Title: One Last Time, part 1/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even
Gildor Inglorion isn't mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  A faithful
reviewer, Melanie, asked so nicely for this that I
couldn't refuse.  For anyone familiar with my previous
work, this has a very different tone.  Melanie wanted
a tender, romantic little fic that discussed Gildor's
and Haldir's relationship, so that's what this is.    
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let
me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken
story arc (Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  


Third Age, year 180: Imladris

Haldir's rooms were reached with much laughter and
some shortness of breath, as they had run all the way
from the stables through the main hall and up the
stairs.  The chamber was cool, with no fire in the
grate and with a rain scented breeze blowing in from
the balcony, but neither cared as they tumbled onto
the large bed.   Gildor lay back against the pillows
and watched as Haldir hurried about, gathering things.
 His soon-to-be lover seemed intent on rather lengthy
preparations, a fact that amused and yet charmed
Gildor.  Haldir was obviously intent on taking his
time, but then, he had always been thorough at
everything.   

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: Lothlorien

Gildor sat on his russet mare and stared in awe at his
first sight of fabled Lorien.  He knew his companions
were probably laughing at him, but then, they had done
so the whole trip; it was something to which he was
becoming accustomed.  Barely passed his majority, at
only 64, Gildor could get away with staring
unashamedly, and he took advantage of that fact as the
party rode further into the Golden Wood.  In his
opinion, Lorien deserved an openmouthed stare.

It was not just the beauty of the mallyrn, which
increased the further into Lorien they went, but
rather the melodious song that seemed always just out
of hearing, that delighted
Gildor.  He could catch an echo of it, a tantalising
trill here and there, but strain as he might, the
whole continued to elude him.  The song stopped after
they had ridden a short way into the wood, and the
forest suddenly seemed eerily quiet as a result. 
Gildor could tell that the trees were saying
something, but he could not understand them.  Looking
at his companions, all of whom were far older, he saw
that it was not his lack of years that was
responsible; they looked no more enlightened.  He
would have liked to tease Tuor, the leader of their
group, about it, as he had been relentless in his
mockery of Gildor since they set out from Imladris
several days before.  However, considering the elf's
famous temper, he refrained.

As he was still contemplating what he would have said,
if he had been unwise enough to do so, three elves
suddenly appeared and blocked their path forward. 
Their arrival seemed almost magical, for Gildor had
heard and seen nothing of their approach.  Having
undergone special training to learn how to move as
silently as the fog, and to listen and observe even
the smallest indication of life, he was truly
impressed.

The leader of the group stepped forward, while the
others kept back.  The bows of all three were drawn
but, for the moment, remained lowered.  Gildor
observed the extremely fine weapon in the hands of the
leader with appreciation.  It was a beautiful thing,
carved of some light coloured wood he had not seen
before, but assumed might be that of the mallyrn as it
had the same silvery sheen to it.  There were runish
designs climbing up the sides, carved by a master, and
the whole seemed almost an extension of the hand that
wielded it.  A very attractive hand, Gildor noticed,
long fingered and ivory fair, attached to an equally
beautiful arm, all slender muscles under perfect skin,
leading to a very pretty face.  A face, he noticed
now, with a slight smile curving its exquisite lips
and an amused glint in its slightly slanted, sapphire
eyes.  Gildor blushed and looked away, ashamed to have
been caught staring yet again.  He was supposed, after
all his training, to be able to observe everything at
a glance, and to see without seeming to do so.  He
could manage the trick when he was concentrating, but
otherwise had found it hard to pretend a fashionable
indifference to the many new sights of their journey. 


The object of Gildor's admiration seemed to also be
the leader of the Lorien elves, for so their grey
attire and blond, Silvan beauty proclaimed them.  He
spoke to Tuor in slightly accented Sindarin as Gildor
resumed gazing at him--after all, he now had an
excuse.
"What would four elves, from Imladris by their
clothing, be doing wandering so loudly through the
Golden Wood?"

Tuor narrowed his grey eyes but kept his temper in
check, Gildor saw with relief.  "I am Tuor, of
Imladris as you say.  These with me are Valandil and
Aikanaro, and the young one is called Gildor.  We come
at the command of Lord Elrond, to speak with the Lord
and Lady of these woods.  If you will be so good as to
lead us to them, brother, we will cease to wander
about, loudly or otherwise."       

Gildor winced slightly at the haughtiness in Tuor's
tone, but the Lorien elf merely arched a brow in what
looked like amusement.  "If you speak truly, and it is
in peace you come, then you will not mind leaving your
weapons behind?"  At Tuor's outraged look, the elf
merely smiled broader.  "They will, of course, be
cared for and brought along presently."

"We are kin, not . . . not dwarves . . . to be so ill
treated!"

"You are strangers here and heavily armed."  The
Galadrim widened his eyes in a parody of innocence. 
"I would be remiss to allow you to proceed further
unless you comply.  
Though, since you are kin, I will let you to leave
unmolested if you refuse."

Before Tuor could reply, Valandil took off his bow and
quiver and handed them to the elf beside him.  Jumping
lightly to the ground, he walked forward, pulling out
his twin daggers which he offered, handles first, to
the Galadrim leader, who took them with an slight
smile and tucked them in his belt.  Valendil then held
out his arms in a posture to allow a search, should it
be required.  The elf seemed to find something amusing
in Valandil's actions, but he did not decline the
right to search him, as Gildor had half expected.  He
made quick work of it, however, and Valandil then
remounted his horse and looked expectantly at Tuor.  

Their mission leader still seemed inclined to argue,
but Aikanaro quickly followed his father's lead and
Valandil made a slight motion of his head in Gildor's
direction to indicate that he should do likewise. 
Before Aikanaro had even finished remounting, then,
Gildor slid from his horse and stepped forward,
presenting his weapons to the elf nearest him as he
did so.  He smiled to see the appraising glance given
his knives by the Silvan--they had been his father's
and seen combat in the Last Alliance, a long ago gift
from Gil-Galad himself.  They were Gildor's most
prized possession, and he sincerely hoped no harm
would come to them.

Stepping forward, he presented himself to be searched,
and did his best to conceal the nervousness he felt
when those elegant hands slid over his body.  It was
over in a few seconds, and all eyes turned to Tuor as
Gildor remounted.  With a disgusted sound, Tuor all
but threw his weapons at one of the watching elves,
then marched up to the leader with a challenging look
on his face.  Gildor felt uneasy, as it reminded him a
little of the way Tuor looked when he was about to
teach him yet another uncomfortable lesson.  He had
worn that expression the previous night, when he
challenged Gildor to a wrestling match, then attacked
before he had time to ready himself.  "You must always
be alert in combat," Gildor had been told, as his face
was ground soundly into the dirt, "an enemy will not
wait for permission to attack you!"  He had known it
was true, but had also been aware that Tuor enjoyed
teaching that lesson more than he should have done. 
He hoped he wasn't planning to try to offer the Lorien
elf any similar instruction, as besting one of the
Galadrim might not be diplomatically wise.

The elf quickly patted Tuor down, seeming to take no
more time with him than with
the others, and then, apparently satisfied, addressed
the company.  "The Lady foresaw your coming, and bids
you welcome.  I am Haldir and these are Feanaro and
Amros.  Come this way."  Gildor saw, too late to do
anything about it, the look of rage that flooded
Tuor's face with the knowledge that they had been
subjected to such indignity, even thought their coming
was expected.  Before Gildor could even cry out a
warning, Tuor had reached into the specially made
lining of his boot and extracted a tiny dagger;
Valandil launched himself off his horse at the two
elves, just as Tuor lunged for the Galadrim's leader. 
In a blur of motion too fast for Gildor to follow, the
Lorien elf had somehow pinned Tuor to the ground with
his boot on his neck, and plucked the little knife
from his hand.  Gildor had the strange impression that
the Galadrim had known about the hidden stiletto all
the time, but left it to see what Tuor would do.  It
seemed a foolhardy action, but there was no other way
to explain the rapidity of his response except that he
had expected the attack.

Seeing that Tuor was in no immediate danger, Valandil
stopped short, and held up a hand as if to warn his
two companions to be still.  Gildor needed no such
caution, as he was still frozen in place, staring in
shock at the great Tuor, one of the best warriors in
Imladris, laying sprawled on the ground like an raw
elfling.  Haldir added to the insult by standing
almost casually, as though it required little effort
to keep his victim pinned.  
However, Gildor could see from Tuor's expression that
a good deal of force must have been being applied.  

"It's a good blade," the elf commented, looking over
the little dagger with apparent appreciation. 
"Mithril inlay, too--you should be more careful with
such a prize, else someday you may lose it."  He
tucked it into the sash at his waist along with
Valandil's weapons, then allowed Tuor to rise.  "Never
fear, I shall return it to you once you have seen the
Lord and Lady.  No one but the Galadrim take weapons
into their presence."  He then turned and, with no
more concern than he had shown before the attempted
attack, proceeded to lead them in the direction of
Caras Galadhon.

Gildor followed behind the Galadrim, trying to force
his attention to what Tuor and Valandil were saying in
low tones to each other, both out of curiosity and
because he might later be quizzed about it.  The
oldest of them all, Valandil was usually also the
kindest, but he was very insistent on improving
Gildor's skills, having acted as his tutor in
espionage since he joined Lord Elrond's agents just
after his coming of age.  Valandil constantly told him
that he had skill, but lacked concentration.  He was
certainly proving 
the latter assertion true at the moment, for he could
not focus on his companion's words with the golden elf
in front of him as a distraction.  

