindel's household 
to deal with the invaders unimpeded.

Elrohir's own elves were waiting in Fountain Court.  They 
were the best warriors in the city, something the Noldoran 
captains were usually loath to admit, but under the 
circumstances it had been quickly decided that they were to 
be held back as a last defense before the palace.  Elrohir 
had personally trained every one of the Sindarin warriors 
in his house, and he knew they would fight to the death 
rather than give up.  He had given them strict orders to 
see to the king's welfare, but he had his doubts whether 
Turgon would be willing to evacuate the city.  He only 
hoped Glorfindel was seeing to the king's safety as well as 
that of his daughter.

Elrohir watched the two balrogs come closer, their heavy 
footsteps causing the ground to quake beneath him.  He had 
prayed fervently as he and his elves carved a path through 
the orcs, that the creatures would come this way, and it 
looked as though his supplications had been answered.  A 
high stone arch passed over the street in front of him, 
connecting two large buildings.  It had been originally 
designed as an extra gate, but the city had grown so 
quickly that houses soon engulfed it.  It had long been 
used instead as a conduit for foot traffic, as the street 
below was a main route for laden carts arriving from the 
countryside for market.  The archway looked much as it 
always did, except that it was covered in bright bunting 
and flower garlands for the festival; incongruously, two 
huge fire demons rose up behind the pretty scene, ripping 
apart the once peaceful street with their whips.  "A little 
closer," Elrohir whispered, praying that they wouldn't 
deviate from their current direction.  A young elf next to 
him looked at him strangely, probably wondering why he 
would want the creatures to come closer when the rest of 
the city was wishing just the opposite, but Elrohir merely 
smiled at him.  He would see the answer for himself soon 
enough.

The balrogs came on swiftly, and Elrohir stood his ground, 
slaughtering a few passing orcs as he did so, until they 
reached the optimum position.   "NOW!"  His shout was 
immediately answered by the elves he had sent into the 
towers on either side of the bridge.  It was too strong for 
the balrogs to break as easily as they had the wooden 
houses, so they had done as he expected and not attempted 
it.  Instead, anxious to get to the castle as soon as 
possible, they simply ducked underneath.  As they did so, 
the elves he had put in place let loose the gate mechanism 
and the two demons were temporarily trapped beneath its old 
iron teeth.  A hail of elvish arrows bit into them as they 
roared and thrashed about, melting the heavy iron spikes 
into running stream of metal as they did so, and shaking 
the entire bridge to its foundations.

Elrohir wasted no time.  As soon as he saw that the plan 
was going to work, he ran forward, ignoring the cinders 
from the balrog's ripped flesh that sputtered against his 
armor.  It took a great deal more heat to melt mithril than 
iron, and he did not intend to give them the chance.  After 
sweeping his sword about to slice through several orcs who 
were attempting to free the monsters, he buried it to the 
hilt between the first one's eyes.  The creature gave a 
horrible death cry that rang off the surrounding buildings 
and echoed down the street.  Before its cry had completely 
died away, he and several of Glorfindel's elves attacked 
the remaining balrog, but there they had less good fortune.  
The creature was injured, but not mortally so, and was 
howlingly angry as it shook off the remaining bits of the 
gate.  Elrohir barely ducked in time as a red-hot piece of 
metal passed right over his head, and he danced back a few 
yards when the gate exploded under the onslaught.

The demon rose above him, several stories high, its molten 
red centre showing through a crusted black outer skin.  It 
somehow seemed to realise that Elrohir was the leader, for 
although many other elves shot at it from the ground and 
surrounding house windows, it was towards him it came.  
Elrohir watched it do so with a feeling of inevitability.  
Some part of his brain screamed at him to run, for who 
could stand up to something like that?  But then, where was 
there to go?  Their city was dying around them, that he 
knew even if others had not yet accepted it.  Gondolin 
would fall this day; its enemies were simply too many and 
too strong.  Elrohir saw nothing but stupidity in fighting 
to save that which was already doomed, but he could 
understand the need to buy time for as many of the 
inhabitants as possible to be evacuated.  He thought 
fleetingly of Glorfindel, and hoped that he was on his way 
out by now with Turgon and the princess in tow.  It was his 
lover's face that he kept in mind as he waited for the 
thing to come closer.  Glorfindel would need all the time 
he could give him.

It was with a sense of complete shock that Elrohir found 
himself still alive a few minutes later, while the carcass 
of the second balrog lay steaming at his feet.  He regarded 
it with a sense of unreality as Glorfindel's elves cheered 
all around him.  He had won, he realised, simply because he 
had not run.  The creature had obviously not expected a 
lone elf to stand and fight, and had aimed its whip beyond 
him, expecting to trip him up as he tried to escape its 
wrath.  When he unexpectedly stood his ground, the creature 
had to try to stop its forward momentum at the last minute-
-not an easy task for something the size oof a house--and in 
doing so had exposed its vulnerable underbelly to Elrohir's 
sword.  He had pierced the skin with his mithril blade, 
which unlike lesser weapons had not melted in the heat from 
the creature's body.  Torrents of a lava like substances 
had rushed out of the wound, searing his hand, but he had 
nonetheless plunged the blade even deeper, knowing that he 
would never get a second chance.  One of Glorfindel's elves 
grabbed his other arm and spun him away at the last moment, 
just as the creature folded up and slammed into the paving 
stones where he had been standing, sending a shock wave the 
length of the street as it did so.

"My lord, you're injured!"  The young elf who had saved his 
life was regarding Elrohir's right arm with mingled pity 
and revulsion.  He saw that his armor had deflected some of 
the liquid, but burning acid had run into the joints at his 
wrist and elbow, severely blistering the skin below.  His 
arm was not only excruciatingly painful, but useless, his 
sword almost falling from his limp hand.  Fortunately he, 
like all the Sindar, had been trained to be ambidextrous in 
combat, a fact he demonstrated by grabbing his weapon and 
stabbing a passing orc, but he did not possess as much 
strength or dexterity with his left hand.  Still, it would 
have to do, for the battle was only beginning.**

Elrohir came back to himself, sweat soaked and panting from 
exertion without any idea why.  Then he noticed that 
several small lanterns were by his feet, turned onto their 
sides and spreading pools of light across the cavern floor.  
All around him, orc carcasses were piled.  He saw with 
amazement that there were two or three dozen altogether, 
and they had obviously not died of natural causes.  What 
was even more worrying was that blood still oozed from 
several, sending black streams running across the dusty 
ground.  Elrohir knelt and briefly felt the skin of the orc 
nearest his feet; it was still warm.  He immediately 
snatched his hand back and drew his sword, looking about 
fearfully and wondering who might have done this.  He did 
not see how Glorfindel and the others could have reached 
this far so quickly, but perhaps he had been in the mines 
longer than he thought.

"Glorfindel?"  His own voice echoing back to him was the 
only reply he received.  Elrohir bent to pick up a lantern, 
wishing for some more light to help him locate the orc 
killer, when he saw it.  The lantern showed rivulets of 
blood that spread out like lace over the shiny surface of 
his weapon.  He stared at it in shock.  Hadn't he cleaned 
it after the fight in the glade?  He was sure he had, and 
was equally certain that he had used his knives rather than 
his sword on the orcs he had killed after entering the 
mines.  Why then was there fresh blood on his blade?  
Elrohir shivered in the darkness, sending the little beams 
of light from the lamp dancing all about him.  What in 
Mandos had just happened?

*   *   *

Erestor smiled at the three orcs who huddled against the 
wall of the cavern, looking at he and Camthalion as if at 
the faces of doom, which in their case was an apt analogy.  
"All I want to know," he told them nicely, "is where to 
find the elves.  If you tell me, I shall consider sparing 
your lives; if you lie, you will die in the most painful 
way I can devise over a very extended period of time.  Do I 
make myself clear?"

Erestor noticed one of the orcs glancing at Camthalion, who 
was fingering his knife with an expression that clearly 
said he hoped they were not going to prove cooperative.  
The orcs understood that--malice was an emotion with which 
they were well acquainted--but Erestor was equally certain 
they had comprehended his words.  He did most of the 
interrogation at Imladris, and had centuries before picked 
up enough of their foul tongue to be able to make his 
wishes understood.  Even now, tired from the long fight to 
breach the entrance, he was clear headed enough to know he 
spoke plainly.  His patience, on the other hand, was 
beginning to fray a bit.  "Where are they?"  He picked the 
closest orc up by its filthy collar and shook it, letting 
its head bang against the stone wall behind it.  "TELL me 
or I swear . . . "

The orc quailed under his glare, and tried to shield its 
eyes from the light of the lantern Camthalion held in his 
hand.  It had grown late as their party searched for a way 
into the caverns and the sky behind them was now fully 
dark.  The front entrance they had hoped to use was 
obviously impossible; when they reached it, Erestor 
immediately noted the additional barriers and booby traps 
that had been put in place and stopped the others before 
they could needlessly waste their lives.  A careful 
exploration of nearby crags had finally yielded another 
entrance, but even that small crack in the cliff face had 
an impressive force guarding it.  Indeed, if it hadn't been 
for the large number of orcs milling about, they probably 
would never have noticed it at all, for the creatures 
concealed their entrances well.  Battling the guards had 
taken even more time, and night had fallen as they did so.  
Thankfully, there was as yet no sign of the returning main 
orcish force, but there was no way of knowing how much 
longer that would hold true.  Erestor decided that he did 
not have time for finesse.

"Tell me what I want to know or die now; I have no more 
time to waste on you."  His matter-of-fact tone seemed to 
frighten the creature before him in a way his previous 
threats had not, and it soon told him all it knew.  
Unfortunately, that was not much, and when another of its 
party leapt up and efficiently snapped the traitor's 
throat, they lost even the hope of a guide for the dark 
tunnels ahead.  Camthalion disposed of the remaining orcs 
before they could do any more damage while Erestor tried to 
think.

"I take it that was not very useful?"

Erestor looked up at Glorfindel who, as usual, had not 
interfered with his interrogation, but had stood off to one 
side, his expression closed and brooding.  "He said that he 
wasn't sure where they are, but that an order had gone out 
at our approach to gather all the elves together.  He 
assumed they were being marked for execution, but never 
heard the actual order given."

"That would prevent any hope of rescue," Glorfindel mused, 
looking, Erestor thought, remarkably calm about the 
prospect.  "There is nothing to be done, then, but continue 
until we find an orc who DOES know something, or until we 
see the corpses of the elves.  I will not take one of these 
creature's words for anything, Erestor.  We continue until 
we are certain, one way or the other."

Erestor agreed that they had little choice.  They had come 
too far and risked too much to turn back now.  Still, he 
gave a brief thought to the fact that it might have been 
wise to bring Elwyyda with them.  True, she had little 
knowledge of the mines outside her own rather restricted 
area, but that was still better than they possessed at the 
moment.

"It is odd, don't you think?"  Glorfindel was still looking 
thoughtful, and Erestor glanced up at him hopefully.  Any 
suggestion would be welcome at the moment, considering that 
they were facing the daunting prospect of fighting their 
way through the entire mine with no idea how many orcs 
remained inside, where the captives might be, or even if 
they still lived.  "The elves are valuable to us, of 
course, but to the orcs, they should be nothing more than 
mine slaves--easily replaceable should one tumble into a 
crevasse.  Judging by . . . Zirak's . . . appearance when 
we found him, even the greatest of them was not well 
treated.  So why the extra security and elaborate attempts 
to avoid having them rescued?  Doesn't it seem strange to 
you?"

Erestor shrugged.  The only thing that seemed odd to him at 
the moment was waiting around in a shallow cave while the 
chilly night breeze gave him pneumonia.  Not that the mines 
would be much warmer, but at least chopping apart a few 
orcs might provide the opportunity to work up a sweat.  "I 
don't know and, frankly Glorfindel, at the moment I don't 
care."  Under different circumstances Erestor would have 
found it amusing that their roles seemed to have reversed--
he was suddenly the one in favour of action while 
Glorfindel was content to stand about thinking--but his 
sense of humour had deserted him at the moment.  In any 
case, thinking in this case was unlikely to get them 
anywhere, as there was not enough information with which to 
speculate.  "They are probably being held on a lower level; 
I am sure we'll meet a few orcs on the way down who can be 
persuaded to give us directions."

He decided not to think about what could happen if they 
were trapped in a lower point in the mines when the main 
orcish force returned.  Instead, he took his frustrations 
out on his Noldor, whom he spent several moments 
threatening with dire consequences if they gave into 
temptation and slaughtered every orc they met.  Not that he 
didn't agree with their sentiments, but it was difficult 
even for him to get information from a corpse.  Erestor was 
just grateful that they did not know the identity of the 
elf they had helped to rescue the last time.  If they 
received even an inkling that the High King had been 
tortured by these creatures, he doubted if there was 
anything that could prevent them from killing 
indiscriminately.

*   *   *

Elrohir looked about the little cave he had just entered in 
amazement.  He had blundered his way across the cavern 
floor with the help of one of the dead orc's lanterns, only 
tripping over corpses occasionally, until a faint outline 
of light from ahead told him that he was nearing his goal.  
No less than three massive locks protected a large iron 
banded doorway, but Elrohir found Erestor's skeleton key to 
be useful once again, easily opening two of them.  The 
third, however, simply refused to budge, and unlike Erestor 
who had a whole collection of the magic keys, Elrohir was 
restricted to just the one.  After a futile few minutes, he 
had almost decided to abandon subtlety and hack at the 
cursed thing with his knives, when common sense reasserted 
itself.  He really had no desire to alert whoever had 
killed the orcs to his presence, or to bring more of the 
creatures scurrying right for him.  Making his way back to 
the slaughtered piles of orcs, he rummaged around in their 
fetid clothing until he finally found a large key ring that 
one still clutched in his grimy hand.

One of the keys fit the final lock, and Elrohir bit back a 
cry of relief.  Turning the handle slowly, he edged into 
the room beyond, careful to make no discernable sound.  The 
room itself, however, caused him to stop and stare about in 
openmouthed astonishment.

Most elves did not care overmuch for treasure, at least not 
the same kind that appealed to men and dwarves, but 
apparently orcs felt differently.  Elrohir regarded with 
awe the piles of mithril, gold, jewels of every 
description, fine fabrics tossed into negligent heaps, 
casks of expensive balms and perfumes, and fine old books 
and scrolls.  He had never before thought about what the 
orcs did with the all treasure they stole from the 
travelers they killed, but he supposed he now knew.  There 
had to be hundreds of years' worth of plunder stashed here, 
although none of it looked much used.  The piles of 
precious metals actually had a thick layer of dust on them, 
some of the beautiful fabrics were beginning to molder in 
the damp air of the caves and a few scrolls had fallen to 
the floor and been carelessly trampled under dirty goblin 
feet.  Still, this represented more wealth than Elrohir had 
ever seen in his life, and explained the heavy locks on the 
door and the large number of guards that had been in the 
cave.  What it did not do was help him locate the king, as 
the chamber appeared to be empty of life.