As the party climbed higher towards Caras Galadhon,
Gildor ignored the increasing size and magnificence of
the mallyrn and the lushness of the forest in favour
of studying the most beautiful elf he had ever seen. 
The sunlight filtering through the leaves dappled the
whole scene in gold, but with deep green shadows cast
by the larger trees.  Gildor couldn't decide if he
preferred the elf when sunlight was glinting off his
hair and gilding his fair skin, or the way shadow
allowed his high cheekbones to stand out and lent a
mysterious air to his graceful movements.  This one
walked like a prince, and had a haughty carriage that
made his casual Galadrim attire seem like robes of
state.  He must be of good family, Gildor thought, and
probably came of wealth, too.  The mithril hair
ornament clipped casually into his elaborately done
braids would be worth many times what a simple border
guard could possibly earn in a year, making Gildor
wonder why he was one.  Perhaps, he thought in some
excitement, it had been a gift, and he was as poor
otherwise as Gildor himself; if that was true, perhaps
they could become friends, if their party tarried long
enough in Lorien.  Gildor, as the least experienced of
the group, had not been privy to details of their
instructions; all he knew was that they sought
something in Thranduil's realm and had been sent to
Lorien first to seek the advice of those who had long
kept an eye on darkest Mirkwood.  How long this
consultation might take, he did not know, but found
himself hoping that they would tarry in Lorien a very
long time indeed. 

*   *   *

Third Age, 180: Imladris

Haldir finally completed his preparations and,
crawling across the bed to straddle Gildor, smiled
wickedly at him while fingering the old fabric of his
tunic.  "I have half a mind to cut you out of this,
for then I would have an excuse to replace it."  He
slid the cool edge of a knife along Gildor's sleeve as
he spoke, stopping to toy with the leather ties at the
front of his tunic.  "This . . . . stuff," he used the
tip of the knife to contemptuously flick a bit of the
knobby fabric, "next to your skin offends me.  You
should be in a much finer weave, something worthy of
such beauty."  He ran the knife in a seemingly
careless way down Gildor's chest, but, although the
fabric parted easily, no mark was seen on the pale
skin below.  "Have you always worn such clothing?," he
asked, cutting the tunic the rest of the way from his
companion's form.

Gildor smiled up at him lovingly, "Oh, no.  I remember
one outfit of which I am positive you would approve."

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: Lothlorien 

The scene before Gildor was unlike any he had seen. 
The great market day at Calas Galadhon occurred only
once a month, when elves from all over fair Lorien
came to laugh and talk, trade and bargain.  Gildor
wandered among the seemingly endless stalls, happily
munching a leaf wrapped meat pastry in one hand, while
he took occasional sips from a flagon of watered wine
that he held in the other.  He did not think he would
ever tire of perusing the intriguing wares on display.
 There were mounds of all types of vegetables and
fruits, stalls selling smoked meats and cheeses, and
others with barrels and bottles of fine wines. 
Jewelers displayed everything from trinkets to jewels
of great price; wood carvers had pipes and flutes,
bowls and tankards, engraved with alien designs;
leather workers offered fine tooled scabbards, quivers
and belts; and one stall had the funniest boots Gildor
had ever seen--they were made of suede and soft,
supple leather, but were every hue of the rainbow and
embroidered, of all things, like a maiden's dress!  He
spent a few moments in fascinated disbelief, staring
at a bright purple pair with niphrodil embroidered all
over them and with gilded heels.

Lost in contemplation of some crystal sun catchers a
short while later, Gildor accidentally spilled a bit
of wine down his tunic front, which was already less
than pristine, and a pretty maiden called to him,
fluttering a bright cloth in the late morning breeze. 
She laughed at his predicament, but not unkindly. 
"Now you'll have to have a new one, cousin!," she told
him, and began to pile heaps of gorgeous tunics,
sashes and robes onto the table nearest him from
overfilled baskets behind her.  

Gildor smiled and approached her wares, but knew he
had nothing to trade.  His needs were met at Imladris,
where Lord Elrond had agreed to train him out of
respect for his father, who had fought at his side in
the Last Alliance.  Here, however, he would need gold
or something of value to exchange for any goods, and
Gildor had never had money of his own.  If he
succeeded on this assignment he might begin to get
small tasks which would bring payment, although none
were likely to come his way for many years that would
fetch very much.  At the moment, however, as he was
considered to still be in training, he earned nothing,
and his parents could not afford to send him anything.
 Certainly, it would be centuries before he could
afford clothes as beautiful as these, for he could see
that the tales he had heard of the skill of Lorien
weavers had not been exaggerated.  

The maiden, sensing a sale, was pressing a deep burnt
orange tunic on him.  Gildor had no hands left with
which to fend her off, and could therefore not keep
her from draping the cloth over the front of his own
stained garment.  "It will go well with your dark
hair," she insisted, and held up a polished glass so
that he might see.  Gildor was wondering where he
could put his pastry or drink that would not stain her
wares, needing to free a hand to return her offering,
when he glanced into the mirror she had now shoved
within a foot of his face.  He stopped, seeing in
surprise that the Galadrim Haldir was standing behind
him, his thoughtful expression reflected in the
mirror's bright face.

"She's right, you know, and that colour compliments
your complexion as well."  Haldir
relieved him of the food items he carried, which he
then deftly passed to the maiden.  Pulling off
Gildor's old tunic in one swift motion, he tugged the
other over his head
before he could protest.  The material was as strong
as the rougher woolen he had been wearing, but was
light as silk.  The weave was so fine that it was
almost invisible, and it was banded by some of the
cleverest embroidery he had ever seen, with brown,
gold and light orange leaves and flowers twining in
intricate shapes along the neckline, hem and cuffs. 
As he gazed at it wonderingly, he saw that little
animals were inserted haphazardly
throughout the pattern--here a fox stuck its nose out
from behind a flower petal, there a butterfly hovered
lightly as if about to drink.  It was by far the most
beautiful garment he had ever seen, and was also, of
course, completely out of the question.

"Yes," the border guard commented, standing back to
look him up and down, "you look very well in that." 
He suddenly leaned forward and ran a hand along
Gildor's rather messy braids.  "But someone needs to
teach you how to care for your hair, elfling!"  He
laughed and turned to the maiden, who was now looking
smugly sure of a sale.  "He'll take it," he told her,
and she dimpled at him while fluttering long lashes.  

"He does look well," she said, but her bright gaze
stayed on the guard.  Gildor didn't blame her, as he
had difficulty remembering not to stare himself.  He
was even more handsome than Gildor remembered, wearing
not his Galadrim clothes, but a fine garment of what
looked like silk, in a blue to match his eyes.  

Tearing his attention away from the Galadrim, Gildor
turned to address the maid, who was busily tying up
his old clothes into a small bundle, apparently
assuming that he would wear the new tunic.  "I . . .
it is beautiful, truly," he told her, trying not to
appear as embarrassed as he felt.  "But I really can't
. . . "

The guard picked up the package with Gildor's stained
clothing in it and handed it to him.  "You would
refuse my gift then, brother?  I had heard that
Imladris elves were more polite."

"Gift?  But I don't . . ."

"Is it not the habit of your people, to give strangers
in their lands, especially kin, food and shelter, and
then gifts on their departure?"

"Well, yes, but . . . that is, Lord Elrond does these
things, but he is master of Imladris and . . . "

"Then he may do what my Lord Celeborn cannot?"

Gildor looked about, a little fearfully.  Lord
Celeborn?  He had not been privileged to attend the
meeting between the Lords of Lorien and Tuor the
previous night, and so had yet to see their host, but
from the way this guard talked, it sounded as if the
Lord wished to honour him with a handsome present. 
Gildor did not see anyone in the crowd who looked as
if they might be the famed Lord of Lorien, and could
not imagine why he would take any interest in such an
insignificant person as himself in the first place. 
"Lord Celeborn . . . wishes me to have this?"

The guard shrugged and handed over what seemed a large
amount of silver to the maiden, without asking the
price.  "I was told to look after the honoured guests
from Lorien, and to show them every consideration. 
But you would shame me before my Lord by refusing to
accept the courtesy of the Golden Wood.  How have I
wronged you, that you would do me such a disservice?"

Gildor might have been worried about the guard's words
except that his tone was light, and he was paying no
attention to Gildor as he spoke, but was busy flirting
with the maiden.  Gildor stood there feeling
ridiculous as Haldir reminded her of some assignation
they had agreed upon for that evening.  "If you sold
twelve by noon you said, Idril," he laughed, taking
her hand, which was still clutched about his silver,
and raising it to his lips.  "And look, the sun stands
just before the peak.  If I have counted correctly,
this means you are mine this night!"

She giggled, and swatted at him with a sash.  "I
should have said, if I sell twelve to aught but Haldir
o' Lorien!"

"Ah," he smiled devilishly, "but then, fair maiden, I
would have scoured the whole of the woods for those in
search of the finest of garments . . . and dragged
them here by the scruff of their necks if need be!"

The two had apparently forgotten Gildor's existence,
but he remained anyway, blushing despite himself at
some of the comments Haldir made to the "maiden," who,
if she was one in truth, would likely be so no more by
the dawn.  The conversation only ended when the savvy
elf noted another customer looking with interest at a
dark blue robe, and turned away to work her charms on
him.  Haldir walked off singing softly to himself, not
even glancing in Gildor's direction, who watched him
as he disappeared into the crowd, his hand running
over the silky fabric of his tunic in wonder.

TBC


Title: One Last Time, part 2/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  A faithful reviewer, Melanie, asked so
nicely for this that I couldn't refuse.  For anyone familiar with my previous
work, this has a very different tone.  Melanie wanted a tender, romantic little
fic that discussed Gildor's and Haldir's relationship, so that's what this is.    
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  


Third Age, 180: Imladris

The leggings followed the tunic into a shredded heap by the bed, and Gildor lay
exposed to Haldir's concentrated gaze.  Considering what they'd already done in
the cabin, Gildor didn't know why he was so nervous as those hot eyes swept over
him, but he felt himself going red nonetheless.  It was always his lot to be
blushing around Haldir, although at least this time it was the attention paid to
himself that was cause.