He passed quickly through the treasure room, prudently 
leaving no footprints on the dusty floor by keeping to the 
narrow trail countless numbers of goblins had left.  He 
passed through several more caves, each equally filled with 
unimaginable wealth, before coming to a much smaller door 
that was once again carefully locked.  None of the keys 
from the orc's key ring worked on this one, nor did 
Erestor's skeleton key.  Elrohir tried to fit the point of 
his knife into it, but to his astonishment, the tip broke 
completely off when he tried to force it.  Wonderful, a 
mithril lock, that was all he needed.

All right, he thought, reason it out.  That was easier said 
than done when his overworked nerves interpreted every 
sound as the tread of light footed warriors sneaking up on 
him, but he forced himself to concentrate.  These caves 
seemed to contain all that the orcs most valued, so if they 
put a high price on Oropher's life, it made sense that they 
would keep him in their most secured location.  It was odd, 
however, that they had not demanded a ransom for him all 
these centuries, and if money was not their interest, what 
value could he have?  But that was something to worry about 
later; right now the issue was to get him out, assuming it 
was indeed Oropher that the small room imprisoned.

After a few more minutes of fruitless attempts at lock 
picking, Elrohir finally gave up and decided to risk 
calling out.  If Oropher was on the other side of the door, 
he might have an idea how to help free himself; of course, 
if it was someone else, Elrohir was possibly about to be in 
big trouble, but he didn't see that he had many options.  
Just as he was about to test his theory, however, a cry 
resounded through the caves behind him, and the thud of 
heavy feet resounded through the room.  Looking about 
frantically, he spotted a hiding place behind several large 
casks and dived out of sight just as three figures entered 
the small cave.

The leader was tall and dressed in a floor length cape that 
concealed his identity.  The other two were large orcs 
armed to the teeth and looking even more annoyed than orcs 
usually did.  "Find who did this."  The voice was low and 
hoarse, and did not sound like that of an orc to Elrohir.  
Of course, his height would have ruled that out in any 
case.  The two goblins moved away swiftly, starting a 
search of the nearby caves.  Elrohir wondered how long it 
would be before they thought to search this one.  Something 
told him he was running out of time.

*   *   *

"That's the rest of them.''

Celeborn nodded at Thranduil's low voiced comment, as a 
small group of fifteen dusty and tired looking elves made 
their way into the small encampment.  They were the last of 
several small parties Thranduil had sent to harass the 
edges of the orc army and keep it moving in the direction 
of the pass.  Celeborn was glad to have them back, and to 
see that they had apparently lost no one in their attacks, 
but he could spare them little thought.  His mind was 
completely absorbed with the plan they were about to put 
into effect, for it was the only chance either he or 
Thranduil could see to destroy the invading force without 
losing the lives of many elves in the process.  The 
mountain valleys in which small patches of forest grew were 
almost non-existent after the pass, so ambush techniques 
such as they had been using would no longer work until the 
army entered the woods of Lorien.  Celeborn repressed a 
shudder at the very thought; they would never reach his 
home--he would not allow it.

He glanced about the rocky promontory where the elves had 
concealed themselves behind a few scraggly bushes.  He knew 
there were hundreds of Thranduil's people scattered about, 
but even his sharp eyes had difficulty picking them out.  
The dim starlight suffusing the landscape did not help, but 
he was still surprised at how difficult it was to see any 
of the elves that he knew were nearby.  The few trees that 
grew this high must have been groaning under their weight, 
but none could be seen in the branches.  Their dark green 
clothing should have been easily spotted among the rocks, 
yet he saw nothing that could not be mistaken for a stray 
patch of grass.  He smiled.  If he had to be in a do or die 
situation, he could have done far worse for allies.

Celeborn heard it first, the faint, far off sound of 
thousands of heavy footfalls, enough to shake the earth 
itself with their weight.  Thranduil tensed beside him a 
second later and raised a hand to alert his elves.  
Celeborn felt a rush of adrenaline flood him such as he had 
not known for centuries.  He felt somewhat ashamed of 
himself--many elves would die if this went wrong, both here 
and in the kingdoms beyond--but nonetheless he could not 
deny that it was the most thrilling experience he had had 
in a very long time.  Silently, he nocked one of the arrows 
from the quiver he had spent much of the night refilling 
and waited.  The timing was crucial, and he could only hope 
Thranduil's elves were as well trained as he had been 
boasting.  If any of them acted too soon, all would be 
lost.

The orc army seemed to take forever to show itself, but 
when it did, Celeborn caught his breath in wonder.  He had 
not had the chance to see it in its full numbers before, 
and it was an amazing sight as it flooded into the pass 
like a river of dirty water.  He took in a few deep breaths 
to calm himself, and noted with respect the fact that 
Thranduil's hand did not tremble even slightly as he held 
it up, ready to give the signal at the optimum time.  As 
soon as the first few hundred goblins had entered the pass, 
he dropped his arm, signalling the first runner to leave on 
his race to alert the elves at the far end of the slender 
canyon.  They had to create a rockslide to bar the army 
from leaving the pass, but not before it had gone too far 
to turn about.  The elves wanted the orcs to think the 
rockslide was a small impediment that could be easily 
removed with a few minutes' work, not to decide to pull out 
and take another route.

The army surged on for several hours, the jostling ranks 
kicking and snarling at each other as they were crowded 
into the narrow confines of the pass.  Their heavy shields 
were at their sides, to be raised in a second as a 
protective covering over their heads if the elves should 
try an ambush, and their weapons were ready in their hands.  
They nonetheless seemed confidant, perhaps due to their 
numbers or because their sharp eyes were comfortable in the 
low light.  It would be daybreak in a few hours but, if the 
elves were lucky, this band of orcs would never see it.

*   *   *

Oh no, Elrohir thought in dismay as the hooded figure 
fitted key to lock and opened the door a fraction; he could 
barely see him because the now familiar colours were 
starting to glow again at the edge of his vision, but he 
couldn't have a black out now!  He had no idea if he moved 
or spoke during the hallucinations, but even if not, the 
orcs might come back at any time or summon others to help 
with their search.  If they found him passed out on the 
floor, he somehow doubted that they would bother waking him 
up before running a sword through him.  He resorted to the 
old method of banging his head into one of the casks, 
hoping that the pain would hold off the inevitable, but the 
slight noise that resulted caused the hooded figure to 
pause and seemingly sniff at the air, so he desisted.  
After a few moments hesitation, the cloaked figure resumed 
his previous occupation and passed through the narrow 
opening in the door.  It looked from Elrohir's angle like 
an impossible task, as the crack was appeared only a few 
inches wide, but that had to be a trick of the eyes.

Elrohir noticed that the door did not shut behind the 
figure, so after a few moments, he cautiously ventured 
closer, keeping to the shadows instinctively even though he 
knew they would not help him elude orcish eyes.  The door 
must have slightly shut after all, because there was only a 
small crack open when Elrohir reached it.  He peered in but 
could see very little.  A few candles were burning, so 
lighting wasn't the issue, but no one was in line of sight 
from the doorway, nor did he at first hear any 
conversation.  Then the same low voice he had heard 
addressing the orcs spoke again.

"It seems you may be useful after all, old one.  My master 
will be pleased that I kept you safe all these years; as I 
told him, it is always good to have an alternative."  
Elrohir could hear no reply, but the sound of chains 
clanking together echoed clearly through the room.  "Come, 
it seems your friends are looking for you, but they will 
find nothing when they arrive."

Elrohir barely had time to duck back behind the casks when 
two figures emerged from the room.  The hooded one held 
onto a heavy chain that was attached securely to an iron 
ring about the neck of an elf who almost matched him in 
height.  Elrohir wanted to cry out at the sight, but 
managed to restrain himself by biting down hard on his 
lower lip.  It was Oropher--it had to be!  The elf did not 
look as battered as Zirak had been, but was rather in the 
condition of the elves he had freed earlier--dirty, 
emaciated and exhausted looking, but without signs of 
serious injury.  It was hard to tell what colour his hair 
might have been, for it was too matted and covered with the 
grey dust from the caves to be sure, but out of sunken 
sockets his eyes shone almost as if they held a light all 
their own, and their colour was the distinctive bright 
green of Thranduil's house.  He did not bother to reply to 
his gaoler, nor did he put up a resistance as he was drawn 
along at a quick pace out of the treasure caves.

Elrohir followed the two back to the large main cavern with 
the dead orcs.  No one had bothered to clear them away, 
although a dozen goblins were pawing through their 
clothing, apparently looking for plunder.  Elrohir paused 
at the exit to the treasure caves, uncertain what to do.  
Clearly, Oropher was being moved, and he had to follow or 
he might never locate him again.  It must be night outside 
by now, and the orcs could even take him beyond the mine if 
they chose.  Yet venturing out into a cavern where at least 
a dozen goblins already waited, and where others might be 
concealed in the shadows, did not appeal.  His eyesight was 
hazy at best in the deep shadows of the mines, while the 
orcs would be able to see him clearly.  A dozen arrows 
coming at him from different directions could skewer him 
before he even saw his attackers.  As much as he hated to 
admit it, there seemed no way to rescue Oropher without 
help, and wherever his team was, they obviously hadn't made 
it this far yet.

Elrohir was distracted from his gloomy thoughts by a fierce 
battle raging off to one side of his vision.  He ignored 
it, but it did not go away.  He resolutely looked in the 
other direction, but it followed him relentlessly.  No, 
leave me be, he thought desperately.  As if things weren't 
bad enough!

**Elrohir raced up the steepest street in the city, only 
pausing to slash at an orc that came too close or to avoid 
a burning cart that careened into his path.  All around him 
elves were fleeing or fighting, orcs were smashing 
everything that they were not claiming as plunder, and 
overhead, several dragons wheeled in seemingly impossible 
loops and arcs, setting more of the ruined street aflame 
with every pass.  Elrohir ignored all of it, so intent was 
he on reaching his goal--the final battle that raged at the 
very heart of the once beautiful city, on the pinnacle 
where the palace topped the spiral of earth like a king's 
crown and where Fountain Court lay in sparkling splendor.  
He had heard the battle cry of his house resound through 
the city minutes before, telling him that his elves had 
charged the enemy.  That they would do this before he could 
rejoin them said without the need for words just how 
desperate matters had become.

Elrohir and the surviving members of Glorfindel's house had 
been trying to slow down the invading waves of orcs to 
allow the rest of the city's inhabitants to flee.  They had 
been battling two enemies, however, the army flooding 
through the ruined gates and the stupidity of people who 
refused to accept that their city was doomed and to get 
away with their lives at least.  He had had to personally 
pull a family of elves out of their smoking house and, at 
sword point, order them to leave immediately.  Even then, 
the mother had insisted on carefully fastening the door 
behind her, as if that would insure that the house and its 
contents would still be intact for her return.  They had 
also carried enough baggage with them that Elrohir 
seriously doubted their ability to outrun even the slowest 
of orcs, but he had had no more time to spare for 
arguments.

Elrohir drew up short as he reached Fountain Court, the 
sight before him knocking all else from his mind.  A huge 
balrog, roughly twice the size of the ones he had killed, 
reared up over him, although it did not apparently see him 
at the moment.  The scurrying elves must look like children 
to it, he thought in dazed wonder, before the sight of 
Eirien, his chief lieutenant, snapped him out of it.  She 
was looking less than her usual calm and collected self and 
was covered in blood, although it was the blackish colour 
of the orcs' rather than her own, he noted with relief.

"Where are the others?'  All he could see in the court were 
perhaps two dozen elves, whereas there should have been ten 
times that number, even if his own people were the only 
ones there.

"We ARE the others--the only survivors!," she screamed at 
him, tears streaking the smoke residue that covered her 
fair face.  "They are dead, Ecthelion, all of them!  That 
thing and two dragons killed most of them, and . . . " she 
screamed and dragged him under the remains of one of the 
great marble pillars surrounding the court, just before the 
lash of the balrog's whip could turn them both into ashes.  
Marble dust and smoke billowed up around them, shielding 
them for a moment from view.  "Some were helping to 
evacuate the palace; I don't know, they may live still, but 
none of us will for long at this rate!"

"What have you tried to do to kill it?"

"What CAN we do?  Few even managed to get close to that 
thing, and those that did didn't last long.  Its hide is 
just too thick--even mithril blades won't penetrate it!  
It's Gothmog, Ecthlion, it MUST be!  And I always thought 
the stories about him were exaggerated!"

"Where are the dragons? I don't see them."  Elrohir had 
thought of a plan, suggested by the billowing smoke that 
churned all about them, but he needed to know that Gothmog 
was the only opponent he would face if he tried it.

"I don't know, probably off terrorizing the city somewhere.  
They flew away a few minutes ago."  Elrohir nodded, they 
must have been the ones he'd seen setting fires further 
down the hill.

"Gather what elves we have left and clear the area of orcs, 
then form up just beyond the entrance.  I'll take care of 
Gothmog, but I can't fight him and an army of orcs at the 
same time.  You must give me a few minutes without 
distractions."

Eirien looked at him wildly for a second, her soot streaked 
hair falling in her eyes and her hands clutching 
convulsively at his shoulders.  "Are you mad?  I'm not 
leaving you to fight that thing alone!  I'll relay your 
orders to the others and then we'll . . . "

"You will do as I tell you."  Elrohir spoke as calmly as 
the situation allowed, for he didn't have much time.  The 
smoke was clearing, and they had to move as soon as it did 
so.  "They need leadership, Eirien, and I can't be two 
places at once.  Do as I say and leave the balrog to me."

"But . . . but you're injured!"

Elrohir was tempted to slap her, but he didn't want that to 
be the last memory she had of him, so he settled for 
shaking her instead.  "Did your oath of loyalty mean 
nothing?"  Elrohir sighed in relief, seeing something of 
her usual discipline reassert itself.  "Hold the entrance 
to the court as long as you can, then when you see the 
monster fall, start your retreat.  Aid as many elves as you 
can to get away from here, but do not stay and waste your 
lives in a loss cause."

"But the city will fall . . . "

"The city has already fallen, Eirien!  None of us can save 
it!  Will you do as I say?"  At her tearful nod, he smiled.  
He would have liked to tell her how proud he was of her, 
and how good a lieutenant she had always been, but there 
was no more time.  "Tell Glorfindel I'm sorry," he said, 
then ducked back into the open, grabbing up a fallen elf's 
spear and throwing it at Gothmog's eyes as he did so.  The 
balrog might seem invincible to the other elves, but 
Elrohir had just killed two of them and he no longer felt 
the same way.  They COULD die, and this one must, for the 
fleeing elves would have no chance at escape if it was 
allowed to pursue them. Fortunately, Fountain Court held 
the perfect weapon with which to defeat even the greatest 
of balrogs.  Elrohir just had to get him into it.

*   *   *

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 35/?

*   *   *

Orophin put down the apple he had been munching and stared 
at Elladan.  They were in bed in his family talan where 
they had been spending a few peaceful days before his leave 
was up and he had to return to the borders.  There had been 
no word from Haldir, who was still recovering in the royal 
talan, which could mean that he had forgotten about his 
revenge, or, more likely, that he was taking his time 
devising something truly awful.  The last time Orophin 
spoke to Rumil, his brother had promised to intercede for 
him to prevent whatever terrible fate Haldir had in mind, 
although Orophin had his doubts as to the likelihood of 
success.  He had decided that, if he was soon to be made to 
regret the day of his birth, he might as well enjoy the 
time he had left, and his young lover had proved more than 
willing to help in that regard.  Until, that is, Elladan 
had noticed something in the gardens that apparently 
intrigued him.