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: Lorien

Gildor was having a very bad night.  For one thing, he kept expecting to fall
off his talan at any moment, as, unlike the sensible balconies of Imladris,
these had no railings.  Every time he almost fell asleep, he felt himself
sliding in one direction or the other, and woke up, clutching desperately at the
wood under his hands.  He could swear the things were slanted downwards, as no
position in which he arranged himself was at all satisfactory.  

Another problem was the noisy party going on beneath him, and throughout much of
Caras Galadhon, that night.  The festivities seemed to be a natural part of the
market day tradition, and Gildor had fully enjoyed them, up to a point.  He and
Aikanaro had been set free to amuse themselves as their elders were off
somewhere in another meeting with the Lords of Lorien.  The two younger elves
wandered about from party to party, as virtually every tree and glade seemed to
have their own personal festival going on, to which all comers were welcomed
with mead and wine, bread and fruit, and only asked to contribute a story or
song in return.    

Lanterns had been hung in the lower branches of the trees, and well tended fires
burned brightly here and there, around which happy revelers sang and danced. 
Aikanaro had soon met up with some old friends, and, feeling a bit out of place,
Gildor wandered off on his own.  Not yet quite ready for bed, he took a walk
amongst the darker glades farther from the city center, finding a strange beauty
in the Lorien night.  Few stars were visible, as the trees grew thick at the
heart of the Golden Wood, but the mallyrn seemed to exude a dim glow all their
own, giving light enough to see by.  It had allowed him to make the discovery
that was the third reason he was finding it impossible to sleep.  

In a dark meadow far from the night's revelry, Tuor of Imladris lay, once again,
face down on the ground at Haldir's feet.  "Let me up, you infernal . . . I'll
have your position for this, and your head!"

Haldir laughed, a sweet sound that echoed through the forest almost like a song. 
"Oh, not my position, I think, cousin, although feel free to try, but the other
. . . well, if you ask nicely, we may be able to arrange something."

"So you're debauched as well as dangerous!," Tuor spat, twisting around in a
futile effort to free himself.  

Haldir gracefully sank to the ground, straddling his captive's thighs and
running an appreciative hand over his firm bottom.  "Debauched and dangerous,"
he mused, inserting a finger just under the top of Tuor's leggings and beginning
to softly stroke the skin of his lower back.  "I rather like the sound of that. 
Perhaps you would be so good as to spread the tale about?  It would do me no end
of good in certain quarters."

"I'll spread you about, in little pieces all over this glade!," was the reply,
and Gildor saw with alarm that Tuor's hand had almost reached the knife on his
belt.   Haldir observed the motion, however--indeed, from his lazy action in
removing the scabbard and tossing it several yards away, it might almost be
thought he had expected it.

"No blades.  Not this time," he told Tuor, with less amusement in his tone.  "I
do not know what rules there be at Imladris, but here, kin do not slay kin."

"I would not slay you, you stupid elf!," was the reply. "just teach you how to
properly treat honoured guests."

"By trying to stab me this morning, and again just now?," Haldir asked in
obvious disbelief, as he quested lower beneath the elf's leggings, running a
hand over the tense muscles he found there.    

"No!  I would not have harmed you.  I simply intended to get the knife at your
throat, then make you apologise.  The only injury would have been to your
overbearing pride!  However," and Gildor shuddered at the venom lacing through
Tuor's tone, "if you don't stop groping me, I may change my mind."

"Groping you?," Haldir seemed genuinely amused.  "Oh, no, cousin, THIS would be
groping you," he commented.  Gildor was not sure if it was Haldir's tone, which
had mockery saturating every syllable, or the hand he slipped under Tuor's still
struggling form, but a howl of pure outrage echoed through the forest from the
Imladris elf.  A second later, and the two were rolling around the glade,
engaged in what looked like serious combat.  

Gildor was caught in a quandary, not knowing what to do.  If he intervened, Tuor
would know that he had seen him bested once more, and might well never forgive
him.  On the other hand, if he did nothing and let his mission leader be
injured, how would he explain himself to Valandil?  And the thought of Haldir
being hurt was even worse, causing a sick feeling to puddle in his stomach.  He
decided to wait for the outcome, and only interfere if it looked like serious
harm would otherwise be done.  

It had been, he reflected as he tried once again to find a safe position on the
cursed talan, one of those plans that seem like a good idea at the time.  In
reality, he would feel much better if he had simply walked away and left them to
it.  Instead, he had stayed to see the blows turn into caresses and the curses
into whispered endearments, as the fight changed slowly into something else. 
Haldir once again emerged on top, but this time, Tuor seemed much less inclined
to argue.  Gildor had thought in silent sympathy of the elf maid Haldir was
supposed to meet, who was doubtless somewhere wondering what had happened to
him.  Gildor had almost left then, heart heavy with seeing Tuor's haughty blond
looks make this particular conquest, but something held him in place.    

"You are beautiful, cousin," Haldir murmured, as he slowly relieved Tuor of his
clothing.  "So beautiful . . . and yet so proud . . . and so quick to anger,
even against those whom you should esteem."  The light, almost singsong voice
continued, as the last piece of the elf's attire was tossed aside.  "You speak
about teaching me a lesson," Haldir whispered, running his hands along his
captive's arms, slowly guiding them over his head, "but I think it is you who
needs instruction."

Tuor gazed up at him from half closed eyes, "Then educate me, Guardian," he said
seductively.

Haldir smiled, and something about the expression made Gildor suddenly bite his
lip in worry.  "I thought you'd never ask," he commented softly, as the rope he
had slipped so unobtrusively about the darker elf's wrists was pulled tight, and
simultaneously thrown over an overhanging branch.  As Gildor bit back a startled
cry, Tuor was raised from the ground in one swift movement and hung suspended in
the air.  Haldir looped the rope around his captive's flailing legs, then tied
it off far out of his reach.  After gagging him with a handkerchief, Haldir
surveyed his handiwork, while running a hand down Tuor's bare back to cup one of
his hips.  "You know," he remarked conversationally, "I think I rather like you
this way.  You are so much more attractive when you aren't talking."  

Haldir bent and scooped up the scattered clothing, throwing what looked like a
genuinely regretful glance at the trussed figure before him.  "I would stay and
complete your instruction, but I am afraid I have a previous engagement this
eve, so I bid you good night."  He walked to the edge of the glade as Gildor
stood, surveying the scene in  astonishment from his hidden position.  "Oh, and
don't worry, Tuor of Imladris," Haldir threw back over his shoulder as the
Imladris elf, finally realising Haldir actually meant to leave him like that,
began struggling wildly, "I am sure someone will be by to release you . . .
eventually."  And he walked away, humming what sounded like the same song from
that afternoon.

Gildor watched as Tuor struggled against his bonds, but Haldir had used good
Lorien rope and Tuor's knife was far out of reach.  Gildor knew his leader's
self-importance would be seriously affronted to be found by some wandering
Lorien elf, hung up like a freshly killed deer.  He really ought to go release
him, and he momentarily fingered the knife at his waist, but the almost savage
look in Tuor's wild-eyed gaze made him pause.  It was perfectly possible that he
would be blamed, not thanked, if Tuor suspected that he had seen even a part of
that night's activities.  

Gildor had stood in indecision for some time, listening with far more pleasure
than he wanted to admit to the muffled sounds of impotent rage escaping from the
bound and struggling figure in the glade.  He then turned and, with his quietest
tread, made for the narrow talan he had been assigned.  So it was that he passed
the night, feelings of guilt assailing him along with fair elvish music from the
many campfires ringing him round.  Finally, sometime near dawn, he managed to
slip into sleep, with the image of a pair of laughing blue eyes merging into his
dreams.             

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: Mirkwood

Glorfindel took one look at Thranduil, King of the wood elves of Mirkwood, and
decided that perhaps his diplomatic assignment was not going to be quite as dull
as he'd imagined.  The audience hall of the king was a huge room hollowed out of
pure stone, with long tables lining either side and an impressive number of
silken banners fluttering high overhead.   The throne was the most ostentatious
Glorfindel had ever seen, making Elrond's elaborately carved perch seem like an
ordinary chair by comparison.  But it was not the throne that interested
Glorfindel, but rather the impressive elf currently slouched on it, looking as
if he needed cheering up.  Glorfindel specialized in spreading good cheer,
especially when it came to gloriously handsome elves.  

"Lord Glorfindel of Imladris."  As the herald announced him, Glorfindel passed
along the narrow passage left by the seemingly thousands of elves who had
crowded in to see the meeting, which most assumed would be memorable.  

"My Lord Glorfindel," Thranduil said, looking suddenly more interested in the
proceedings, "Had Elrond sent anyone else, I would have been hard pressed not to
order my archers to shoot him on sight.  The famous Balrog slayer, however, I
wanted to see for myself.  I would hear about your famous battle over dinner
tonight."

Glorfindel repressed a wince and instead kept a broad, diplomatic smile on his
face.  Elbereth, but he was sick of telling that tale, even the highly
expurgated form that he usually used on such occasions.  Why did people assume
that anyone would LIKE recalling the moment of their own extremely painful
demise?  Elrond had long ago made it clear that his seneschal was not required
to reopen old wounds just to entertain curious visitors to Imladris, and, for
the most part, Glorfindel was able to avoid the avid requests from passing
guests by amusing them instead with libidinous stories from his somewhat
disreputable past.  Anything was better than dredging up that hoary old tale
again.  But it would, he knew, be difficult to ignore Thranduil's request,
especially as it was the only thing keeping him from being unceremoniously
escorted out the door.  He knew, of course, that the king was bluffing--he
wouldn't really harm any emissary Elrond chose to send--but he was also not
obligated to receive them, and there was certainly no love lost between the two
Lords.