"He's up to something, I'm telling you!"

"What difference does it make?"  Orophin rolled over and 
attempted to pull his lover back into his arms to resume 
their prior occupation.  They had already tried virtually 
every position he knew, but there was always the 
possibility he would think up a new one.  Especially if he 
had some help from his partner.

"Just look," Elladan thwarted his plans by slipping out of 
his arms, then tugging him over to the side of the bed near 
the window.  Orophin obliged him simply to hurry this 
along, but saw nothing particularly interesting happening 
below.  Lord Elrond sat on a bench in the beautiful flower 
garden usually used only by Lord Celeborn and Lady 
Galadriel.  There was nothing odd about that, however, as 
he was their son-in-law and no doubt had the run of the 
palace.  "Do you see him?"

"See what?  It's only Lord Elrond reading a book"

"Look there," Elladan pointed to a small clump of flowering 
bushes a good distance from Elrond, but closer to their 
position.  It took Orophin's eyes a while to discern what 
his lover was talking about, but after a moment he saw him-
-an elf had concealed himself in the bushees and was lying 
there, apparently watching Lord Elrond.  Why anyone would 
want to do that, Orophin couldn't imagine, unless Elrond 
had acquired yet another admirer who was too shy to 
approach him directly.  Probably a smart move, Orophin 
thought wryly, especially if he handled unwanted attraction 
the same way as his youngest son.

"Who is it?"  Orophin couldn't tell for certain, as the 
bushes did their job of concealment well, and the elf had 
his face turned away in any case.  A second later he 
received a strong clue, however, when he noticed Haldir 
stealthily making his way around the perimeter of the 
garden, apparently intently watching the watcher.  That and 
the dark hair of the elf in the bushes were the only clues 
he needed.  There was only one person of Orophin's 
acquaintance who had ever been able to drive his brother 
completely mad, and while sneaking around the lord and 
lady's private garden didn't exactly qualify as insane, it 
would undoubtedly earn the heretofore-respected march 
warden a severe reprimand if anyone found out about it.  
"Why is Gildor spying on your father?"

"I have no idea, but let's go find out."

"Oh, no you don't."  Orophin grabbed his lover before he 
could jump off the bed and pressed him back against his 
chest.  This was more like it.  "I much prefer it in here.  
No one is supposed to use that garden except for the 
invited guests of the lord and lady."

"I'm their grandson, Orophin," Elladan reminded him with a 
grin, "they won't care.  Not to mention the fact that they 
aren't even here right now."  Elladan's eyes sparkled with 
the wicked glint that warned of trouble in the making.  "Oh 
don't be such a spoil sport--come with me!  After all, what 
could happen?"

Orophin groaned at the familiar, fateful phrase, but 
followed his lover out the door anyway.  Someone had to try 
to keep him out of trouble, although with these Peredhils, 
that was never an easy task.  He wondered if Imladris was 
always this chaotic, and breathed a small sigh of thanks 
that he lived in beautiful, usually peaceful, Lorien.

*   *   *

Haldir was becoming quite uncomfortable.  His ankle was 
better that morning after almost an entire day of rest, but 
the bush under which he had squeezed himself was prickly 
and the position he had been forced to take to insure 
concealment was awkward.  It didn't help that the day was 
unusually hot for Lorien, causing trickles of perspiration 
to keep running into his eyes.  He wanted to get a bath and 
change clothes, but nonetheless stayed where he was.  The 
matter at hand was far more important than a little 
physical discomfort; he was staring at a potential 
disaster.

Haldir had noticed the previous day that Gildor seemed 
oddly quiet, but had assumed that he was merely shaken by 
their experience, as Haldir was himself to a degree.  He 
had often heard that the older, more powerful elves could 
enter each other's thoughts, even communicating over long 
distances if they chose, but he had never before been in 
another's mind or truly understood what it was like.  It 
had been unsettling, to say the least, especially those 
last few moments when he had feared that Gildor was in 
danger.  So he had not been particularly surprised that his 
lover was quieter than usual thereafter, and indeed had 
felt by the end of the day that perhaps it had been a good 
experience for them both.  Gildor had hardly left his side 
the whole day, and had not been able to do enough for him.  
Haldir had been more than happy to relax and let himself be 
pampered, relishing having Gildor's complete attention for 
a change.  But that morning, everything had changed.

Haldir had awoken early, having had a good deal of sleep 
the previous day, and expected to find Gildor curled up 
beside him.  Instead, his lover had been missing from their 
bed, and when he did not return after a few minutes, Haldir 
went in search of him.  He had finally found him in the 
courtyard before the palace, where Lord Elrond was giving 
instructions to a large group of the border patrol.  He was 
sending them to rendezvous with Lord Celeborn, and for a 
moment Haldir's attention had strayed away from his lover 
at the news that reinforcements were needed.  Yet Elrond 
did not seem overly worried about the situation, and when 
Haldir offered his services once Elrond's speech ended, he 
was politely refused.

"Your ankle should be better today, Haldir, but it is still 
weak.  Break it yet again and you may spend the next month 
in bed.  We have enough elves to give your lord the support 
he requested; go, enjoy your rest while you can."

Haldir had decided to follow orders for once, a decision 
helped greatly by his curiosity over Gildor's strange, 
furtive actions.  Gildor had stayed well away from the 
crowd of elves, not approaching them but also not returning 
to the palace.  Even more oddly, he had attempted to 
conceal himself behind a large tree, but had not done a 
very capable job of it as he kept darting his head around 
the side in what looked like an attempt to get a better 
view of Elrond.  Haldir was about to go ask him what in 
Arda he thought he was doing, when Lord Elrond turned to 
mount the steps of the palace once more.  Gildor 
immediately followed, using plants and then, once the 
palace was reached, various large vases and wall niches for 
cover.  Intensely curious by now, Haldir followed him.  
After a few minutes, he almost wished he hadn't.

Elrond had not returned to his rooms but had gone to the 
kitchens to oversee the food preparation for several of the 
elves who had been wounded alongside Gildor.  A few of them 
were still in serious condition, and Elrond apparently 
wanted to insure that nothing they were fed was causing 
some of the complications they were experiencing.  Gildor 
wedged himself into a tiny area near the kitchen stairs and 
peered at Elrond intently through the railing as he took a 
taste of the broth the chef had prepared to make sure it 
was not overly spicy.  Haldir's heart sank with every 
passing second for, although he was standing in full view 
in the doorway, he was completely ignored; he doubted that 
Gildor was even aware of his presence, for his lover's eyes 
never left the lord of Imladris.

Haldir instinctively ducked out of sight as Elrond finished 
his conversation and exited the kitchens.  Elrond didn't 
notice him in the shadows of the wide corridor leading back 
to the main parts of the palace, and neither did Gildor 
when he furtively followed a moment later.  Haldir 
continued to trail after them, although he was beginning to 
be very disturbed by what he was seeing.

The implications, of course, were obvious.  Haldir had seen 
elves make fools of themselves over Elrond--the Valar knew 
he had done the same himself--and had laughed at the 
stories Erestor told him of the wagers regularly made over 
how many besotted elves would follow Elrond around the 
grounds on this or that feast day.  Erestor had sworn that, 
on one solstice eve, it had looked like a parade was 
winding its way through the grounds of Imladris, just 
because Elrond had decided to take a moonlit stroll and, of 
course, his rather large coterie of admirers had followed 
along behind like goslings after a mother duck.  The story 
had seemed amusing at the time, but now it was taking on 
the quality of a nightmare.  No!  He must be imagining 
things.  Gildor had lived at Imladris for years and had 
served Elrond for much of his young life.  Why would he 
suddenly decide to be attracted to him now?

Yet, as the morning dragged on, Haldir became steadily more 
convinced that that was exactly what had happened.  Gildor 
dogged Elrond's footsteps as he went to the sickrooms to 
attend to his charges, dropped a bouquet of flowers off at 
Elwyyda's rooms, where he spent some time conversing with 
the little dwarf, then visited the library for a book 
before strolling into the lord and lady's private garden to 
read in the sun.  All the time, Gildor's eyes rarely left 
Elrond's face, and Haldir at last had to conclude, as he 
cursed the scratchy bush above him, that his lover really 
was infatuated with the handsome elf lord.

Haldir attempted to avoid panic by reassuring himself that, 
although Elrond often played with whatever elf caught his 
eye, he did not seem to grow overly attached to any of 
them.  After noticing Haldir's growing infatuation, Erestor 
had even gently pointed this out, attempting, he supposed, 
to spare him disappointment.  "We have been together for 
longer than you've been alive, young one, but even with me, 
Elrond remains . . . well, he guards his heart well, shall 
we say."

"Doesn't that trouble you?"  Haldir had been so infatuated 
at the time that it had been with the great surprise that 
he saw Erestor chuckle in apparently genuine amusement.  
"Not really.  In fact, I often think that is the greatest 
advantage we give each other--that our pleasure is 
uncomplicated by such things.  But have a care, Haldir, for 
it is only when you lose your heart to someone that their 
actions have the power to hurt you."

Haldir thought about that conversation now, as he felt his 
heart battered every time Gildor moved into another 
position, each designed to bring him closer to the object 
of his affection.  How could he blame him?  There were 
hundreds, possibly thousands, of elves who had fallen under 
Elrond's sway through the millennia, with his own name one 
of the most recent on the list.  Ah, but there was a 
difference, some part of his mind interjected, for you were 
not involved with anyone when you first saw Elrond.  There 
was no lover to disappoint, no one's heart to break.  But 
Gildor was betraying him, and just after they had spent 
much of the previous day making exquisite love . . .

But, Haldir suddenly realised, hadn't there been something 
almost desperate in Gildor's touch?  His usually gentle and 
somewhat shy lover had been more possessive and demanding 
than usual, and although Haldir had greatly enjoyed it at 
the time, he now wondered if Gildor's reaction had been 
driven more by panic than passion.  What if their 
experiences with Elrond the previous day had made Gildor 
see him in a different light?  What if, by claiming Haldir 
in such an ardent fashion, he had merely been attempting to 
drive thoughts of Elrond from his mind, and to deny the 
growing attraction?  It all made perfect, horrible sense, 
and Haldir suddenly wanted nothing more than to attack 
something, starting with the benighted bush above him, 
which had just stuck another thorn in his calf, and 
proceeding on from there.

How could Gildor do this to him?  Didn't they have 
something special?  Didn't he feel anything for him?  
Hadn't he said . . . Haldir stopped short at the 
realisation that Gildor had never actually said that he 
loved him.  He had given enough indications that Haldir had 
never before thought about it, but it was a fact.  Of 
course, he had never said it to Gildor either, but he had 
shown him, hadn't he?  Perhaps, Haldir thought in growing 
dismay, he had not been as clear as he thought.  Maybe that 
was why Gildor preferred to spend his time with Elwyyda or 
skulking after Elrond instead of with him.  Could all this 
be his fault, for taking his lover for granted?

Haldir pondered this new and very strange concept.  True, 
Gildor had shown a preference for romantic gestures--take 
that ridiculous first kiss anniversary celebration which, 
despite its absurdity, had been strangely touching, if only 
because of the amount of time and effort it must have 
taken.  And keeping that ratty old tunic for so long, and 
sending him all those flowers . . . Haldir forced himself 
to stop that train of thought before he became any more 
morose.  In any case, Gildor had not seemed upset that he 
had not returned his gestures, although perhaps that was 
because Haldir had been in no position to do so propped up 
in bed with a broken ankle.  Still, maybe Gildor found him 
inadequate romantically, and had therefore been more 
vulnerable to Elrond's charms than he would have been 
otherwise.

Haldir found himself a bit at a loss.  He had never before 
had to worry about satisfying a lover, other than in bed.  
People practically lined up for his affections, so why 
would he have to employ those sentimental gestures he 
occasionally noticed other elves using?  He had always 
thought them inane and assumed that the only elves who 
bothered with such things were inadequate lovers who had no 
other options to keep their companion's attention.  Now he 
suddenly wished he had taken more notice of what people in 
long-term relationships did to keep their admirers happy.  
It was a very bad sign that Gildor had drifted so far from 
him as to be following Elrond about, but this . . . 
infatuation . . . of his was new and there might still be 
time.

Haldir noticed a rustling in the bushes behind him, 
something he would have paid more attention to earlier had 
he not been so lost in his thoughts.  He could not draw a 
weapon as he was not armed, but this was the heart of Caras 
Galadhon and therefore it was unlikely that he was facing a 
threat.  Slowly crawling backwards into a clutch of rose 
bushes--wonderful, more thorns--he managed to circle the 
pair hidden behind a bench to his left.  When he recognized 
them, he smiled a little evilly.  These two owed him a huge 
favour, and were about to pay up.

*   *   *

"You want to do what?"  Orophin decided that either Haldir 
was joking or else he had gone mad.  "Who are you and what 
did you do with my brother?"

"Very funny.  Do you help me with this, and thereby erase 
from my mind your previous appalling lack of judgment, or 
would you rather await your fate when we return to the 
fences?"

Orophin smiled a little weakly.  He was well aware that 
Haldir could make him miserable for an extended time if he 
chose, so the prospect of getting off so lightly was highly 
appealing.  Yet his request seemed so odd that Orophin 
could not stop himself from shaking his head in amazement.  
Haldir had NEVER gone to such lengths for anyone.  He must 
really care for Gildor, then, and Orophin's usual love for 
his brothers came flooding back, overcoming the trepidation 
with which he had recently viewed Haldir.  If his brother 
was actually serious about Gildor, Orophin would do 
everything he could to help him.  Judging by his 
expression, Rumil felt the same, and Elladan's eyes 
glittered in the way that denoted excitement and mischief 
being planned.

They were seated around a table in Haldir's bedroom in the 
family talan, as Gildor's room at the palace would be too 
risky for such a conversation.  All three had jumped at the 
chance to help instruct Haldir in the fine art of romance, 
although the idea seemed absurd to Orophin who, like most 
of Lorien, viewed Haldir as something of a sex god.  He had 
lost count of the number of lovers his brother had had--
surely he must know the basics of winning someone's regard 
by now!  The idea of teaching their haughty brother 
something obviously delighted Rumil, however, and he 
plunged in with enthusiasm.  "It's about time you woke up," 
Rumil informed him, "I was beginning to wonder what it 
would take to make you see that he's the best thing that's 
ever happened to you.  I can't believe he's serious about 
Lord Elrond, though.  Gildor obviously adores you--his 
whole face lights up whenever you're so much as mentioned!"

Haldir looked, Orophin saw with shock, absolutely dejected.  
"Once, perhaps, but you were there this morning.  Why else 
would he follow Elrond about?"

Orophin agreed that it looked bad.  He could also attest to 
the strange attraction of these Peredhils, although he had 
never thought about Elrond in such a way.  The very idea 
was rather frightening, akin to being attracted to Lord 
Celeborn.  Orophin felt a frisson of fear make its way down 
his spine at the very idea.  No doubt the elders of their 
kind were very handsome, but he preferred a lover who he 
could view as something of an equal, and who could not 
eavesdrop on his thoughts whenever he felt like it.  No, 
the elders were far better off admired from afar in his 
opinion, but then, Gildor would not be the first elf to 
disagree with that attitude.

"I still think it's impossible--there must be another 
explanation."  Rumil looked adamant, and Elladan echoed the 
thought.

"Father does take lovers from time to time, but he never 
becomes involved with those under his direct control or far 
beneath him in stature.  I suppose he feels that it would 
be difficult for them to be honest in the relationship--to 
tell him when they tired of it, or did not want to 
participate in a particular . .. activity.  Gildor is both 
of those things--his family is a brave one, but not of any 
particular wealth or standing, and he is part of father's 
elite guard.  Forgive me, but he also doesn't seem very . . 
. experienced . . . as father's other conquests have always 
been.  I just can't see him responding to any advances 
Gildor might make, other than with a polite refusal, of 
course."

"That isn't point.  Lord Elrond might not be interested in 
Gildor, but the opposite obviously isn't true.  If he is 
unhappy with . . . with our relationship, when Elrond 
rejects him, he'll simply go find someone else."  Haldir 
looked so distressed that Orophin briefly wanted to hug him 
as he had when they were children, but somehow did not 
think that would be well received, especially with an 
audience.  Haldir had always had difficulty expressing his 
feelings, which was probably why he had trouble with 
something as simple as showing his love for Gildor.  
Orophin wondered if he had ever even said it, and thought 
about mentioning that that might be a good place to start, 
but decided to wait and hope someone else brought it up.  
Haldir was uncharacteristically vulnerable at the moment, 
and he didn't want to risk hurting him by insinuating that 
this was somehow his fault, even if that might be the 
truth.

"That won't happen.  We won't let it happen."  Orophin 
wished he felt as certain as Rumil, but he nodded in 
agreement with his brother's sentiment and the group set to 
work.  After a short time, Orophin decided two things: 
first, that he wouldn't have missed this for worlds, and 
second, never give Rumil a challenge.  His brother could be 
positively scary when his imagination was allowed free 
reign.

"First things first," Rumil commented, pulling a piece of 
parchment and a quill from a bag, "Tell us everything you 
know about his preferences."  At Haldir's scandalized 
expression, Rumil laughed.  "No, not THOSE preferences--I 
think we can safely leave that to you.  I meant, what kind 
of food, wine, bath oil, flowers, etc. does he like?"  When 
Haldir stared at him blankly, Rumil sighed and muttered 
something about wondering how he had ever acquired his 
reputation.  "THINK, brother, you must have noticed these 
things, even if you didn't remark on them at the time."

Over a period of almost two hours, Rumil ruthlessly grilled 
Haldir on every meal, walk in a garden, and conversation he 
had ever had with Gildor.  The quill flew as Rumil made 
copious notes, amazing Orophin with his thoroughness.  He 
couldn't decide if it was going to be a very lucky or very 
overwhelmed elf maid who ended up as the object of his 
brother's affection one of these days.

"Now, to dress."  Rumil paused and tapped the end of his 
quill against the parchment, obviously thinking hard.  "No, 
you don't have anything in your wardrobe that's likely to 
do."

Haldir, who had begun looking somewhat grumpy as time 
dragged on, seemed annoyed.  "This is ridiculous.  What 
difference does it make what I wear?"

Rumil gave his brother a withering look.  "Haven't you been 
paying attention at all?  This isn't about YOU, it is about 
GILDOR, and clothes obviously have meaning for him.  Look 
at his insistence on you wearing matching tunics the night 
of King Thranduil's reception.  Look at the replica he had 
made of the first present you ever gave him . . . and 
probably the only one, too.  Stop thinking about yourself 
and concentrate on what will make Gildor happy, assuming 
you really meant it when you said you want to keep him."

Orophin cringed, awaiting the inevitable explosion, for 
elves of good sense did not talk to Haldir that way.  But 
to his amazement it never came.  Instead, Haldir looked 
abashed, and after a moment meekly inquired what, exactly, 
he should wear.

"I don't know," Rumil said flatly, obviously still rather 
miffed.  "Something that says, 'this is a special occasion 
for which I went to a great deal of trouble to please you.'  
Something that says 'you're important to me.'  Something 
beautiful, unusual, seductive and memorable . . . although 
where we are supposed to find such an item on such short 
notice, I have no idea."

Orophin brightened.  He had been feeling a little left out 
of the conversation, unable to improve on any of the ideas 
Elladan and Rumil had been bantering about.  Now, however, 
he had an inspiration.  Yes, he thought, looking at Haldir 
critically, it should look perfect on him, and if anyone 
complained about their borrowing it, well, he could always 
blame Elladan, couldn't he?  "Elladan and I know of 
something."

Elladan, sitting across from him, looked puzzled for a 
moment, then burst out laughing.  "Oh, yes," he gasped, "we 
certainly do!"

*   *   *

Gildor wearily returned to his rooms after one of the 
longest days he could remember.  He had followed Elrond 
about hoping for some sign from the High King about his 
situation--either good or ill--or for an indication that 
Lady Galadriel had intervened, but had received neither.  
However, he had managed to get close enough several times 
to see that Elrond's eyes remained a bright, clear blue, 
indicating that Gil-Galad was still in residence, so to 
speak.

Gildor was tormented by indecision over whether that was a 
good thing or not, and he was equally unsure if he had done 
his duty to his overlord by contacting the lady.  Wasn't 
that pushing off his responsibility onto someone else?  
What if Elrond managed to fool even her?  Gildor had always 
heard it said that none could deceive the lady about 
anything, but then, the same was said of Lord Elrond.  What 
if he managed to convince her that Gildor had been 
mistaken?  If anyone could do it, Elrond could, and if that 
was the case, what in Arda was there left to do?  It was in 
a state of confusion and despondency that Gildor pushed 
open his door, wishing for nothing so much as a chance to 
talk this over with Haldir, but unwilling to share the 
guilt.  This was not his lover's problem, and he shouldn't 
be burdened with it.

The room was dark as the sun had set some time before.  
Gildor wondered if Haldir had had dinner sent up to him, 
because some delightful aroma still lingered on the air.  
He had been too busy following Elrond to remember to eat, 
and now wished he had thought to stop by the kitchens.  He 
was too tired and heartsick, however, to go all the way 
down there now.

Suddenly, a taper flared across the room and a large, 
standing candelabra sprang to life.  Gildor looked about 
the illuminated room in considerable amazement.  What was 
all this?  In the centre of his chamber, where the table 
and bed had once been, a huge tub had been placed.  All 
about it candles were being lit as Haldir moved gracefully 
from point to point.  Floating in the scented water were 
crimson rose petals and more candles shaped like lily 
flowers.  The bed had been relocated to one side of the 
room and festooned with swathes of white gauzy fabric 
intertwined with ropes of flowers.  Along the opposite 
wall, the table glowed with more flowers, bright cutlery 
and a number of covered dishes, which explained the 
mouthwatering aroma permeating the room.  Gildor noticed 
all this in an instant, with the help of Erestor's long 
training, but none of these delights were what held his 
attention, for Haldir was . . . Gildor decided he really 
needed to sit down.

The vision in gold did not give him the opportunity, 
however, but finished lighting the rest of the candles and 
moved to kneel at Gildor's feet, helping him out of the 
sandals he had taken to wearing lately in lieu of his usual 
heavy boots.  Haldir was wearing sandals, too, Gildor 
noticed, although his were gold to match the . . . tunic, 
for lack of a better word, that covered only half his chest 
and fell barely halfway down his thighs.  Where did he find 
such an outfit?  Gildor had never seen anything even 
remotely like it, but decided swiftly that he approved very 
much.  Haldir's long hair fell unbound down his almost bare 
back, shimmering in the candlelight like spun gold as he 
knelt at Gildor's feet, lightly caressing his arches as he 
removed the shoes.  Gildor would normally have asked him to 
stand, have insisted that he could take off his own 
sandals, but the whole moment had a feeling of unreality 
about it, and he was quite simply too stunned to speak.

"This way," Haldir murmured a moment later, pulling Gildor 
towards the steaming bath where he slowly divested him of 
his clothes and immersed him in the warm water.  It felt 
wonderful on his tired limbs, and Gildor could almost feel 
the tension falling away from him.  What was that 
fragrance?  Gildor decided after a moment that it was too 
complex to analyse--some wonderful mix of scented oils and 
herbs that served to relax him fully when combined with the 
warmth of the water.

Gildor fully expected his lover to join him so that he 
could share the pleasure, but apparently Haldir had a 
different plan.  Taking up a large sponge, he proceeded to 
give him the most sensual bath he had ever had, trailing 
the soft mass over Gildor's entire body while remaining 
outside the pool himself.  Gildor had never been bathed 
before, and was at first intensely shy about it.  He knew 
that made no sense, considering how intimate he and Haldir 
had been on other occasions, but there was something 
decadent about the way his limbs were lifted and slowly 
caressed by the sponge, and something overwhelmingly 
sensual in the intensity with which Haldir looked at him as 
he lazily drew the soapy mass across his chest, that left 
Gildor gasping.  When his lover trailed the scented sponge 
down his back and between his buttocks, and when he shortly 
thereafter gently wrapped it about Gildor's by now fully 
hard arousal, all he could think about was dragging Haldir 
into the pool and making passionate love to him, preferably 
several times.  He sensed that Haldir wasn't ready for that 
yet, however, as he had obviously gone to immense trouble 
to arrange the evening and undoubtedly had an order of 
events planned.  Nonetheless, Gildor was almost relieved 
when Haldir decided he was clean enough and left him to 
soak while he busied himself collecting plates, cups and 
bottles from the beautiful collection on the table.

Gildor started to protest when Haldir began feeding him, 
feeling somehow as if he did not deserve such attention, 
but Haldir kept him too occupied to do so.  The fruit was 
dipped in the mixture of honey and spices that Gildor 
particularly liked and which was a Lorien specialty, and 
with it he was offered sips of his favourite Berdruskan 
wine. "Wherever did you find this?," Gildor asked in 
amazement, after Haldir held the glass to his lips the 
first time.  "I thought I used the last for our 
celebration."

Haldir merely smiled.  "Oh, the chef always keeps a few 
bottles back for his own use.  He owed Rumil a favour, so 
we managed to pry one away from him."

"We?"  Gildor was overwhelmed that Haldir would go to such 
lengths for him,
even to the point of asking for his brother's help.  Haldir 
was so self-sufficient, and never leaned on anyone for 
anything.  The idea that he would do so just to please him 
made Gildor almost light-headed with happiness.

Haldir looked strangely shy.  "I . . . hope you don't mind 
that I asked him about a few things.  I wanted everything 
to be perfect, and Rumil . . . helped . . . with some of 
the details."

Gildor couldn't think of words to convey his feelings, so 
he simply drew Haldir into a deep kiss.  His lover tasted 
of honey and the dark flavour of the wine, and Gildor 
thought him by far the most delicious thing he had tried 
all night.  "Join me?  I want to show you how much all this 
means . . . "  He felt shy, having so much attention 
lavished on him, especially when he had not anticipated any 
of it.  He wanted to reciprocate, but Haldir smilingly 
declined.

"Tonight is about you, not me," he replied softly, and 
picked up another platter.  By the time the many course 
meal was completed, the water had become slightly tepid.  
Haldir helped Gildor out of the bath, enveloping him in a 
soft white robe after rubbing a soft towel all over him.  
Gildor was still in a haze of disbelief, but was also 
becoming desperate to touch his lover.  Haldir's hands on 
him in the bath and the brushes of his fingers against 
Gildor's lips as he fed him had aroused him to an 
unbelievable degree.  He was therefore very disappointed 
when Haldir did not immediately allow him to pull him into 
an embrace once they fell into bed together.  "No, not yet.  
First, I have something for you."

Gildor sat in giddy disbelief as Haldir felt about under 
the satin sheets, fully expecting to wake up at any moment.  
This just could not be real . . . could it?  He took with 
trembling hands the large package Haldir gave him, 
wondering what it could possibly be.  He briefly panicked 
for a moment at the thought that he had forgotten some 
special occasion, but a fast perusal of their past 
relationship reassured him.  He did not know why Haldir was 
doing this, but decided not to question his luck.  He 
carefully opened the beautiful package; when the wrappings 
fell away, he could only sit and stare, desperately trying 
not to cry.

"Do you like them?"  Haldir looked a little apprehensive, 
as if he actually thought the answer might be no.  "I 
remembered that you always seemed to admire mine, and 
thought . . . "

Gildor let his fingers slowly caress the wood of the finely 
made Galadrim bow before him.  Along with it was a 
skillfully wrought quiver of buttery soft leather that 
matched the one Haldir always used.  Both were exquisite, 
and by far the nicest set Gildor had ever owned.  He would, 
of course, have liked them just as much whatever they had 
looked like, simply because Haldir had given them, but the 
fact that his lover had noticed the admiring glances Gildor 
had always had for his weapons completely overwhelmed him.

"I can have them altered, if you like.  I thought about 
having your name inscribed, as some of the Galadrim like to 
do, although it's hardly needed as we can always tell our 
own weapon from . . . "  He never finished the sentiment, 
for Gildor could contain himself no more and, having set 
the prized items carefully aside, drew Haldir into a long 
kiss, running delighted hands over that silk clad form.  
Wherever Haldir had found that little outfit, Gildor only 
hoped they had more.  He would love to buy him a whole 
wardrobe in every colour of the rainbow.  "I take it you do 
like them," Haldir teased when they broke apart at last.  
Gildor still couldn't reply, but his eyes must have spoken 
for him.  "Well, that's good," Haldir said, seeming a 
little at a loss himself.  "I, er, I'm glad they please 
you.  I do want to make you happy, you know, Gildor, I just 
don't always . . . well, I realised recently that I don't . 
. . that is, that I haven't . . . what I mean to say . . . 
"

"It's all right, Haldir," Gildor whispered, kissing his 
lover's throat and wishing he could taste all of him at 
once.  There were no need for words between them; what 
words could describe what he felt anyway?"

"No, no it isn't all right."  Haldir stopped his caresses 
by pulling him into a tight embrace.  "Gildor," he spoke 
softly into his ear, "I need you to know that I've never 
felt this way before, not about anyone.  I . . . well, I 
think, no I KNOW, that I love you.  If you left me, I don't 
know how I would . . . not that I want you to think you 
have to stay with me if that isn't what you want, but what 
I said before, all that tripe about who leads and who 
follows . . . I know now that I don't care.  I only want 
you with me . . . forever."

Gildor pulled away so that he could look his lover in the 
eyes.  He felt like fainting, or perhaps levitating off the 
bed in sheer bliss, he wasn't sure which.  He had dreamed 
about this, prayed for it, but never really thought he 
would live long enough to see it.  He had decided to be 
happy with whatever kind of relationship Haldir was willing 
to have, and had carefully avoided thinking what would 
happen when his lover tired of him.  That Haldir was really 
saying that that would never occur left Gildor so stunned 
that he simply sat there, looking at him in wonder as the 
seconds ticked by.  It was only when a look of fear entered 
his lover's gaze that Gildor snapped out of it, realising 
that he was taking too long to answer.  "I would be 
honoured to bond with you, Haldir.  Whenever you say; 
however you want.  I have loved you since I first saw you.  
Nothing could make me happier than the thought of never 
having to part from you."