Of course, he thought, eying the dark emerald eyes, fair features and
waist-length silver hair of the vision on the throne, given a little time and
Glorfindel might be able to give the King of Mirkwood another reason for keeping
him around.  Ah, Elrond, he thought as he bowed gracefully in assent, what I do
out of loyalty!

*   *   *

Third Age, 180: Imladris

Haldir slowly drew a finger along the vein on the underside of Gildor's
straining length, smiling to see his companion begin to move in his need.  "Look
at me," Haldir said softly, and Gildor obliged him, although a handsome blush
suffused his features as their eyes met.  Haldir smiled at the sight, a number
of possibilities for increasing it running through his mind.  He had not had a
partner who blushed for . . . well, come to think of it, he did not think he
ever had.  Of course, that could be because his tastes had never run to
innocents, with most of his partners being as experienced, or more so, than
himself.  Blushing was a rarity among his friends.  Of course, now that he
thought about it, there had been that little elf in Lorien, long ago . . . in
fact, Gildor rather reminded him of the young one, whatever his name had been .
. . it escaped Haldir at the moment, but memory of their actions was much
clearer.

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: Lorien

The large meadow was filled with golden, star shaped elanor, which showed up
well against the deep green of the grass.  The Silvan elves that dotted it
seemed from a distance as moving flowers themselves, their pale hair almost the
same colour as the shy elanor and their garment s every hue of the rainbow. 
Many of them reclined among the grasses, on blankets and beside picnic baskets,
attired in their festival best and in high spirits because of the coming
competition.  Haldir lounged on the sidelines between his two brothers, who were
waiting impatiently for their moment to shine.  Rumil was almost certain to take
first honours in the wrestling matches, as, although he was lighter than most of
the competition, no one was faster.  Orophin was looking forward, as was Haldir
himself, to archery, as they tended to trade off the top prize from year to
year.  Haldir had won it the last two years in a row, however, and Orophin was
itching to best him.  Haldir knew his brother had recently traded off some of
his duty shifts to allow him to spend more time in practise, and would no doubt
be a formidable opponent.  

The sun was too bright, the birds sang too sweetly and Haldir was too mellow
from a fine lunch to care very much.  If Orophin should beat him, well, there
was always next year . . . as long as neither of them lost to one of the haughty
visitors from Imladris!  Haldir watched them as they milled about, looking out
of place among the crowd of Silvans.  Even Tuor, with his blond good looks, had
hair too brassy and bulked too large to ever be mistaken for one of the tree
dwellers.  His companions stuck out even more, with dark hair and eyes such as
was seldom seen in Lorien.  The elfling was the worst and Haldir watched in idle
amusement as he twisted his rather battered bow around in his hands, looking
thoroughly nervous at the thought of competing amongst so many strangers.  His
messy braids fell forlornly about his dimpled cheeks, and his wide brown eyes
surveyed the assembled throng with mingled fascination and dread.  Despite his
scruffy appearance, Haldir found him the only halfway likeable one among the
group; although, if he was truly as helpless as he appeared, it was a wonder he
had been included on the delegation.  Was Imladris so lacking in decent agents
these days that it must use children?

Haldir was distracted from his thoughts by the first trumpet blast, signaling
the beginning of the day's events.  Almare and Turelie, the twin daughters of
the legendary Nolwe, who had never lost a race, won the foot races.  Their
mother sat atop a slight rise, beaming as the victor's crowns of niphrodil were
placed on their shining heads, her cheeks rosy from the strawberry wine she had
been imbibing.  Varyar won the wrestling competition, much to Rumil's disgust,
and Haldir refrained from telling his competitive little brother that second
overall was not a bad day's work.  The other events seemingly flew by, and soon
it was time for the test of archery skill.  

Haldir joined Orophin on the long, flat piece of ground selected for the main
event.  Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel sat in the shade of several nearby
mallyrn, waiting to start the event as soon as everyone had taken their places. 
The crowd shifted in their direction, for archery was most elves' favourite
sport.  Haldir noted that the competition was much as usual, mostly Galadrim
with a few other hopefuls thrown in and, this time, the guests from Imladris. 
All four had apparently decided to compete, and he briefly wondered about their
skill, but soon the two who looked so much alike were eliminated, having given
fair performances but nothing more.  Haldir saw the tallest of the elves, who
had also shown himself to be the wisest on their first meeting, pull the elfling
aside and whisper something in his ear before leaving the field.  Whatever it
was, it made the child blush brightly, and seem to straighten up slightly.  Some
words of encouragement then, Haldir supposed, and he found himself hoping the
little one would perform at least adequately before being eliminated. 

Haldir, as usual, made no mistakes, his six allotted arrows all finding their
marks in the dead centre of the targets.  Of course, this was the simple round,
he reflected, as Orophin easily matched him.  Eight others also managed perfect
scores, including the proud Tuor, who gave Haldir a scathing glance as he passed
him, causing the Galadrim to briefly wish he'd tightened those ropes a little
more the night before.  Oh well, dodging whatever mischief Tuor was planning
would provide a bit of amusement until the annoying Imladris foursome went on
their way.  To Haldir's surprise, the youngest Imladris elf also managed to hit
all the targets cleanly; that old bow of his must be a better weapon than it
looked.  

The next two rounds eliminated most of the remaining competition, leaving, as
usual, Haldir and Orophin shooting against each other.  Less usually, two other
elves had made the final cut, and it was much to Haldir's annoyance that they
were the ones from Imladris.  He was not about to be out shot on his own ground
by any foreign elf, especially not that Tuor!  Haldir exchanged glances with his
brother and knew that Orophin was thinking the same thing--as long as one of
them won, Lorien's reputation, and that of the Galadrim, was intact. 

For this last stage, the targets were suspended on three cords hung between two
of the taller mallyrn, with about a yard of space between them, one on top of
the other.  Each cord had eight small disks attached to it, which were released
by elves high in the branches on either side of the supports.  There were six
elves, one for either side of each rope, holding four disks that they could
release whenever they chose.  Sometimes, two or three would go at once, making
it all but impossible to hit them all.  The elves were blindfolded so that they
could not see who was competing, nor what their fellow target holders were
doing.   The distance from the target and the fact that the ropes swayed in the
almost perpetual breeze in the tops of the mallyrn, made this final selection
the most difficult of all the day's events.  No one had ever hit all twenty-four
disks, and indeed, it was considered a very respectable score to manage half of
them.  Haldir hoped to improve on his personal best of 19, which had won him the
tournament the previous year.

A shrill whistle sounded as Tuor, who drew the white pebble from the sack that
Celeborn held, was allowed the privilege of shooting first.  He nocked a grey
fletched arrow to his bow and waited for the next signal.  Haldir had to admit
that, if he was nervous, he did not let it show.  As soon as the short note sang
over the trees and the first disk was dropped, it was obvious why; annoying the
elf might be, but he was talented.  Haldir stood by impassively as disk after
disk came to rest in the middle of the rope, cleanly shot through with one of
Tuor's grey arrows.  "Eighteen," the call rang out over the field, a total that
won a round of surprised applause from the watching elves.  It was especially
impressive as the wind had picked up halfway through, making it likely, in
Haldir's opinion, that Tuor would have tallied up several more hits if it had
remained calm.  

Orophin selected the bluish pebble, giving him the next attempt.  It was in a
tense silence that he stepped up to the line, nocking one of the Galadrim's
white fletched arrows to his bow as he did so.  The crowd was unusually quiet,
with no shifting and rustling of food wrappers, as all held their breath to see
if Orophin could outshoot the Imladris visitor.  His brother was seemingly calm,
but Haldir knew he must realise he was shooting under a disadvantage.  The wind
was now whipping the thin grey ropes back and forth unpredictably, and, although
Haldir suspected Celeborn of deliberately stalling to give the gusts a chance to
die down, they were still strong when the whistle blew.  Despite the handicap,
his brother did well, hitting seventeen cleanly and only barely missing another. 
Still, that left Haldir with a job to do as he selected the reddish hued pebble
from the bag.  

Celeborn sent him a look that clearly said, "Beat him," and Haldir gave an
almost imperceptible nod in reply.  The wind was still high when the whistle
sounded, but Haldir was lucky and received good throws, with most of the disks
sliding along the ropes cleanly and coming at regular intervals.  He missed one
that was whipped sideways by the wind just as his arrow reached it, and two more
because, near the end of his turn, five disks were released all at once making
it impossible to hit them all in the few seconds he had.  Still, it was his best
effort ever, and, at 21, a new Lorien record.  Haldir only noticed the trickle
of sweat that had run down his back when he stepped away from the line and
Orophin enveloped him in a huge hug.  "I've never been so glad to lose," his
brother hissed in his ear, and Haldir gave him what he hoped was a confidant
smile in return.  In reality, he would have very much liked to sit down for a
few minutes.

"Wait, wait," Celeborn was saying, holding up his hands for silence as the
applause, laughter and babble of relieved elves had risen to a crescendo.  "We
still have another contestant," he reminded them, and the crowd, now sure of a
win for their champion, obligingly settled back down.  

Haldir felt true sympathy for the youngster, who bravely stepped up to the line
but swallowed as he surveyed the ropes, now whipping in a high wind.  It was by
far the worst condition yet, and Haldir could only be thankful that he had shot
when he did.  Still, he hoped the elfling would somehow manage a halfway decent
showing, or else there was a good chance that Tuor, glowering at the field from
the sidelines, would make his life difficult.  The young elf nocked an arrow, a
rather strange one, Haldir noticed, with a black body but fletched with bright
gold, and waited on the signal.  It was barely audible over the sound of the
wind, but he heard it and began releasing arrows.  