As Haldir pulled him into a kiss that combined passion with 
overwhelming joy, Gildor decided that, if this was a dream, 
let him sleep forever.

TBC




Title: Wild Justice 36/?

*   *   *

Erestor regarded with serious concern the orc they had 
acquired as a guide.  True, the creature seemed to know his 
way through the mines, but that did not mean that he was 
taking them where they wanted to go.  After his capture, 
Erestor had warned him that, should he lead them into a 
trap, he would be the first to die, and he had nodded in 
comprehension.  It did not reassure him greatly.  It was 
true that most of the creatures were totally without 
understanding of anything other than self-interest, but 
there was the odd example that retained, however vaguely, 
some conception of honour from their distant elvish 
ancestors.  It would be just their luck to run across such 
a one now, who was willing to risk his life to do what he 
regarded as his duty.  Erestor kept a tight rein on the 
leash they had fashioned from the creature's own belt to 
make sure that he did not suddenly disappear down a side 
tunnel, yet he was nonetheless uneasy.

Glorfindel wasn't in much better shape, he noticed, after 
glancing quickly at his grim faced companion.  He had 
seemed increasingly jumpy since they entered the caves, and 
Erestor didn't think it was simply his usual reaction to 
being underground.  He knew his friend wished that they had 
left Elrohir in Lorien, tied to a bed or chained in the 
cellar if need be to insure his safety, and none of 
Erestor's comments that he was as safe as possible this 
close to the orcs' lair and quite capable of defending 
himself made any difference.  Secretly, Erestor agreed that 
there was cause for concern--in neither lifetime had 
Elrohir been the type to ignore a challenge, and this 
sortie into the mines was taking much longer than they had 
planned.  Suddenly, leaving him in the care of three 
invalids did not seem like such a good idea.  Erestor could 
only hope his former student would do the sane thing for 
once and stay put.

Erestor wished he had something to take his mind off such 
thoughts, but the blank, dark walls that surrounded them 
provided little in the way of a distraction.  Inevitably, 
his mind went in the very direction he didn't want it to 
go, and conjured up images he had been trying desperately 
to ignore.  Erestor shivered slightly, then urged on his 
captive when the orc stopped in response to his action, in 
fear that it had done something wrong.  He grimaced at the 
thought that the little creature could not possibly be any 
more terrified than he was himself.  His uneasiness, which 
had been growing ever since they rescued the High King, had 
gone off the charts when they entered the caves.  The 
knowledge that Gil-Galad still lived had immediately begged 
the question of who else might have survived those long 
years, bringing up the possibility that the spectre he had 
long thought dead might live to haunt him still.

No!  It was ridiculous to torment himself like this.  There 
was absolutely no reason to assume that one of the 
surviving elves had to be Oropher.  True, the High King had 
somehow lasted out the centuries, but even he had been on 
the verge of death when they found him.  Oropher had 
probably died in battle and, if by some miracle he had not 
done so, had expired in the mines. Yet, if anyone could 
endure a traumatic experience somehow intact, it would be 
Oropher; if nothing else, he would have had his 
considerable capacity for hatred to sustain him.  And 
Erestor was quite well aware of where that hatred centered.

For the thousandth time he wished there was some way to 
contact one's former self with words of caution or warning.  
If he had been able to do so, however, he doubted it was 
words he would have employed on his younger, cockier self; 
a sharp blow to his head might have had more effect.  For, 
after all, Oropher had tried words, hadn't he?  And look 
what they had won him.

**  "You cannot actually mean to stay with him, Erestor!  
After what he did to us--to all the Sindar?"

"I do not recall Elrond doing anything to you, Oropher, or 
have I missed something?" Erestor waved a negligent hand, 
the other being occupied with his wine glass. "If you wish 
to take insult at the High King's actions, very well, 
although one could argue that Arenal rejected him, not the 
other way around.  But to speak in such a fashion about 
dear Elrond . . . well, that is hardly fair, is it?"

Erestor savoured the wine, some of the best in Gil-Galad's 
cellars, and watched with delight as Oropher tried to 
control his temper.  The handsome Sindarin noble had come 
to his chambers after dinner and spent the better part of 
an hour trying to convince him not to follow his stated 
course and join Elrond's household.  Many of the other 
Sindar had chosen to link up with Oropher on his scheme to 
erect a purely Sindarin kingdom, but others were not so 
sure.  Some had feelings of loyalty to the High King or 
ties of marriage or friendship to various Noldorin 
households.  Some just did not care for Oropher's arrogance 
or his bigoted attitudes.  He had been making valiant 
attempts to overcome their reluctance, and had won many to 
his side with a combination of flattery and high-sounding 
principles.  None of it had any meaning for Erestor, but 
the chance afforded by Oropher's determination to leave 
none of their people in Lindon was not one to be missed.

Erestor had expected his distant cousin's visit, having 
insured that a casual comment about where his loyalties lay 
would be overheard at dinner, and he had dressed 
accordingly.  He had waited years for an opportunity to 
take what he wanted from the haughty noble, and did not 
intend to waste the opportunity.  His velvet robe matched 
the colour of the wine in his glass and was open in the 
front, baring much of his chest to view.  Underneath he 
wore only a loincloth, and had high hopes of not needing 
even that for much longer.  His hair tumbled in an unbound 
raven wave down his back and over his shoulders, and he had 
taken the time to brush it to a high shine.  Erestor knew 
he looked well, and was almost amused that Oropher was 
blind both to his attraction and to what his carefully 
studied appearance meant for him.

"Elrond!"  Oropher almost spat the name.  Erestor wondered 
who it was his cousin hated more, the High King or the 
king's chief councilor.  He supposed they were about 
equally despised.  "That little whore!  He was the one who 
persuaded the king to turn away from Arenal, to shame her 
and her entire family before the whole court!  I do not 
know how you can even bear to speak his name, much less to 
contemplate entering his service.  Where is your pride, 
your self-respect?  Erestor," he leaned forward in his 
chair, his face aglow with what Erestor supposed was meant 
to be appealing earnestness.  He found much attractive in 
that face, but not, he thought with an inner smile, quite 
in the way his cousin probably expected.  "Think what we 
could accomplish, in a realm of our own!  And you would 
have a place of honour in my kingdom, make no mistake.  I 
could appreciate a councilor such as you and reward you 
well."

Erestor allowed his smile to become visible, now that they 
had finally reached the point.  "Reward?"

"Indeed yes!"  Oropher leaned even closer, his long blond 
hair brushing accidentally against Erestor's bare knee, but 
those serious green eyes showed no awareness of the turmoil 
the simple gesture had caused in his companion.  "You can 
name your price--titles, lands, anything you want!  Just 
say you'll come with me."  He took Erestor's long, pale 
hand in one of his large suntanned ones as he pleaded.  
Erestor barely managed to avoid licking his lips--Oropher 
was practically begging, just like in his many fantasies.  
This was perfect.  "You cannot seriously think Elrond will 
reward you half as well as I."

Erestor drained his glass.  It was time to get to the 
point.  "There are many types of rewards," he commented, 
setting the delicate goblet down on the table at his elbow.  
He would hate to see it shattered when things became more 
interesting shortly.  "You offer titles and lands.  I 
already have the former--indeed, my branch of the family 
has never been considered inferior to yours, so I am rather 
at a loss as to what titles you think you can bestow that 
would have any meaning for me.  Lands and wealth are of 
equally little value.  My parents left me quite well off 
when they returned to Valinor, as you must know.  I have 
all of my wants and most of my caprices provided for 
already; there is nothing you have said so far that tempts 
me."

"But . . . but then, what could Elrond possibly offer you?  
And never say you follow him out of loyalty!  You barely 
even know him!"

"I do not think loyalty is precisely the issue, no."  In 
truth, Erestor thought Elrond a much more stable choice 
than Oropher, who had a somewhat fanatical gleam in his eye 
at times and was far too certain of his own superiority.  
However, he was not about to say so at the moment.

"Then what is the attraction?  What do you hope to gain 
from him that you could not get from your own people--from 
me?"

Ah, finally.  Erestor brought Oropher's hand to his lips 
and, as his cousin watched with bewildered eyes, slowly 
took the thumb into his mouth, letting his tongue curl 
about the rigid digit as his teeth lightly abraded it.  His 
companion was so shocked that he allowed him to continue 
for perhaps thirty seconds before wrenching his hand away.  
His eyes were stunned and his breathing laboured as he 
regarded him a moment later from a safer distance halfway 
across the room.  "What in Mandos do you think you're 
doing?"

Erestor sighed and sat back, letting his robe fall open the 
rest of the way as he did so to reveal his state of 
undress.  He would have been disappointed had Oropher made 
this too easy; a struggle was expected and even welcomed--
as long as it didn't drag on too long.  "I will be happy to 
explain, cousin.  But allow me to first clarify why you are 
really here.  We have never been what anyone would describe 
as close.  Why, then, are you so disturbed at the thought 
that I might pledge my service to Elrond?  You despise him, 
true, but that is not the real issue, is it?"

Erestor managed to keep his lip from curling at the look of 
surprise on Oropher's features; his cousin underestimated 
everyone's intelligence, and that had always been 
especially true in Erestor's case.  Just because politics 
held little interest for him did not mean that he was 
unable to follow the convoluted pathways of his kinsman's 
mind when he had good reason.  "You don't care if I enter 
Elrond's household or not, but the many elves whose 
decisions might be swayed by mine--yes, I think you do care 
about them.  After all, if your own cousin, the head of the 
other main branch of your house, were to openly stand 
against this new scheme of yours, how many of our people 
might reconsider their positions?  This isn't about one elf 
or even the few dozen that I directly control.  This is 
about the success of your entire scheme."

Erestor rose and crossed casually to the bed, draping 
himself over it invitingly.  "So, if you want my support, 
you'll have to make a much better offer than that."

Oropher's face looked for a moment as if it couldn't decide 
whether to be outraged or disgusted, but ultimately disgust 
won.  "So this is what that slut Elrond promised you, or 
has he given it to you already?  Do you pleasure him when 
the king is too busy to be bothered, or do you perhaps join 
them in their debauchery?"

Erestor almost lost his concentration at the delightful 
image Oropher's words invoked.  But alas, it didn't seem 
likely that he would find himself sharing a bed with the 
king and his unofficial consort any time soon.  Elrond and 
Gil-Galad thought they were being discreet, but an elfling 
could see how besotted they were with each other.  
Unfortunate, but they weren't his real interest anyway.  
"Not yet, but one can always hope."  He smiled at Oropher's 
shocked expression.  One of the very many things that had 
always annoyed him about his cousin--even as it strangely 
attracted him--was his prudery.  What a great pleasure it 
would be to destroy that proud complacency, but he had to 
obtain his consent first. "You can sneer all you like, 
Oropher, it matters little to me.  But if you hope to win 
my allegiance, you'll have to do a bit more than that."

"You are mad as well as depraved!"  Oropher turned on his 
heel and strode for the door, his every gesture one of 
outraged propriety.

"Perhaps."  Erestor noticed that, although his cousin had 
reached the door and even clasped the handle, he did not 
yet turn it.  "But that does not lessen the truth in my 
words.  You need me if you hope for your plan to succeed.  
Fortunately, there's also a little something I need from 
you."

Oropher turned around once more, his face purpling.  "You . 
. . you would actually suggest . . . you know I do not . . 
. that males are not . . . "

"Of course.  That's half the fun," Erestor told him 
truthfully.  "Oh, don't worry.  I don't want you 
permanently.  Just for tonight."  He ran a hand over the 
satin sheets he had had the servants put on his bed.  He 
was regretting the choice, as they did tend to be rather 
slippery, but there was nothing to be done about it now.  
"If you please me, then we can talk about my joining your 
little scheme and lending you all the support that entails.  
Otherwise . . . well, Elrond is very fair . . . and worth 
waiting for."

"He isn't even a full elf!"

"He also isn't the point.  Do we have a deal or not?"  As 
Oropher continued to stand by the door, a look of deep 
revulsion on his features, Erestor sighed.  "I don't have 
all night, cousin.  If you refuse to oblige me, I still do 
not intend to spend the evening alone and will have to make 
other arrangements.  So what is it to be?"  He smiled at 
the inward struggle that was almost perfectly mirrored on 
his cousin's face.  He had gambled that Oropher's great 
pride would require that he do everything within his power 
to see that his plan succeeded as, once it had been 
announced, he would not feel able to remain as a mere 
subject in Lindon.  He had already made himself odious 
among most of the rest of the elvish community; having 
gambled his future on a kingdom of his own, he would have 
nowhere left to go if he failed to mass enough support.  Oh 
yes, he had him, Erestor thought with glee, and Oropher 
knew it.  "Do you agree or not?" Erestor tired of the hunt.  
He had made his preparations like any good hunter and he 
wanted his reward.

"If--and I only say if--I was to agree . . . do you swear 
to join me and use every means in your power to aid me?"

Erestor shrugged.  "That will depend on my level of 
satisfaction with your performance."  He ran an 
appreciative glance over Oropher's fair form.  Haughty and 
swaggering his cousin might be, but there was no doubt that 
he had reason to feel vain.  He was one of the most 
handsome elves of Erestor's acquaintance, and he well 
remembered their first meeting as little more than 
elflings.  Oropher had all but struck him dumb when leaving 
the family bathing pool, seeming like some type of golden 
god, with sunlight caressing the perfect lines of his body 
and that bright mane falling unbound almost to his knees.  
Erestor had wanted him with a helpless passion from that 
moment, but Oropher's preference for the ladies was soon 
made more than evident.  He had treated his younger 
relation with the greatest condescension, when he was not 
teasing him unmercifully.  But
although it had been years since that ridiculous 
infatuation, Erestor's feelings had never entirely faded.  
Something had told him to bide his time, and wait for 
events to someday bring him all he desired.  But his 
patience was not endless.  "Make up your mind, Oropher, I 
grow tired of your maidenly reluctance.  You've had your 
share of experience through the years, if even half the 
rumours are true.  You won't find this so very different."

"Then, you'll let me take you?"

"Of course," Erestor smiled at Oropher's look of relief.  
Just as soon as I've had you, he added silently.

Erestor managed somehow to keep his expression vaguely 
bored as Oropher studied him.  He had no intention of 
giving away just how much he wanted this.  Accustomed to 
easy conquests, Erestor had been unprepared for how 
Oropher's unattainable position had affected him.  The 
longer he was forced to wait, the higher his passion 
flared.  He could not afford for Oropher to know that, 
however, as his wily cousin would no doubt manage to turn 
it to his advantage.  "Come Oropher," Erestor urged, 
shrugging out of his robe as he spoke, "make up your mind."  
He gloried in having Oropher's eyes on him with more than 
just indifference for a change.  The ornate court robes, 
with their long sleeves, heavy brocaded fabrics and high 
collars, gave little indication of it, but Erestor knew his 
form to be pleasing; he'd had enough elves tell him so 
through the years.  "Is my courageous cousin daunted by 
such a simple thing?"

Oropher slowly approached the bed, his face wary.  "How do 
I know you'll keep your word?"

Erestor smiled as reassuringly as he could manage.  "When 
have I ever lied to you, cousin?  Now stop stalling and 
come here."  Oropher looked as torn as he probably felt, 
but Erestor gave him no time to think of a way out of his 
predicament.  Instead he reached up and, with a sudden 
movement that caught Oropher off guard, dragged him into 
bed.  "You wear too many clothes, cousin," he murmured, 
divesting Oropher of his thick outer robe and tossing it 
over a nearby chair.  Underneath was only a thin silk shift 
that revealed more than it concealed.  Oropher did not 
flinch as Erestor's hands ran appreciatively over his body, 
reveling in finally having those smooth muscles under his 
control.  He knew this would be his only opportunity to 
experience the sensation and he intended to enjoy every 
second of it.

The candlelight served the same purpose as the sun all 
those many years ago, changing Oropher's skin to burnished 
gold as Erestor pulled the thin shift from his body, baring 
it to view.  "You are truly beautiful, cousin," he 
breathed, and smiled to see Oropher relax slightly.  "Trust 
me, you'll enjoy this."  Burying his hands in that golden 
mane that he had so longed to touch, Erestor pulled him up 
for a passionate kiss, dropping his hands to caress the 
broad shoulders before him as his tongue sought entrance to 
his reluctant partner's mouth.  Oropher eventually opened 
to him and Erestor immediately deepened the kiss, enjoying 
the feeling of control over the powerful elf in his arms.  
He eventually dipped his lips to savour the strong throat 
and taste the well-muscled chest, noting with pleasure that 
his partner's heart rate had definitely sped up.

Let him try to feel nothing, Erestor thought as he bit 
lightly into a dark gold nipple; he had centuries of 
practice on his side and he quickly learned exactly how 
Oropher liked to be touched.  Within moments that beautiful 
skin was slick with sweat and the usually emerald eyes were 
deep jade from passion.  "Give in to me, Oropher," Erestor 
urged, as he kissed and nibbled his way along his partner's 
powerful inner thighs, sensing the tenseness in the body 
beneath him.  "Why fight what you feel?  You can waste time 
that way if you like, but we both know you want this."  
Erestor saw with satisfaction that he wasn't lying; his 
cousin's interest in the proceedings was more than obvious.  
Taking that as a signal to advance to the next level, he 
slid his tongue slowly up one side of his partner's 
arousal, savouring his scent and the velvety softness of 
the skin
that was stretched tightly over his hardening length.

Oropher was obviously attempting to deny his emotions, but 
Erestor's attentions soon had him writhing in need.  
Encouraged, Erestor engulfed him completely, using all his 
skill to tease him beyond the possibility to control.  He 
considered the salty taste of Oropher's capitulation a 
personal victory, and swallowed it greedily, never breaking 
eye contact with the stunned looking elf under him.

"There, that wasn't so . . . unpleasant . . . was it?"  
Erestor was not surprised when Oropher didn't answer.  He 
would probably need a few minutes to recover enough to have 
a coherent thought, and Erestor did not intend to waste 
those precious seconds of confusion.  Sliding his hands up 
his partner's unresisting arms, Erestor slowly pushed them 
over his head until he could
slip Oropher's wrists through bonds hidden under the 
pillows at the head of the bed.  The next instant, he 
seized the lubricant from his bedside table with one hand 
while forcing Oropher's thighs further apart with the 
other. Before his lover could protest or even fully 
understand what was happening, Erestor positioned himself 
and a second later breached his entrance with a powerful 
thrust.

By the gods but he was a tight fit!  Erestor had not 
anticipated such a struggle at the very beginning, and his 
partner did not help matters by bucking and twisting 
beneath him.  Oropher almost succeeded in throwing him off, 
but after a brief struggle, Erestor managed to get a grip 
on his cousin's hips.  He forced him to lie still long 
enough to fully sheath himself in his lover's warmth.

It was even better than he had dreamed.  Oropher cursed and 
fought, but Erestor ignored him, concentrating on enjoying 
the powerful flood of adrenaline coursing through him at 
the challenge.  Oropher's arms were corded with his 
attempts to free himself, but the manacles were strong and 
Erestor continued his deep strokes into the struggling body 
with the assurance that they would hold.  He located his 
partner's prostate with the ease of much practice and soon 
his cousin's formerly satiated erection was taking an 
active interest in the proceedings once again.  Erestor 
ignored it, however, as there was another matter still to 
be dealt with.  He was not willing just to physically 
master his partner; he had waited far too long for that 
alone to satisfy him.  "Tell me you want this, Oropher--
admit it!"

"Get off me you depraved, perverted son of an orc!  When I 
get free I'm going to . . . "  Erestor silenced him by a 
particularly strong stroke, and a second later Oropher 
wrapped his long legs about him, forcing him to plunge even 
deeper.

Erestor looked down on his cousin's heavily flushed face 
and passion dark eyes and knew what he had to do, however 
difficult it might be.  Making himself stop moving, he 
waited until Oropher realised what was happening, then 
informed him as calmly as possible under the circumstances 
that, if he wasn't interested in proceeding, they could 
stop.  "I would hate to bore you, cousin."

"Curse you! Curse you until the end of time!  You belong 
with the Noldor, Erestor--you are just as degenerate, just 
as tainted, just as debauched as they are!"

"As impressed as I am by your vocabulary, especially under 
the circumstances . . . "

"Curse you!"

"I believe you've already said that.  In any case, if you 
want this to continue, you know what I want to hear."  
Erestor was barely managing to maintain his sanity and had 
no idea how much longer he could hold out against 
sensation.  The urge to move was so strong that any moment 
he would have to give in to it.  Yet, although his threat 
was meaningless, Oropher was in no condition to notice 
that.  "Say it," he urged, fighting to keep his voice 
steady.

"I . . . "

"SAY IT!"  Erestor allowed himself to just barely nudge his 
partner's prostate, and Oropher shuddered beneath him in an 
agony of need.

"All right!  I'll say it!  I want you, Erestor.  What's 
more, I need you, and damn you for using that against me!"  
Oropher clenched his inner muscles around his lover, trying 
to force him to continue.  "Finish this or I swear there 
will be a Sindarin kin slaying for the bards to sing 
about!"

Erestor was more than ready to oblige, massaging his 
cousin's desperate arousal as he quickly finished emptying 
himself inside that hot channel.  It was possibly the most 
intense orgasm of his life, and he supposed Oropher must 
have felt something as well, although he said nothing as 
Erestor collapsed onto him, boneless and satiated, a few 
moments later.  Some things, Erestor thought dazedly, are 
worth the wait.

With reluctance, he withdrew himself from his lover's body 
and went to find something with which to clean them up.  He 
returned to find Oropher regarding him quizzically.  "That 
was . . . not what I expected."

The higher part of Erestor's brain was still lost in a 
satisfied haze, making it easier to concentrate on minor 
concerns.  He regarded his bed sheets critically, deciding 
that they would have to be changed before they continued.  
Luckily he had quite a supply.  Perhaps he would need them; 
considering how he felt at the moment, this could easily 
turn into much more than one night.  "Why, did you surprise 
yourself and enjoy it?"

Oropher ignored the question.  "Are you satisfied now?," he 
asked eagerly.  "You will support me?"

Erestor came down to earth with a jolt.  He had actually 
given the question little prior thought, having far less 
interest in whether Oropher's plans succeeded or not than 
in obtaining his long held desire.  Now, however, he 
regarded his cousin with disbelief.  Even after the 
experience they had just shared, all he could think about 
was politics.  He supposed he should have expected it.  
Oropher's life had been one long scheme, filled with 
endless plotting in his never-ending struggle for more 
power and increased prestige.  He had never learned how to 
appreciate what he already had in life, and he never would.  
No, that would not be Erestor's future.

"I wish you success, of course, cousin," he commented 
lightly, finishing cleaning himself with clinical 
efficiency.  "And knowing you, I am certain you will manage 
well enough without my poor support."

"What?"  Oropher regarded him through narrowed eyes.  "You 
said you never lied.  Is this some kind of test, Erestor?"

Erestor smiled, and tossed the cloth he had been using in 
Oropher's lap.  Oh, no, cousin, he thought grimly, you 
already failed that.  Well, what had he expected?  
Protestations of undying affection?  There was no such 
thing, he reminded himself.  Use or be used; there was 
nothing else.  When would he ever learn that?  "No, no 
test.  I just think that Lindon suits me better."

He was not particularly surprised when Oropher suddenly 
launched himself at him and they ended up in a pile on the 
floor rug.  "You said I would have your allegiance!  You 
said . . . "

"That we would talk about my joining you afterwards.  We 
ARE talking, Oropher, but my decision is no."

"You cannot do this!"  Erestor rolled out from under his 
enraged companion and moved a few steps back toward the 
bed, to put the knife in his nightstand closer to hand 
should it be needed.  Oropher stayed on the rug, however, 
consciously or not leaving himself at Erestor's feet.  
"What do you expect to achieve here?  Are the crumbs Elrond 
allows you so satisfying that you would betray your own 
people?"  Oropher waved an arm wildly.  "He will NEVER care 
about you!  None of them will!  We are just Sindarin scum 
to them, good enough to wait at table and to fill their 
armies, but nothing more.  You are a fool, Erestor, if you 
keep to this course."

Erestor shrugged.  "Then I'm a fool."  He supposed it was 
true enough.  He did not bother to explain to Oropher that 
Elrond, despite his undoubted charms, was not the point.  
His cousin had never been able to understand anything 
except his own gain; to expect him to see that Erestor had 
just had the last of his childhood romantic dreams crushed 
before his eyes would be too much to expect.  Trying to 
explain that Lindon's main attraction was that Oropher 
would not be in it was hardly likely to be understood or 
well received.  "I will do this much.  Let it be thought 
that my decision is a personal one.  Say what you will; I 
will not refute it.  That way, my choice should not be 
interpreted as opposition to your plans."

Oropher rose to his feet and snatched up his outer robe, 
throwing it about his shoulders in one swift movement.  
"Oh, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what you are, 
Erestor, never fear.  Just remember to stay out of my way.  
Because the next time I see you," he told him severely, 
"I'll kill you."**

Erestor stumbled on a rock that had been hidden in the 
darkness of the caves, but quickly righted himself.  He 
shuddered at the emotions his memories could still cause, 
and hoped Glorfindel put it and his clumsiness down to the 
cold.  Erestor wondered what his friend would think of him 
if he knew the real reason for the hatred between Mirkwood 
and Imladris, for he had never told anyone of his and 
Oropher's little . . . misunderstanding.  Everyone had 
thought they knew the reason for the sundering of the 
races, and he had not bothered to correct them.  It had 
haunted him, however, especially after Oropher's actions at 
Barad-dur.  How much of his cousin's decision to ignore the 
High King's orders had been anger at Gil-Galad, and how 
much at him?  He had never known, and since his cousin had 
fallen--or so he had long thought--in the battle, he had 
assuaged his conscience by telling himself that it no 
longer mattered, that it was all in the past.  But now the 
past may have found him once more.

Erestor followed the little orc further into blackness, his 
thoughts far darker than the mines around him.  If Oropher 
did still live, he had had centuries to brood over the 
events that had brought him to his fate.  Erestor had no 
doubt that their past relationship had provided a good deal 
of fodder for thought, and for plans for revenge. It 
occurred to him as almost funny that, while everyone else 
in their group worried about the threat posed by the orcs, 
he was far more concerned about meeting a certain elf.

*   *   *

TBC




Title: Wild Justice 37/37

*   *   *

Glorfindel glanced at Erestor as his friend stumbled over 
some small irregularity in the tunnel floor.  It was 
surprising to see him clumsy, especially under the 
circumstances when stealth so important, but then, none of 
them was exactly at their best.  He was in considerable 
pain from the wound in his side that, while no longer 
bleeding thanks to Elrohir's ministrations, was also far 
from healed.  As far as he knew, Erestor had not been 
seriously wounded in any of their skirmishes, but then, it 
would be just like him to say nothing if he had.  
Glorfindel still did not know what had been troubling his 
friend for so long, but at the moment did not have energy 
enough to worry about it.  His mind was consumed with 
finding the elves as quickly as possible and getting back 
to Elrohir, before his foolish lover did something very 
brave and very stupid.

Glorfindel sighed as the tunnel continued to wind its way 
inexorably downward.  He didn't see what else he could have 
done about Elrohir, as he technically did not have the 
right to order him about or to keep him from coming on the 
expedition if he chose to do so.  Locking him in a room in 
Lorien would doubtless have been a waste of time, as 
Elrohir would have freed himself within a short time and 
followed them anyway.  Alone, he would have been at risk 
even more than with the company, and Glorfindel might not 
know where he was.  Of course, that was likely true in any 
case, as it was almost certain that Elrohir had not stayed 
in the glade where they had left him.  He might have done 
so for a few hours, of course, but when the attack on the 
mine took such a long time, Glorfindel had known he would 
follow them.

He was fairly certain that Elrohir would be sensible enough 
not to attempt to assault the main entrance alone, as none 
but an absolute maniac would try something so certain to 
failure.  But, when he saw that it remained unmolested by 
their party, he would almost certainly begin looking for 
another entrance.  They had to finish their business before 
he found one, or . . . Glorfindel shuddered at the very 
thought of his lover climbing about these dark passageways 
all alone, without even the small comforts of a company of 
fellow elves and a few lanterns.  No, better not to think 
of that.  It had taken them a long time to find the 
secondary entrance; with any luck, they would finish their 
business and be out again before Elrohir found a way in.

The slope on which they were walking made a sudden slant 
sharply downward, causing the elves to have to hold on to 
the crumbling walls in order to maintain their footing.  It 
would have been a perfect place for an ambush, and 
Glorfindel kept his free hand on the knives at his belt to 
be ready at a moment's notice, but to his surprise and 
relief, nothing happened.  A few moments later the steeply 
sloping corridor gave out onto a huge cavern, which was so 
dim that Glorfindel recognised its size more by the tiny 
echoes of their footfalls and the change in air currents 
than by actual sight.

The creature on Erestor's leash abruptly gave a small mewl 
of distress, having obviously sighted something in the 
darkness below, but Glorfindel could not see what had 
disturbed it.  He nonetheless scrambled to keep up with 
Erestor, who was being pulled along by his guide at a 
dangerous pace down a narrow, crumbling pathway.  A very 
long, harrowing time later they reached the cavern floor.  
Long before that, Glorfindel had grasped that something 
momentous was happening below, as flashes of light and 
orcish screams echoed through the cavern.  The light, which 
he supposed came from wildly swinging lanterns, was not 
frequent enough to allow him to make out much of what was 
going on, but as his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw a mass of 
bodies that appeared to be nothing more than a confused 
bundle.  Then he tripped over something on the floor and 
looked down to see an orc glaring up at him, its hand 
wrapped about his ankle.  He had already severed its head 
from its shoulders before he realised that it had already 
been dead, its sightless eyes merely reflecting the light 
from the lantern held by the elf behind him.

Now he saw, in the dim puddle of light from the lantern, a 
carpet of orc corpses covering the ground like a blanket, 
all leading to where . . .  "Elrohir!"