At first, Haldir thought the child had lost his nerve and begun shooting wildly,
as he was releasing far more arrows than there were targets; indeed, Haldir had
scarcely ever seen anyone shoot so many so quickly.  After a few seconds,
however, he realised what the elf was doing.  Having had time, he supposed, to
watch he and Orophin battle the elements, and learning from their mistakes, he
was compensating for the shifting ropes by shooting arrows two at a time spaced
slightly apart, to allow for sudden changes in wind direction.  To Haldir's
surprise, it was working.  Although many of his arrows went wide, many others
found targets, with a few targets even hit twice.  There was just one problem
with the plan, Haldir realised, as target after target was pierced; he was
almost certain to run out of arrows.  Not having anticipated the need to shoot
doubles, he had not brought enough to allow him to finish.  Haldir doubted that
the elfling realised his predicament, as his whole attention was focused on the
now wildly whipping ropes and the tiny disks that slid so quickly along them.  

Without thinking, Haldir reached into his own quiver and drew out the four
arrows he had yet to use.  As the elfling's hands reached back for another
arrow, and encountered only air, Haldir slipped two into his searching palm. 
The fact that they were white and not gold, and silver mallyrn fair instead of
black, did not apparently register on the elfling's focused mind.

"Orophin," Haldir whispered, extending a hand.  His brother gave him a startled
look, but after a brief hesitation, handed over his five remaining arrows.  They
were slipped into the elfling's quiver without his noticing, and proved to be
just enough to do the job.  

"Twenty-four," Celeborn called out, disbelief in his tone, and the crowd erupted
into unrestrained shouts and cheers, the thrill of the skill and ingenuity they
had just seen displayed canceling out all other considerations.  "I'll talk to
you later," Celeborn informed Haldir shortly, and Orophin, giving his brother a
cheeky grin, slid away before the annoyed Lord could catch him.     

The elfling, Haldir noticed, was looking in surprise at the white fletched arrow
he had just unnocked from his bow.  He looked up at Haldir in amazement.  "I
don't understand."  

Haldir laughed and ruffled his wind swept hair.  The child was not handsome, but
he certainly had talent.  "No one ever made a perfect score; I wanted you to
have the chance," he told him, "Now come and claim your crown."

*   *   *

That evening, despite the bad weather that had blown up in the afternoon,
parties of all types were held anyway, as those who had come to town for market
day were to depart on the morrow and did not intend to miss a last chance for
socializing.  Haldir stood inside the Lord and Lady's great talan and watched
the rain drip from the roof.  The calm blue twilight, which was as close to
darkness as Lorien ever managed, should have been peaceful, but he could still
hear Celeborn's scathing comments ringing in his ears.  Despite appearances, his
Lord could be quite competitive.  He had not been happy to have the match
thrown, as he had phrased it, to an Imladris elf, and one scarcely past his
majority at that.  It had not helped that Tuor had had a number of pointed
comments to make about the skills of the Galadrim that afternoon, which Haldir
thought was fairly raw as he had, after all, been beaten by one of those
Galadrim himself.  

He noticed now the unhappy face of the afternoon's winner, and wondered if
perhaps he should have let the child run out of arrows, after all.  He certainly
did not look like he was enjoying his victory, and Haldir wondered why. 
Approaching the elf, whose niphrodil crown was beginning to wilt somewhat, he
smiled and settled himself onto a large knot in a tree growing a few feet from
the edge of the talan.  The overhanging branches kept most of the rain off, and
allowed him to sit at much the same level as the elfling, who was seated at the
edge of the talan, and staring out morosely at the night.

"Why so glum, little one?  Did you not triumph today?"

The child looked up at him as if surprised anyone was addressing him.  

"Where are your friends; do they not wish to congratulate you on your victory?"

"I . . . I think Aikanaro is somewhere about . . . he has old friends here and
they are leaving tomorrow so . . . "

"And what about the others in your company?"

The elf twisted about, "They were here, earlier," he said, but Haldir noticed
that he did not look sorry to have lost them.

"Then I am in luck," Haldir commented, "as it seems I have you all to myself."

The child looked up from contemplating his hands, and caught Haldir's eye.  He
blushed as prettily as a maiden, and quickly looked elsewhere.  Haldir had meant
to have only a short conversation, to perhaps cheer the elf up, as it seemed
ridiculous that he, of all people, should be unhappy this night.  But that blush
was enchanting, and Haldir was now remembering a similar expression he had seen
on the young one's face when first they met.  I am getting old, he thought in
amusement, if I cannot spot a crush when it is so obvious.  Ah, well, why not? 
He had nothing else to do that evening, as his previous night's diversion had
left that morning to be in time for another fair elsewhere.

"I think the rain has stopped," Haldir commented, holding out a hand, and
indeed, although the leaves still dripped, the sky itself was clear.  The clouds
had moved away from the moon, which was visible this close to the treetops.
"Walk with me," and the elf obligingly took his proffered hand, allowing him to
lead him across several of the high suspended bridges and through the trees to a
much smaller talan a good distance away from the Lord and Lady's.

After shedding his damp cloak and outer tunic, and helping the elfling off with
his, Haldir pulled him down on top of him and drew him into a deep kiss.  The
elf seemed taken aback, and almost immediately drew away looking flustered. 
Haldir laughed, "What's this?  You do not want your victory prize?," and pulled
him down again.  This time he went slower, and was more gentle, and the elf
melted against him as Haldir once more slipped in between his sweet lips.  Oh,
this felt nice, he thought, slipping a hand under his companion's silky hair to
draw him even closer.  A few deft movements and the elf's shirt was gone,
allowing Haldir access to a very tempting torso.  He had just begun to explore a
tiny pink nipple when a laugh echoed through the room.  

"Well, at least now I know why I lost five good arrows today!"

Haldir looked up to see Orophin and Rumil, the latter with a lighted lantern in
hand, standing in the doorway with identical grins on their faces.

"I think it is MY night in the talan?," Haldir pointed out, and considering that
he had had to make love to Idril in the back of her tiny covered wagon the night
before, he was not happy to see his brothers now.

"We do most heartily apologise, to you both," Rumil said, bowing formally in
their direction, "we just needed to pick up a few things . . ."

"Don't let us interrupt," Orophin added, leering good-naturedly at the elfling,
whose face was glowing bright red in the dim lantern light.  

"We won't," Haldir replied, trying to resume where they'd left off, only to have
the elf jump to his feet and stumble backwards, clutching his shirt to his bare
chest and looking mortified.  

"I . . . I really have to go . . .," he said, refusing to meet any of their
eyes, and fled from the talan as fast as his feet could carry him.  Haldir
called after him, but the young one was too quick and almost immediately
disappeared into the night. 

Haldir turned to glare at his two siblings, who at least had the grace to look
somewhat abashed.

"Sorry," Rumil muttered, before making his own quick escape.

Orophin smiled sheepishly at his brother.  "I suppose our timing could have been
better?"

Haldir, who had participated in the many toasts drunk in his honour that night,
sighed and let his slightly swimming head fall back against the cushions of his
pallet. "You could say that, brother," he replied, before giving up on the day
and succumbing to slumber.  

TBC


Title: One Last Time, part 3/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even
Gildor Inglorion isn't mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  A faithful
reviewer, Melanie, asked so nicely for this that I
couldn't refuse.  For anyone familiar with my previous
work, this has a very different tone.  Melanie wanted
a tender, romantic little fic that discussed Gildor's
and Haldir's relationship, so that's what this is.    
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let
me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken
story arc (Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  



Second Age: 3121: Mirkwood

The heavy iron banded door swung outward and there he
was, sitting on a small cot in the corner, looking mad
as Mandos.  Glorfindel tried to suppress a grin, but
failed.  "Yes, captain, that is my, er, colleague.  If
I might speak with him alone, for a few moments?"

The captain nodded and withdrew, having already been
given orders to let the two talk if they wished. 
There was no reason why not, after all; they could
plot all they liked, but it would avail them nothing. 
His predecessor had been sacked for letting those
halflings outwit him and security was significantly
tightened thereafter.  One thing was certain, no one
escaped from HIS dungeons.  

Erestor waited until the door slammed shut before
pouncing on Glorfindel.  "WHERE have you been?  Do you
have any idea what it has been like, cooped up in here
day after day, no books, no music, no conversation?  I
thought I would go mad!"

Removing the clutching hands from his robes with some
difficulty, Glorfindel stepped back and straightened
his garments.  "I have a package here for you from
Elrond. I believe he included some books, and also
some clothing," which, seeing the state of Erestor's
current attire, had been a good idea.  "Perhaps you
can pass the time more comfortably now."

"Pass the time?  What do you mean, pass the time? 
Haven't you come to get me OUT?"  Erestor's voice rose
precipitously at the last, and Glorfindel shot him a
warning look.  The door was thick, true, but there was
no reason to be careless.

"I am here at Elrond's bidding to petition King
Thranduil for your release, yes, but so far, there has
been no interest shown in complying with that
request."  Glorfindel seated himself on the end of the
narrow cot and looked around in distaste.  The room
was clean, and furnished with the basic necessities of
bed and washstand, as well as an old, slightly rusted
sconce on the wall holding two greasy yellow candles. 
However, it was very bare, with stone floors over
which only a few rushes had been scattered, and no
window other than the tiny one, currently shut, in the
door.  He could imagine how forlorn Erestor must have
felt these last weeks--not that he didn't deserve it,
of course.

"So, how long will these negotiations take?, Erestor
asked petulantly, while rummaging through the large
parcel Glorfindel had deposited beside the cot.  "I'm
needed back at Imladris, you know; it will be time for
summer festival soon and the Valar only know how
everything will get arranged without me!"

"You might, perhaps, have thought of that before you
ran off after some tramp of a delivery boy and left us
high and dry," was the acerbic response.

"I did no such thing!  I was merely attempting to
discover the reason for the sporadic wine supply of
late, as we'll be needing quite a bit for the
festival, and . . . ," he trailed off at Glorfindel's
arch look.