His lover never even looked up.  Elrohir stood on the edge 
of a precipice that disappeared into darkness behind him, a 
shackled elf at his side.  In front of him was a host of 
orcs and a tall, hooded figure that wielded a dark blade 
that did not glint in the lantern light as the other 
weapons did, but seemed to absorb any illumination that 
came near it into its darkness.  Elrohir had his own sword 
in his hand and was somehow keeping the orcish blades at 
bay while also holding off the wide strokes of the tall 
figure.  Glorfindel saw in an instant that, although 
Elrohir had positioned himself well with the precipice at 
his back to prevent attack from one angle at least, his 
position was ultimately hopeless.  He must tire eventually 
and his enemies would overwhelm him.  They did not even 
need to use their weapons, but just to force him into the 
abyss.

Glorfindel did not know where Elrohir's assistants were, 
but obviously he must have had some.  The cave floor was 
almost covered in dead orcs, and no one elf could possible 
be responsible for so many all on his own.  But the only 
other elf in sight was the dirty creature at Elrohir's 
elbow who was aiding him as well as his heavy chains 
allowed.  Glorfindel hoped the others had not already been 
killed, but if they had, they must have disappeared into 
the abyss or were hidden under one of the piles of dead 
orcs, as no elvin bodies were in evidence.   Glorfindel 
pushed aside such thoughts as irrelevant at the moment and 
began carving a path through the remaining goblins towards 
his lover.  It was not until he had managed to get halfway 
across the cave that he saw something that almost stopped 
him in his tracks.  Elrohir was fighting with his eyes 
closed.

There was something terribly familiar about Elrohir's 
actions, something that resonated with a horrible deadening 
feeling in Glorfindel's stomach.  He had seen this battle 
before.  The pose taken by his lover, the almost balletic 
quality of his thrusts and parries, even the abyss behind 
him.  It was different in appearance, as the gloomy mines 
did not at all resemble Fountain Court except for the piles 
of dead orcs littered about, but the arrangement was 
exactly the same.  And he knew perfectly well what would 
happen next; he had, after all, seen it in nightmares for 
years.

"No!"  Glorfindel threw his knives at the figure facing 
Elrohir, but although they hit it squarely, they did little 
harm, passing through almost as if it wasn't even there.  
That answered the question of what Elrohir faced, at least.  
Only the Nazgul were so impervious to conventional weapons, 
being little more than spirits already.  Glorfindel knew 
that killing one of the nine would not be possible, but 
getting it into that abyss would certainly buy them time.

He ran flat out towards the two combatants, ignoring the 
orcs that slashed at him as he dodged through their 
numbers.  They thickened as he came closer to his lover's 
position, but by then, his own assistants had arrived.  So 
focused was he on his goal that he barely noticed when 
Camthalion speared an orc that had aimed a sword at his 
heart, or when the rest of the Noldor set up a parameter 
around him.  Their outer circle held back the pressing 
hordes of orcs with their swords while the inner one drew 
their bows and began picking off goblins that were hidden 
in crevasses in the rocks, aiming arrows at their company.  
Glorfindel ignored all of them, concentrating only on 
killing the orcs that lay between him and Elrohir.

He had not aided Elrohir on that day so long ago; he had 
not been able to do so, for the fight was almost over 
before he even reached Fountain Court, and the battle with 
the orcs outside it had prevented him reaching his lover's 
side.  He had watched with disbelieving eyes as Elrohir 
dodged Gothmog's blows, much as he was doing with those of 
the hooded figure now.  He had seen him seem to tire, heard 
Gothmog's victory cry bellow out over the court, then 
watched as Elrohir picked up one of the huge spears wielded 
by members of his household and use the balrog's moment of 
inattention to impel him back a final few feet into the 
waters of the great fountain.  Glorfindel had not seen what 
happened next very clearly, as the billows of steam that 
resulted from Gothmog thrashing about as his very essence 
was consumed by the crystalline waters, had all but 
obscured the scene.  But he had heard Elrohir's scream of 
rage, and seen that the balrog had managed to retain a 
tenuous hold on the very edge of the fountain, preventing 
himself from plunging to his death in its deepest depths.

Glorfindel had known a bare instant before it happened what 
Elrohir would do--had watched helpless as he launched 
himself from the safety of the fountain's edge directly 
onto the steaming body of the balrog, and seen with 
something far beyond horror his lover hack at the grasping 
hand with his sword until Gothmog's grip failed and they 
both sank to their doom, still slashing at each other on 
the way down.  Now Glorfindel saw past his own battles to 
watch in deja vu at the way Elrohir slowly gave way, 
falling back to the point where his feet were a scant few 
inches from the edge of the precipice, forcing the hooded 
figure to follow if he wanted to keep him within range of 
his blows.  He saw Elrohir suddenly seem to lose his 
balance, heard the hooded figure give an eerily familiar 
cry, then rush forward with his sword to attempt the final 
blow.  In a movement almost too fast to be seen, Elrohir 
dodged the dark blade and grasped the figure's wrist.  With 
one huge tug, he pulled it over the ledge and into the 
abyss below.

Yet Glorfindel knew it wasn't over, as the Nazgul did not 
accept defeat so easily.  It was without any surprise at 
all that he saw a spectral hand grasping the very edge of 
the ledge beside Elrohir's feet.  A second later, another 
hand emerged from the darkness, latching onto Elrohir's 
ankle and causing him to scream in pain and rage.  Busy 
holding off the orcs with his blade, Elrohir could not free 
himself from the creature's hold.  The elf at his side 
tried to assist, but his assailant was too strong and 
refused to let go.  Elrohir was teetering on the edge, hard 
pressed from in front by orcs and from behind was being 
pulled slowly the last few inches toward darkness.

Glorfindel gave the battle cry of his house and launched 
himself over the heads of the remaining orcs, grabbing at 
his lover just as Elrohir lost his grip completely.  They 
crashed to the cave floor together, Elrohir half on the 
ledge and half off it, Glorfindel using all his strength to 
counter the pull of the thing that still held onto Elrohir 
from below.  An orcish blade arced down toward him, but was 
deflected at the last minute by Erestor's sword, which came 
out of the darkness to catch it scant inches from 
Glorfindel's chest.  The ring of mithril on mithril was 
almost deafening at such close range, but Glorfindel 
refused to be distracted by it or by his close call.  
Erestor would have to manage the fight somehow on his own, 
for he was doing all he could not to allow Elrohir to 
disappear from his life a second time.

"Glorfindel--the princess--you have to get her out of here!   
Forget about me, just go!"

It took Glorfindel a moment to realise that, although his 
lover's eyes had opened and he met his gaze, he was still 
seeing another place and time.  Erestor was also acting 
strangely, having stopped fighting to stare with a panicked 
expression at the filthy, emaciated elf at their side, who 
was managing to defend himself from the pressing orcs with 
what looked like one of Elrohir's knives.  "Erestor!"   
Glorfindel kicked his friend hard in the shin and the pain 
of the blow seemed to bring Erestor out of his reverie.  
"Help me!  I can't hold on much longer!"  Two things 
happened at once: Erestor grabbed Glorfindel's leg and 
began to pull backwards, and the tattered elf looked up, 
huge green eyes fixing themselves on Erestor with an 
intensity that Glorfindel had rarely seen in any face.  
Then he launched himself, not at the surrounding orcs, but 
straight at Erestor.

Glorfindel heard his friend scream and saw Cam's head turn 
in their direction from where he was butchering orcs with 
great efficiency a few yards away.  Then he suddenly found 
himself able to gain real purchase on the crumbling ledge 
for the first time as the captive elf's aid added just 
enough extra weight on their side to tip the balance.  He 
scrambled inelegantly backwards, towing Elrohir along with 
him.  The creature clinging to Elrohir's ankles gave a 
high-pitched shriek that grated horribly on Glorfindel's 
eardrums, but kept hold of its prize.  Elrohir turned his 
head back to look at it, then kicked out savagely.  "For 
Elbereth's sake . . . why . . . won't you . . . JUST DIE?"  
A second later, the hooded figure was caught squarely in 
the face by one of Elrohir's blows and lost its hold at 
last.  The sudden lack of opposition caused the whole 
string of elves to tumble backwards into a confused pile, 
while the Elrohir's attacker scrabbled desperately at the 
ledge but failed to find purchase.  Finally, it disappeared 
into the chasm with a horrible screech and Glorfindel 
clasped his lover to his chest, shielding his suddenly limp 
form from the hail of blows descending on them from all 
sides.

*   *   *

Elrohir awoke, finding to his disgust that he had drooled 
all over his copybook.  Just great; Glorfindel would NOT be 
pleased, and he was already in enough trouble for that 
little prank on Elladan the other day.  He scrubbed at the 
damp pages with his sleeve and glanced about fearfully, 
praying not to see his harsh tutor glaring at him with his 
usual antipathy.  Luckily Glorfindel seemed to have taken a 
break from supervising his punishment, and Elrohir took the 
opportunity to scrub harder, hoping to repair the damage 
before he was required to show his work.

The old book he had been copying lay open to the story of 
Gondolin's fall, the once bright colours of its 
illustration now sadly faded after hundreds of years.  
After leaving his brother tied in the map room for an 
entire afternoon, Elrohir had been set the task of copying 
out the written passages in a clear hand, so that an 
accurate double of the book could be created by Imladris' 
artists before it faded too much to be useable.   All his 
protestations that he had meant to come back and release 
Elladan, but had just forgotten, had availed him nothing.  
So now, on a bright sunny day, he sat in the dim library 
with only dull old Glorfindel for company.  No wonder he 
had fallen asleep!

Elrohir sighed as he realised that the page was hopelessly 
smudged and would have to be recopied from the beginning.  
Great.  Glorfindel would probably be back any time and 
expect him to show a good afternoon's work, and when he 
couldn't, no doubt he would be sentenced to some more 
taxing punishment. Elrohir's gloomy thoughts were 
interrupted by a strange sight that appeared beyond the 
library windows.  A small figure dressed in leaf green 
clothes with a Lorien look about them was strolling among 
the flowers, her elaborate auburn braids cascading messily 
about her little face.  Dwarves were not exactly thick on 
the ground in Imladris, although his father had never 
turned away any who sought refuge.  Still, it was odd.

His copybook momentarily forgotten, Elrohir rose and went 
closer to the window for a better look at the small figure.  
She had been joined, he now saw, by an elf who looked 
vaguely familiar, although Elrohir could not immediately 
place him.  Blond, obviously Silvan . . . oh yes.  It was 
Rumil, Haldir's brother, whom he had met at . . . but no.  
He couldn't have met him in Lorien.  He had not been there 
since he was a very small elfling, and yet, the images in 
his mind seemed fresh, as if they had just happened.  But 
he could not grasp hold of any of them; whenever he tried, 
pain flared behind his eyes giving him the beginnings of a 
nasty headache.

Turning from the window, Elrohir resolutely began copying 
again at as swift a pace as he could manage and still have 
his writing remain legible.  He ignored the two outside the 
window after watching Rumil pluck a small flower for the 
dwarf, which he gently tucked into her hair.  Elrohir shook 
his head in disbelief; that was one for the storybooks.  
After they wandered out of view, he concentrated on getting 
as many words as possible down on a new, clean sheet of 
parchment before his tutor returned to castigate him for 
laziness.  Of course, it was all useless, some part of his 
brain commented.  No matter how fast he copied, he could 
never make up a whole afternoon's work in a few minutes, so 
punishment was a foregone conclusion.  And if that was 
true, why not enjoy the day?  He pushed the temptation 
away, but it was soon back, reinforced by the sight of two 
more elves who were not wasting a beautiful afternoon.

Elrohir was so surprised to recognise one of them as 
Erestor that he again abandoned his book and approached the 
window.  Yes, that was definitely old Erestor in another of 
those hideously uncomfortable looking robes he preferred.  
This one was--surprise--black and made him look even 
pudgier than usual.  Strangely, the tall, very attractive 
elf with him didn't seem to mind, but was looking at him 
with a ridiculously infatuated expression on his face.  He 
had a Noldorin look about him, but oddly enough was dressed 
in Lorien attire.  Two strangers in Lorien clothes in one 
afternoon?  It was odd to be sure, but perhaps a delegation 
had arrived unexpectedly.

Elrohir moved reluctantly back to his work, wondering about 
the almost blissful expression Erestor had been wearing 
before the two passed along the garden path and out of 
view.   True, Erestor was not involved with anyone that he 
knew about, and technically was free to take a lover if he 
chose.  Yet Elrohir had to stifle a giggle at the thought 
of stuffy old Erestor in a romantic situation.  He could 
only hope the Noldor was experienced enough for both of 
them!

Elrohir had barely resumed copying when he heard the door 
to the schoolroom open and felt rather than saw 
Glorfindel's entrance.  He kept his eyes on his book, 
ignoring the feeling that he was being watched.  It 
wouldn't be the first time, after all. Glorfindel had 
always watched him carefully, as if expecting him to grow 
another head or something.  Elladan actually played far 
more pranks than he ever had, but did he get in trouble for 
any of them?  No, and not because he was more subtle; 
Elbereth knew that had never been his brother's forte.  No, 
it was because Glorfindel always seemed to know every thing 
he did, while almost ignoring Elladan's antics.  He had 
lost count of the times he had looked up at dinner or at 
the stables or in the gardens, and seen that bright blue 
gaze on him.  He knew why, of course.  Glorfindel had never 
liked him, and was just waiting for an opportunity to catch 
him out in some new infraction of the rules, which would 
result in another long afternoon copying some boring old 
text while he was glared at by his tutor.  It just wasn't 
fair.

Yet Elrohir had no intention of giving into temptation and 
throwing something across the room, preferably at his 
tutor's blond head.  No, for Glorfindel would just love 
that.  It would give him the excuse to extend Elrohir's 
punishment to weeks instead of days, and ruin all the fun 
of summer.  Glorfindel was just jealous because he didn't 
have any fun, so resented anyone else doing so.  He ought 
to follow Erestor's example and get himself a young lover, 
then maybe his temper would improve!

"Have a productive afternoon, Elrohir?"  Glorfindel's hand 
snaked out and lifted the copybook before Elrohir could 
complain, not that it mattered.  He couldn't very well have 
refused to show his work.  "Barely a page?  My, but that 
does seem rather a . . . limited accomplishment . . . for 
an entire afternoon, does it not?"

"I, er, I fell asleep, sir."  Elrohir did not meet his 
tutor's eyes, not wanting to see the triumph in them.  His 
little lapse was just the sort of thing Glorfindel had 
probably been waiting for--Elrohir could forget about 
getting any free time from here to the solstice.  He would 
probably be busy copying over the entire library!

"You fell asleep?"  The usual bite in his tutor's tone was 
absent, Elrohir noticed with surprise; instead, he just 
sounded thoughtful.  "Then no doubt you need to rest. You 
can finish this tomorrow."

Elrohir looked up in disbelief.  Was he really getting off 
that easily?  No, it couldn't be.  No doubt Glorfindel was 
planning something truly awful for the next day's 
punishment and needed more time to prepare.  That had to be 
it.  Still, Elrohir wondered if his old tutor felt all 
right, for he looked a bit pale and had an odd look in his 
eyes as he watched him leave the classroom.  Oh well, maybe 
his lack of recreation was finally getting to him, or 
perhaps he was sick.  Elrohir could not imagine why the 
thought that Glorfindel might be unwell upset him, but he 
decided to go find his father and casually mention it 
anyway.  Just to shut his stupid conscience up, or he would 
be worrying about it all night.  If a Lorien delegation had 
arrived, that meant presents from the grandparents at 
dinner and he wanted to enjoy them without guilt ruining 
everything.

He finally found his father in, conveniently enough, the 
healing chambers.  Good, then mentioning Glorfindel's 
illness wouldn't seem so strange.  Oddly, his father was 
laughing as Elrohir paused in the doorway--a strange enough 
occurrence in itself as Elrond tended to be surrounded by a 
faint air of melancholy, even on happy occasions--but it 
was even more mysterious when Elrohir noted that no one 
else was in the room.  He watched his father warily without 
making his presence known, and a few seconds later his 
fears were confirmed when Elrond laughed again and spoke 
aloud.

"I quite agree, but you always said we should never be 
afraid to experiment.  Besides, these inventions of 
Galadriel's are extremely uncomfortable.  It should be 
possible to achieve the same effect without having to wear 
anything actually in my eyes.  A potion of some sort should 
do it . . . "  He trailed off, humming to himself, while 
Elrohir backed slowly out the door.

He paused in the corridor to regain his breath, which he 
had unconsciously been holding, and attempted to drive down 
his panic.  So father was taking to himself.  That didn't 
necessarily mean anything, right?  He had never known him 
to do it before, true, but he was hardly with Ada every 
minute of every day, was he?  This sort of thing could have 
been going on for years . . . somehow, he did not find that 
thought at all reassuring.  He wondered what he should do 
as he walked back up the stairs to the main part of the 
house, his head in a whirl.

What he saw in the main hall was the strangest sight yet, 
however, for two handsome blond elves, one of whom he 
somehow knew was Thranduil of Mirkwood, were being greeted 
warmly by his grandfather.  The Mirkwood ruler had never 
before visited Imladris, due to the somewhat frosty 
relations between the two realms.  Stranger still, Celeborn 
seemed rather reluctant to release Thranduil from the 
friendly hug he had given him in welcome.  "This is a truly 
wondrous day!," he enthused when he finally stepped back, 
after the other blond coughed slightly to let them know 
that the embrace had dragged on longer than was proper.  
"We shall celebrate our victory properly tonight!"

"Yes, well, we are delighted to be here." Thranduil 
straightened his elaborate moss green robes carefully as he 
answered, but he looked very pleased about something.  The 
other elf caught sight of Elrohir then, and motioned him to 
join them.  Elrohir reluctantly left the stairwell and went 
forward, wishing for a chance to go somewhere quiet and 
think, but knowing his duty to the household.

The usual courtesies were exchanged, but Elrohir barely 
heard them.  The elf at Thranduil's side was introduced as 
Oropher, his father, and Celeborn did not so much as bat an 
eye when he said it.  Elrohir regarded his grandfather in 
shock, and added another name to the suspect list.  First 
old Erestor acquired a lover, then Glorfindel decided to be 
lenient, father started talking to himself, and now 
grandfather was introducing him to an elf everyone knew had 
been dead since Barad-dur.  And no one seemed to find this 
at all odd except for him.  Elrohir smiled faintly, 
remembering hearing somewhere that it was best to humour 
the mentally ill, but slipped away when Celeborn offered to 
show the visitors to their rooms.

There was no longer any doubt--something was seriously 
wrong at Imladris and it was up to him to save the day as 
he seemed to be the only one unaffected.  Passing out the 
front door in search of somewhere quiet, Elrohir bumped 
into Gildor, one of his father's agents, who was looking 
far better than his usual bedraggled state.  His hair was 
combed and properly braided for once and he was wearing a 
brilliant red tunic.  At his side was a blond elf who 
looked vaguely familiar, also attired in red and also 
grinning broadly.  Elrohir ignored him, however; Gildor had 
always been sensible, perhaps he could shed some light on 
all this.

"Gildor, could I talk with you a moment?"

The two elves exchanged glances, and for some reason Gildor 
looked suddenly worried.  "Elrohir?," he said the name 
almost as if it was a question, which made no sense as 
Gildor had known him practically since birth.  Apparently 
whatever madness was going about had affected him as well.

"Never mind!" Elrohir brushed past the two quickly and 
headed down the stairs, intent on reaching the quiet and 
saneness of the woods before anyone else demonstrated signs 
of madness.  What could be causing this?  Was it something 
in the water?  Was this some elaborate orcish plot to make 
them vulnerable to attack?  That must be it!  Somehow they 
had to be snapped out of it before disaster struck.  
Elrohir looked fearfully at the sun, which was getting 
lower on the horizon with every passing minute.  Everyone 
knew orcs preferred to attack at night; whatever he was 
going to do, then, he had to be quick!

Running back for the house, Elrohir was never so glad in 
his life to see his brother just dismounting from his 
horse.  Thank the Valar!  Elladan might be a bit dull at 
times, and somewhat lacking in imagination, but he was 
mercifully level headed and overall one of the sanest elves 
Elrohir knew.  Before he could call out, however, another 
blow fell, this time in the form of the handsome Silvan at 
Elladan's side, who laughingly pulled him into a passionate 
embrace before they walked into the house, arms about each 
other.  Elrohir felt the earth spin below him, and he put 
out a hand to a tree to steady himself.  They had gotten to 
Elladan, no question about it.  His brother had never even 
looked at a male elf in such a way, much less kissed one, 
when in his right mind!  Was there no one left sane in all 
Imladris except for him?

He vaguely realised that the tree against which he was 
leaning was trying to say something, and he cleared his 
mind enough to be able to pick up its meaning.  After all, 
if the people in Imladris were mad, perhaps he would have 
to rely on other types of aid.  Within a few moments, 
however, he was backing away from the vegetation with a 
look of abject panic on his face.  The trees had even 
caught it!  The images it had sent of he and Glorfindel 
rolling around on the grass and . . . why, that was just . 
. . just . . . urgh!  How awful!  He would have those 
images in his head for days now; he might even be 
traumatized for life!  He couldn't imagine why it would do 
such a horrible thing, much less why it was offering him 
congratulations.  He was NOT bonding to Glorfindel!  The 
very idea was, well, as mad as the rest of his day.

He ran up the stairs of the palace and made his way swiftly 
to his rooms.  He didn't attempt to talk to anyone else, 
for what was the use?  All of Imladris was obviously 
insane, and night was just hours away.  The orcs would come 
and they would die, it was as simple as that.  How had it 
come to this?  What witchcraft could turn an elf's own mind 
against him?  Elrohir flopped onto his bed and stared at 
his ceiling, trying to come up with a plan, but nothing 
seemed likely to work.  Then suddenly it came to him.  Of 
course!  Grandmother would know what to do, and she always 
radiated calmness and sanity.  Surely, together they could 
devise a plan for saving Imladris, and perhaps whatever had 
been done to all these poor elves could be reversed, or 
would wear off in time.

Praying that his grandmother had decided to accompany 
Celeborn to Imladris, and that he could find her before 
something happened to stop him, Elrohir crossed to the door 
of his room and put a hand to the handle, just to have it 
swing inwards on him.  There in his doorway was what looked 
like a delegation: his father, grandparents, Erestor, and, 
standing behind all of them looking grave, was Glorfindel.  
"Grandmother!"  Elrohir could have done without the others, 
but he was extremely relieved to see that Galadriel was, 
indeed, at Imladris.  "I need to talk to you, alone."  He 
looked pointedly at the rest of the party, but no one 
moved.

"Dearest Elrohir," Galadriel looked at him sadly.  "You 
must be very confused."

"With all due respect, grandmother, I am not the one 
confused around here."  He was wondering how to get her 
alone, as accusing her companions of madness in front of 
her was hardly diplomatic, when she stepped forward with a 
small vial in her hand.

"It is still too early for this," she commented, "and I 
would have preferred to put it off for another few years at 
least, but I fear that, under the circumstances, that might 
do more harm than good.  Drink it, Elrohir, and things will 
become much clearer, I promise. After all, we can't have 
you like this, can we?"  She smiled at him gently.  "You 
have a wedding to attend, you know."

Elrohir backed slowly away from her, horror filling him.  
Oh Ulmo, oh Elbereth!  No, no, no--this couldn't be!  They 
had gotten to grandmother, too, and now were trying to get 
her to infect him.  He regarded the vial in her hand with 
despair.  That must be it--the concoction the orcs had used 
to distort everyone's perceptions.  He had been right all 
along, and now he was the only sane one left!  No!  They 
were not getting that evil brew into him--he wasn't going 
to become one of them, no matter what he had to do to 
prevent it.

"Keep away from me," he warned, mildly surprised that his 
voice was so steady.  The windows were still quite far 
away, but with luck he could reach them before anyone 
grabbed him.  It was a long way to the ground if he should 
slip, of course, but that was just a chance he would have 
to take.

"He's going for the window--get him!"  It was Erestor who 
cried out the warning, but Celeborn who managed to latch 
hold of him just as his foot touched the windowsill.  He 
was efficiently wrestled to the ground by some of the 
greatest warriors of several ages and soon found himself 
staring up into his father's face.  He must have already 
been infected, he thought dazedly, because Elrond currently 
seemed to have one blue and one grey eye.  A second later 
and a noxious brew was being forced down him, despite his 
every attempt to avoid it.  He was released as quickly as 
he'd been captured, as soon as all the drought had been 
swallowed.  He regarded the group before him with sullen 
eyes, not knowing what to say.

"You've doomed us all.  They'll come for us as soon as it's 
dark, and how are we supposed to fight them off now?"  He 
saw the group exchange looks, but no one said anything.  
One by one they all filed out, except, he noticed when the 
door finally closed, for Glorfindel.  Great, so he was to 
be left with a babysitter until he went completely loony.  
Why they thought it necessary he couldn't imagine; after 
all, even if he shimmied down the side of the house, where 
could he go?  The orcs were probably already on their way, 
and it wasn't as if he could battle them alone.

"We're all going to die."  Glorfindel just continued to 
regard him solemnly, not moving from his position by the 
door.  "I guess this means I don't have to finish all that 
copying though."  It was a poor joke, and Glorfindel had 
never been noted for his sense of humour, so Elrohir was 
not particularly surprised to receive no response.  He sat 
on the edge of his bed and sighed, rubbing a hand across 
his eyes.  His head hurt; probably that cursed substance 
was poisoned.  Oh well, it would just save the orcs the 
trouble, he supposed.

Orcs.  Elrohir blinked as a random thought meandered 
through his mind.  Something . . .  something about orcs.  
Why was it he couldn't . . . a flash of an image . . . 
orange and red and the black of smoke--a burning city . . .

He shook his head to clear it but it didn't help.  Balrogs 
. . . dragons . . . where was Glorfindel?  They must buy 
him time to save Turgon, to rescue the princess . . .

Elrohir gasped and fell back against the bed as a flood of 
images filled his mind all at once.  Precipice . . . have 
to get to the elves . . . Tuor, you traitor! . . . must 
free the slaves . . . Gondolin!  By the Valar, the White 
City has fallen! . . . have to tell Eirien, we must regroup 
. . .

He barely felt the arms that encircled him, or heard the 
murmured words of comfort and of love.  Glorfindel . . . so 
beautiful, his golden flower . . .

"Glorfindel?"  So perfect . . . but so angry at him . . . 
bright blue eyes flashing like sapphires in the sun.  "I 
stole your sash.  I'm sorry."

"Shh.  It's all right.  I have others."

"And your horse . . . and in your tent that time . . . I 
didn't mean to confuse you.  I wasn't really laughing at 
you . . . "

"I know.  Don't worry."

"I . . . what happened to the elves?  Glorfindel, did we 
get them out?  Are they . . . "

"Shh.  They're fine.  The ones you sent out of the caves 
have all recovered, and even Oropher is well on his way 
back to health.  He and Thranduil are here to personally 
thank you when you are better.  I must say I was surprised 
at the change--Oropher is not the elf I used to know."

"But he'll be all right?"

"Yes, in fact, I would say that he is . . . strangely 
improved after his ordeal.  I almost didn't know him.  
Hundreds of years of introspection can make quite a 
difference, I suppose."

"Then, it all worked out."  Elrohir could barely believe 
it.  He wouldn't have given a penny for his chances--for 
any of them.  The room still seemed to be spinning about 
him, and he had a hundred questions, but he felt safe in 
Glorfindel's embrace.

"Yes, everyone is fine.   Celeborn and Thranduil trapped 
the orcish army in the Pallas Pass and diverted the river 
onto them.  A force from Lorien helped with the mopping up-
-I would be surprised if a hundred orcs goot out of that 
trap alive.  You were the only one we were worried about.  
You passed out after we pulled you away from the precipice 
and didn't wake up for two days.  When you did, you could 
remember nothing, and we were so afraid . . . "  Glorfindel 
pulled him closer, hugging him fiercely.  "I wasn't sure 
what to do," he whispered.  "So we allowed you to think 
what you wanted until we had time to confer.  It was hoped 
your memory would come back on its own, but when it didn't 
. . . "

Elrohir didn't want to dwell on the more depressing 
aspects.  He had just realised that the mine slaves were 
all right and he and his lover were safely back in 
Imladris.  He also grasped that what he had seen this day 
were signs of a huge celebration being planned.  "So, who's 
getting married?  Haldir and Gildor?"

"Er, no."  Glorfindel looked a little shy suddenly.  
"Although they are planning a ceremony to take place soon.  
Apparently, you had Elladan and Orophin try to convince 
Thranduil that they were bonding as part of some scheme . . 
. "

"I remember.  It was Erestor's idea.  He thought we could 
substitute you and me at the last minute, and then 
Thranduil would have to marry us because he couldn't very 
well refuse in front of half of Lorien.  Then he'd be the 
guarantor of the match and would have to leave us alone.  
But it didn't turn out to be necessary."

"But apparently no one bothered to inform the cooks and 
seamstresses about that, and quite a number of plans have 
already been made.  Elladan and Orophin do not feel quite 
ready to, er, finalize things, so Haldir and Gildor will 
get quite an elaborate bonding when they return to Lorien."

"But who is getting married here then?  Never say Erestor!"

"I don't think Erestor is exactly the marrying kind, 
although I received the impression that he is definitely 
off the market from now on."

"Then who?"

Elrohir watched in puzzlement as Glorfindel walked to his 
wardrobe and pulled it open, taking out a very familiar 
suit of bright mithril armor.  He blinked at it, sure that 
his eyes were deceiving him.  It should be residing at the 
bottom of a very deep fountain.  Glorfindel cleared his 
throat.  "We never recovered the original, as you were 
wearing it when . . . in any case, I had the artisans here 
make this long ago, shortly after your birth in fact.  We 
had to adjust it a little, but it should fit . . . "

Elrohir looked at his lover's face, reflected in the shiny 
surface the armor, and smiled.  Suddenly, everything seemed 
right with the world once more.  "Just wait until I tell 
Lothion.  He has a lot of work to do if his master is about 
to be wed!"

*   *   *

The End

Thank you to all who reviewed at any point in this process.  
Fan fiction is a collaborative effort, so many other people 
should really be listed as co-authors for all the ideas and 
encouragement they gave along the way.  Special thanks to 
Alex, Meg, Larian, Celebrethil, Dis Thrainsdotter, 
Ithilessar, Blue, Crydwyn, Renee, and many more I probably 
forgot.  I hope you had fun reading, as I did writing.

Namarie