"It's no good, Erestor.  Save it for Elrond when we
get back, assuming we ever do.  Thranduil's people
caught you sniffing about their borders, looking very
suspicious and asking too many questions.  They really
believe you were spying.  I suppose we could try to
explain that you were just trying to discover where
your little Mirkwood dalliance had run off to, but I
doubt very much if they would believe it.  I, myself,
have a problem believing that anyone long trusted by
Elrond in the most important of positions could
possibly be so irresponsible, yet I have no choice."

"Are you quite finished?"

"No."  Glorfindel rose from the cot and paced about,
looking disgusted.  "To compound your error, you
attacked several of the guards while they were
attempting to bring you here, destroyed some valuable
property in what I understand was an extremely clumsy
escape attempt thereafter, and then tried that
ridiculous wine story on Thranduil who, whatever else
he may be, is not stupid!  Frankly, it's a wonder
you're still alive."

"And I suppose you would have done better?"

'I wouldn't have been here in the first place!  And
now I have the joyous task of somehow managing to
convince the king to release you into the hands of the
elf he likes least in all of Arda.  You are going to
owe me a few hundred years worth of favours if I
manage to pull this off!"

"Well, forgive my obtuseness," Erestor replied
sarcastically, "but I fail to see why you have to
convince anyone of anything at all.  Relations between
Imladris and Mirkwood can't get much worse than they
already are--Elrond's very name is practically an
expletive in these parts--so why waste time on
diplomacy?  Especially when it isn't likely to work
anyway?  Just break me out of here."

Glorfindel sat down again and glared at his wayward
acquaintance.  He usually considered him a friend, but
at the moment, he wasn't feeling very friendly. 
Elrond had spoiled the creature, that was the problem.
 He managed to get his own way so much of the time
that he had forgotten about such petty concerns as
personal responsibility.  Elrond would always be
available to come to the rescue of his favourite, no
matter how unwise that favourite had been.  Glorfindel
was highly tempted to return to Imladris, claiming
failure, and let Erestor stew in Thranduil's dungeons
until some other way could be found to obtain his
release.  His loyalty to Elrond was the main reason he
did not; well, that and a fascinating pair of ancient,
emerald eyes.   

"We do have a backup plan," he volunteered, at which
Erestor perked up considerably.  "A party of our best
agents is on the way here now.  They have stopped over
in Lorien to pick up a guide--if we have to 'break you
out,' as you say, Thranduil will certainly come after
you and we'll need to take an alternative route home. 
However," he warned, seeing the smug look that was
spreading over Erestor's chubby cheeks, "they will not
be here for a few more days at least, and I intend to
use that time to see if another solution cannot be
reached.  This could be an opportunity for improving
relations between our two lands, so long sundered by
misunderstanding and sorrow."

Erestor snorted in amusement.  "Now who is telling
tails?  'Improve relations,' indeed.  And once you've
finished doing that, assuming you can still walk, do
please remember to come get me out, would you?"

Glorfindel stood and rapped smartly on the door for
the guard, ignoring the pain in his knuckles.  Spoiled
brat, he thought again.  Well, dear little Erestor,
I'll get you out, as I promised Elrond, but not before
you learn a few things.  He isn't here to protect you
now.


*   *   *

Third Age, 180: Imladris

"No," Gildor stopped his beautiful partner before he
could let his lips follow where his hands had led. 
Haldir had already pleasured Gildor once that day, and
spent half his morning giving him his full attention. 
Now it was time to even the score.  "I want to give
you pleasure.  Will you let me?"  Haldir looked
surprised, but agreed, looking curious as to what his
innocent partner might have in mind.  Gildor repressed
a smile; inexperienced he might be compared to
Haldir's other lovers, but he had one very definite
advantage . . . 

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121:  Lorien


Gildor had not intended to meet up with Haldir again
quickly, if at all.  He was confused by the torrent of
unfamiliar emotions the older elf's casual actions of
the night before had brought out in him, and, after a
second fitful night's sleep in a row, just wanted to
go somewhere quiet and think.  He asked several elves
where to find a stream suitable for bathing, then
deliberately chose the one farthest from the city.  It
had taken almost an hour's hike to get to where a
noisy brook fell over some dark rocks, forming a small
pool below.  He had been sitting there for some time,
quite miserable as he tried, and failed, not to replay
the previous night's encounter in his head.  Yet, he
was too nervous of meeting Haldir to dare return to
the city until he'd sorted out his confused emotions. 
He had no idea if the elf, who was beginning to
dominate his thoughts, was going to hate him for
running away or want to pick up where they had left
off.  The first possibility depressed him enormously,
but the second frankly terrified him, as he wasn't
sure what he wanted, or if he was ready, or if he
would be any good if he tried . . . 

It was sometime in mid-morning when he finally decided
that to remain, sitting soapy and dejected in the
pool, would accomplish nothing except to make him even
more wrinkled than he already was.  He had just picked
up a gourd dipper to wash the shampoo out of his hair,
when he heard a familiar voice singing an enchanting
melody in the woods.  It was the song he had begun to
associate with Haldir, as he seemed to always be
singing or humming it whenever Gildor encountered him.
 The sound was unmistakably getting louder, and Gildor
realised with alarm that Haldir must be coming his
way.

Gildor had been trained to remain calm even in battle
conditions, and to think logically and act swiftly
under pressure.  Nonetheless, he sat frozen as sudden
and unaccountable terror swept through him.  No! 
Haldir couldn't catch him like this!  He looked down
in horror at his nude, soup slicked body and glanced
frantically around at the quiet, isolated, and very
romantic setting, with flowers growing among the black
rocks and leafy trees forming a bright canopy
overhead.  However, after the first instant, training
took over and he snapped out of the trance, dropped
his gourd, scooped up his clothes, and fled.  He
reached the edge of the surrounding trees just as
Haldir stepped into the glade, a bathing towel slung
casually over his shoulder.  

Gildor dove behind a thicket of bushes, not even
daring to breathe.  Haldir did not seemingly notice
his frantic exit, which the trickle of the fall over
the rocks had muffled.  He realised after a few
anxious seconds that the sound of the water would
probably cover his retreat, too, and told himself to
get off the forest floor and start back to the city. 
The compost heap made from generations of fallen
leaves in which he'd landed was undoing the effect of
his morning's ablutions, and the remaining soap in his
hair was trickling into his eyes, causing them to
burn.  Gildor pushed back his bangs and ran a hand
over his face, preparing to scramble to his feet and
rush away, but when his vision cleared he saw
something that made him hesitate, mouth falling open
in wonder.  The figure in the glade had begun to
disrobe.  Some heretofore quiet part of Gildor's mind
whispered that, once Haldir was actually in the water,
it would be less likely that he would notice his
departure.  Yes, he thought blankly, he'd leave . . .
in just a little while . . . when it was safe . . .
and then he forgot to think at all.    

Gildor watched as Haldir laid his tunic and shirt over
a rock, well away from the water's edge, and paused to
stretch languorously in the warm morning sunshine. 
The movement of well-toned muscles under flawless
skin, darker gold at his neck and hands, but fading to
pure cream on the parts of his body clothes usually
covered, was the most wonderful sight Gildor had ever
seen.  Haldir appeared truly a creature of the forest,
the blue of his eyes echoing that of the sky overhead,
the silver-gold of his hair almost exactly the shade
of the mallyrn leaves, and the green of his garments
blending perfectly into that of the underbrush.  It
was more than his colouring, though, there was
something about Haldir that was as free and untamed as
the forest he called home, as demonstrated by his
sensual enjoyment of a simple thing like a bath.  Of
course, Gildor thought, swallowing slightly as Haldir
turned away to tug off a boot, baring a long pale back
to his view, it could be that he had previously
underrated the possibilities inherent in bathing.

The boots were soon removed, and despite the beauty of
their workmanship, tossed carelessly aside.  The
skillfully wrought hair ornaments were treated with
more respect; after being pulled from fine blond
tresses, they were tucked into folds of the discarded
tunic.  When Haldir's hands dropped to the lacings of
his leggings, Gildor felt somewhat giddy, and wriggled
silently into better position under his leafy blind. 
The dark green fabric hugged Haldir's body tightly and
only came away slowly, baring first creamy buttocks,
then silky thighs and finally well-muscled calves to
view.  By the time the garment was negligently tossed
on top of the tunic, Gildor could no more have forced
himself to turn away than he could have flown.

Haldir perched upon a smooth, flat topped rock well
covered in spray from the waterfall, and droplets
filled with tiny rainbows were soon sparkling off his
water slicked skin.  Beads of moisture gathered on his
high arched brows and dark lashes, before cascading
down his high cheekbones to wet his lips; other tiny
streams soon formed on his shoulders and ran down his
chest, gathering in a small pool on his reclining
stomach.   When he bent to retrieve a washing cloth
from his clothing, the motion caused a small cascade
over the muscles of his upper thighs.  

When Haldir added soap to the cloth and began to run
it leisurely over his entire form, Gildor found
himself in a new predicament, as his body responded to
the seductive picture before him.  He shifted
slightly, but could not make his growing awareness
fade, and his eyes simply ignored his brain's order
for them to look elsewhere.  Instead, they followed
that lucky washcloth as it roamed over the elf's fine
chest and arms, moved on to the satiny skin of his
inner legs, glided along the jointure of his hip, and
finally caressed the velvety orbs and fine, silver
hair at the base of his flaccid sex. When Haldir
suddenly tossed the cloth aside and began to gently
stroke himself, Gildor's gaze lingered helplessly on
the tantalizing image, despite the fact that he became
immediately fully hard himself.  

As the beautiful elf before him slowly brought himself
erect, brushing teasing fingertips over the plum
coloured head before beginning long, slow strokes
along his full length, Gildor found himself wishing
fervently that it was his hand who fondled him, his
fingers that played along that warm, pulsating flesh
and were wet by the even warmer liquid leaking from
its tip.  He dropped a hand to his own arousal, and
found himself stroking in time with the beautiful
creature under the waterfall.  When Haldir finally
cried out his release, Gildor came at almost the same
instant, biting down hard on his lips and burying his
face in the compost, to keep from echoing that cry
over the forest.           

When Gildor finally looked back up, Haldir had
finished his bath and was drying off.  Dressing
quickly, he wrapped his bathing materials in his damp
towel, and walked back in the direction of Caras
Galadhon, the same joyful tune lingering after him on
the morning breeze.  Gildor waited until the notes had
completely faded from his hearing before he ventured
forth from his hiding place, covered in dirt and
leaves and the evidence of his own recent arousal, and
weak kneed from emotions too strong for him to fully
understand or know how to deal with.

Creeping back into the glade, he rinsed himself off,
then paused halfway through, dismayed to see his
clothing sitting in full view on a nearby rock.  His
heart stopped for an instant, until he remembered that
he had taken his clothes with him, snatching them up
just before had Haldir entered the clearing.  They now
resided almost in the water, where he had dropped them
only a moment ago.  These others must, then, be
someone else's, only he did not remember any being
there when he arrived that morning, and they were
sitting in plain sight.  Emerging again from the pool,
he walked over to the neatly folded clothes to
investigate.  

It was only when he lifted the top layer, a greenish
grey cloak that could have belonged to anyone, to
reveal the silky dark orange fabric beneath it, that
he realised, with plummeting stomach, what he was
actually seeing.  They were his clothes, but he had
not brought them.  The last time he had seen them was
the night before--when he had left them behind in his
flight from Haldir's talan.


Third Age, 180: Imladris

Remembering the humiliation he had suffered that
morning, Gildor vowed to make his partner pay, in the
sweetest way, for it now.  Haldir had obligingly
reclined on the bed, his eyes amused as they followed
his companion's actions.  They did not stay amused for
long.  Gildor recalled clearly every image, every
slight touch Haldir had given himself on that morning
so long ago.  He had lost count of the times had he
played that scene over in his mind, of the nights had
it formed the centre of desperate, longing dreams that
ended only in lonely wakefulness.  He knew exactly
where and how Haldir most liked to be touched, and,
within a few intense moments, had his companion
writhing beneath him in want, rubbing his arousal
along the muscular thigh that spread his legs. 
Sliding full-length against Haldir, Gildor dragged his
own arousal across the smooth stomach until their
erections met, thrilled to see the wild look that came
into his partner's eyes, which darkened so much with
need that it was impossible any longer to say their
exact colour.  At last he slowly, teasingly, took
Haldir into his mouth, caressing every inch of him
with a warm tongue, allowing his companion no rest
from overwhelming sensation until the elf beneath him
arched up, spilling himself in hot, strong pulses and
hoarsely crying out his companion's name.  It was,
Gildor decided, the sweetest music he'd ever heard.   


Second Age: 3121: Mirkwood

It wasn't until dinner that evening that Glorfindel
realised the true extent of Erestor's folly, and it
took all his long years of experience to keep a
diplomatic smile plastered firmly to his face.  "I'm
going to kill him," he thought, and, as Thranduil
introduced him to his fine-looking sons--including his
youngest, Prince Legolas--he was very close to meaning
it.  The elfling had a beautiful face, a truly
memorable face, but that hardly mattered as Glorfindel
could not very well have forgotten someone he had just
encountered a few weeks before.  

He recalled perfectly the last time he had seen those
fair, smiling features, outside the kitchen stairs in
Imladris as Legolas and several other wood elves
unloaded heavy barrels of wine bound for Elrond's
cellars from a laden cart.  Glorfindel had paused in
his conversation with Erestor to admire the way the
muscles in the young elf's arms were shown off by his
exertion, and how the bright gold of his hair shone
even in the dappled sunlight of the tree shaded
garden.   Erestor had seen the direction of his
friend's gaze and laughed, pulling him away from the
window.  "That one is taken," the old roué had
informed him, jovially but with a serious undertone. 
Then, a few days later, Erestor had disappeared,
leaving only a brief note for Elrond and an even
briefer one for Glorfindel, explaining that he was
taking a journey to check on the wine delivery.  

Glorfindel, of course, had immediately suspected the
truth, but had said nothing to Elrond, hoping that
Erestor would quickly get the young one out of his
system and return to Imladris without causing any
upheaval.  He sighed inwardly as he firmly grasped
Legolas' hand and smiled as charmingly as he could
manage.  He should have known better; getting over
this one would be a task of more than a few days.  As
those bright young eyes met his, brimming with
laughter and self-confidence, he found his own smile
becoming more genuine.  Yes, he could see the
temptation that had made Erestor act like a besotted
youth in the midst of fenneth, for the elfling before
him had inherited his father's beauty, but also had an
innocent quality about him that was . . . well, very
alluring.  Glorfindel found himself releasing the
young one's hand with a bit more reluctance than he
should have had, and sharply brought himself under
control.  One of them had to maintain some degree of
sanity, if this situation was to be salvaged, and the
Valar knew it wasn't going to be Erestor.   

As exquisite course followed exquisite course,
Glorfindel carefully watched Legolas, who had been
seated across the table from him, and learned several
useful things.  First, the young one had either not
seen him during his short visit to Imladris or else
did not remember him; Glorfindel's pride far preferred
the former.  Secondly, Thranduil had no idea where his
youngest had recently been, as it was mentioned that
he had just returned from a lengthy tour of the border
regions.  Legolas smiled calmly enough at that, and
readily answered his father's queries about several of
the outlying areas, but said nothing whatever about
having made any side trips.  What he had been doing,
dressed as a common labourer, all the way in
Imladris--which could not by any stretch of the
imagination be considered a borderland of
Mirkwood--was beyond Glorfindel.  However, it did give
him a useful lever, as it was obvious Prince Legolas
did not want his father to know anything about it.  

So he smiled, chatted and, eventually, allowed himself
to be persuaded to relive the whole disturbing Balrog
incident, which he made into a glorious combat instead
of the long, painful, drawn out slog it had really
been.  Legolas listened as avidly as everyone else,
giving Glorfindel reason to believe that obtaining a
private word with him after the meal should be easy. 
However, it seemed Thranduil had other plans.

"Walk with me, seneschal," his host said as the meal
came to a close, and his strong hand gripped
Glorfindel's arm in an iron hold.  It was rather
startling, as no one had dared to touch Glorfindel in
such a manner in . . . . well, he couldn't actually
remember when.  Certainly not within the last age.  It
seemed that Thranduil was not particularly intimidated
by either his reputation or his person, and the
novelty of that thought caused Glorfindel to rethink
his after dinner plans.  Ah well, he thought, as
Thranduil led him from the dining chamber, shrugging
off with a few brief comments all attempts by his
courtiers to detain them, one more night in his cell
would hardly kill Erestor, and perhaps it was time to
begin mending a few diplomatic fences. 

TBC

Title: One Last Time, part 4/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  A faithful reviewer, Melanie, asked so
nicely for this that I couldn't refuse.  For anyone familiar with my previous
work, this has a very different tone.  Melanie wanted a tender, romantic little
fic that discussed Gildor's and Haldir's relationship, so that's what this is.    
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)   Special thanks to Ithilessar (whose reviews
are far funnier than anything I write)--hope this answers some of your
questions. 


Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's Court, Mirkwood

Thranduil's private chambers were deep below ground, putting Glorfindel slightly
on edge.  He couldn't understand elves who actually didn't mind being
underground, even to the point of sleeping there.  His own quarters at Imladris
were inner rooms, without window or balcony, a fact that had made Erestor look
at him strangely when he'd requested them.  His choice had been a practical one,
however, as they were much more spacious than any of the available outer
chambers.  They also, he thought as he stepped into the king's rooms, did not
have the feeling of much heavy stone about to drop on one's head.  Thranduil
certainly could have selected any chambers he liked, however, so Glorfindel had
to assume he preferred these.  It made him wonder in how many other aspects they
differed.

The quarters were comfortable, Glorfindel had to admit, the stone walls softened
with tapestries woven cleverly with woodland scenes, the granite bones of the
floor cushioned with old carpets in pleasingly muted shades, and a great carved
fireplace provided a pleasing warmth.  Skillfully wrought weapons--a sword, a
twin pair of knives, and a broken spear--were arranged artistically over the
mantle.  Studying them, Glorfindel reflected that it was too often forgotten in
Imladris that Thranduil had also fought bravely in the Last Alliance.  Several
doors branched off into other rooms, but they were securely closed.  No servants
were in evidence; apparently, Thranduil preferred this to be a private meeting.  

The king handed Glorfindel a glass of ruby coloured wine before settling down in
a chair across from him, comfortably arranged before the blaze.  As was the case
with Elrond and a few other elves of Glorfindel's acquaintance, a feeling of
repressed energy hummed off Thranduil, so much so that, even sitting calmly, he
was impossible to ignore.  Although the room was large and the chairs spaced
well apart, Glorfindel felt an intimacy wrapping itself around him like a cozy
blanket, as if there was nothing beyond the circle of the firelight, no other
beings at all in the large palace complex except for he and the king.  The
feeling was probably due to a spell, he knew, but it was a good one, effective
but subtle enough to go unnoticed by most.  Sampling his wine, Glorfindel noted
in amusement that it was a much better vintage than any habitually exported to
Imladris.  Thranduil obviously wanted something; Glorfindel only hoped he knew
what that was.

"So," the king smiled at him, and it was a particularly charming smile that lit
up not only his strong, fair features, but also his eyes.  "You promised to tell
me that tale after dinner."

Glorfindel sipped the rich liquor in his glass and admired the way the firelight
danced off the gold threads woven through Thranduil's amber coloured sash and
gilded his long lashes.  The eyes underneath them were, in this light, almost
black, with only an occasional flash of green.  "My liege?"

"Come now, I want all the details, leave nothing out!"  Thranduil settled
himself back in his chair and looked expectant, like a small elfling ready for a
treat.  It was a peculiarly charming expression that, despite his centuries, did
not seem incongruous. Glorfindel remembered the way his host's musical laughter
had rung out repeatedly over the dining table that night, and how he had seemed
to genuinely enjoy the myriad conversations taking place there; for most of the
meal, he had been simultaneously involved in three or four of them.  His
dialogue had shown him to be both intelligent and passionate about his opinions,
as well as alternately cunning and charming in persuading others to concede his
points.  Glorfindel had looked forward to matching wits with him, but at the
moment, felt a little confused.  

"I will, of course, be delighted to oblige your majesty.  What tale exactly is
it you wish to hear?"

"About your epic encounter with the Balrog, of course.  Although I am certain,"
Thranduil allowed his eyes to travel from Glorfindel's burnished hair to the
tips of his maroon velvet slippers, a small smile quirking at the corner of his
mouth, "that you have had many other interesting experiences through the years. 
However, that is the one I wish to hear about tonight."

Glorfindel was beginning to become uneasy.  He had always discounted reports of
Thranduil's oddities as mere rumour mongering, but he was now beginning to wish
he'd paid a bit more attention to them.  He did not like the idea of being
trapped in an underground chamber with a lunatic, however attractive of one. 
However, if that was, indeed, the case, he supposed he'd better humour him.  "I
believe I gave an account of that combat at dinner, my liege, but, if you wish
to hear it again . . . "

"Bah," Thranduil waved an impatient hand, its large ruby ring throwing out
reflections of light that danced along the walls and ceiling.  "You tell a good
story, seneschal, and I enjoy a well told tale as much as the next elf, but you
can forgo all those fancy embellishments now.  They make for good entertainment,
but I need the truth!"

Glorfindel did not at all like the direction this conversation was taking.  If
this was a seduction scene, it was the oddest one he'd ever encountered which,
considering a few events from his past, was saying something.  But if it wasn't
. . . well, that begged the question of exactly what Thranduil really wanted
with him, and he somehow didn't think it was to dredge up First Age history. 
"The truth?"       

"Yes, yes!  How you did it!  You killed a Balrog--only elf in Middle Earth ever
that brave . . . or that brainless, as some have said.  Not that I was among
them," he hurried to add, "but it does give you rather more . . . experience .
.. in dealing with dangerous creatures than most can boast."

"I suppose," Glorfindel really did not like the way Thranduil's eyes were
sparkling and the anticipatory gleam in his eye.  The glow of the fire bathed
his face in flickering vermilion shadows, making him look suddenly more than a
little dangerous himself.  "It has been quite awhile since I actually recounted
the . . . unembellished version, as you say," he commented, while wondering just
what it was they were actually discussing.

"Quite all right," the king assured him, "take your time.  Just don't leave
anything out.  I intend to discover all your secrets, seneschal!" The last was
said in a velvet purr, just another of the startling range of tones Thranduil
had at his command.  The king's smile was infectious, tiny laugh lines crinkling
around his eyes, his full mouth revealing even white teeth.  

Glorfindel repressed a desire to do or say something to wipe that so smug look
off his face.  Thranduil was clearly used to getting his way, certain of his
beauty, his allure . . . He remembered one long ago conversation he'd overheard
about the king.  One of the ambassadors Elrond had sent in the hopes of
improving relations had commented that Thranduil could 'charm you out of your
last coin if you don't keep an eye on him. I used to sit back and watch people
try to wriggle out of whatever it was he wanted and bet with myself on how long
they'd last. None ever did for any time.'  Well, Glorfindel thought now,
observing the jovial face before him with annoyance, we'll see.  You won't find
me so easy to manipulate, Thranduil of Mirkwood.

*   *   *

Third Age, 180: Imladris

Haldir could not recall the last time he had been left speechless, but he had no
words for the feelings swamping him as Gildor continued his attentions. 
Elbereth!  And he had thought the elf unskilled!  Somehow, Gildor knew just how
to touch him, and did everything he liked, stroking his hips as he sucked him
hard and then tenderly, winding his tongue around him and even very lightly
nibbling along his rigid flesh before taking him in all the way.  Gildor's
tongue was hot and the perfect combination of forceful and gentle. It left him
weak to the bones, and set flames of pleasure licking along his flesh, turning
his body into a paradise of pleasure and sensation. 

Haldir pulled him up and kissed him with all the skill he'd acquired over the
millennia, only to find Gildor kissing him back, really kissing him, with an
intensity that left Haldir aware--when he could think--that the elf had
definitely been holding himself back until now. Agile fingertips brushed all of
the sensitive spots along his ribs and across his chest while the kisses became
longer and deeper. Gildor pressed against him, almost burying him in the thick
feather mattress beneath them, while those burning, bruising kisses continued,
tongues dueling, thighs intertwined, until Haldir was breathless.  It was rare
for him to find a partner who fully matched his frankly sensual nature, yet it
seemed Gildor was such a one.  It took all Haldir's control not to flip him over
and pleasure him until he passed out due to sheer exhaustion.  When Haldir could
stand the exquisite torture no more, he came in a rush of sound and light and
intensity of feeling he had not experienced in a very long time.  

*   *   * 

Second Age, 3121:  On the Road Through Mirkwood

Lord Celeborn addressed the group as a whole, "And so I have decided that
Haldir, my Marchwarden, will lead you into Mirkwood, then take your party, if
need be, through the hidden passes in the mountains, so that you may return in
safety to Imladris." 

Gildor wasn't looking at Celeborn nor, for a change, was his attention on
Haldir, who stood slightly to one side of his king looking reserved.  Instead,
he was focused on Tuor, who seemed strangely calm about the selection.  So calm,
in fact, that it might be assumed that he had already known.  If that was the
case, Gildor had to wonder why he had not tried to stop the appointment.  Of
course, he may have done--as Gildor had been present at none of the
consultations, he could not know one way or the other--but Tuor was poor at
concealing his displeasure when something vexed him, and he did not looked
displeased at the moment.  Gildor said nothing, of course, for what could he do? 
Tuor had done nothing but accept with equanimity the guide Lord Celeborn had
selected; nonetheless, he vowed to keep a close watch on his mission leader.

That wish, plus his desire not to talk to Haldir until he sorted a few things
out, caused Gildor to stay at the very back of the little cavalcade as it left
Lorien, his small mare clip clopping along in the wake of the magnificent horses
used by his companions.  Gildor had taken a good deal of teasing about his
choice of mount, but he liked the smaller horse, which, with her gentle nature,
was far easier for him to control than one of the more spirited horses ridden by
the group's better riders.  He resolutely avoided looking at their guide,
instead watching the scenery pass mile after quiet mile.  Before midday,
however, he caught himself staring dreamily at that blonde hair which looked
like it would be as cool as water through his fingers, at the long, graceful
legs, the perfect  posture, the elegant fingers that held the reigns so
negligently . . . He shook his head and went back to admiring safer scenery.   

The alien emotions did not go away, however; day by day, they became more
insistent and harder to ignore.  He found himself staring at the way the
firelight from their evening camp washed over Haldir's form, turning him into a
golden statue that nonetheless laughed and talked and told naughty little
stories for which Gildor was heartily thankful, as they gave him an excuse for
his flushed face.  Haldir rarely spoke to him directly, but also did not seem
uneasy around him; it was almost as if, to the Galadrim, nothing particularly
unusual had happened between them.  And perhaps, Gildor reflected, it hadn't, at
least not for him.  Perhaps he so regularly flirted with visitors to the Golden
Wood who happened to catch his eye, that the actions had little meaning.  But
they had meant something to Gildor, who watched Haldir's every movement,
drinking in the sight of him like Arda's fields did the first spring rain.  He
was perfection, beauty given form.

He found himself wanting to kiss Haldir until he cried out and couldn't breathe;
he wanted to run his hands along those fine, pale arms and slide over that
beautiful chest; he wanted . . . he wasn't sure what, but not this easy
camaraderie, this almost indifference. He felt horribly tangled up inside, and
by the time they finally reached the road through Mirkwood, was no longer sure
what he felt for Haldir--gratitude, shame, fear, desire, or a muddle of them
all.  One thing was certain, however, it was not the mild hero worship of those
few days in Lorien.  It was something stronger, more possessive, as made all too
clear when Haldir had laughed a little too long with Aikanaro one day, causing a
biting flash of jealousy to flare through Gildor.  It both surprised and
dismayed him.  What was happening to him?  He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Gildor managed to stay quiet and watchful, a barely noticed presence, until
their first night in Mirkwood.  He would not have believed it possible that he
would ever dislike a forest.  Like all of his people, he loved green, growing
things, and places where one was surrounded by the concentrated enchantment of
Arda were usually heaven indeed.  Even Lothlorien, where the trees had not
spoken to him, viewing him as an outsider instead of one of their own, had been
a pleasant place.  Since they entered Mirkwood, however, he had felt . . .
uneasy, almost oppressed, for instead of giving him energy and renewing his life
force, as forests always had, this one seemed to almost drain something from
him.  If he could have associated such a word with any place rampant with so
much life, he would have called it ghostly.   That unnerving sensation, plus
Tuor's easy good humour during the trip, so out of character as to be almost
frightening, had been enough to put Gildor extremely on edge. 

It was almost with a sense of inevitability, then, that he watched as Aikanaro's
horse, a young chestnut stallion, reared as something small and pale scurried
out from the forest's edge and ran under its hooves.  It bucked, neighing
fiercely, and suddenly plunged into the gloom beyond the path.  Haldir cursed
and immediately followed, calling out for Aikanaro to reign in his animal.  "Do
not leave the path!," he warned the company, before the shadows swallowed him. 
It had all happened so fast, that Gildor barely realised what was taking place
before it was all over, and the silent gloom of the woods closed in about their
reduced party.

They had waited for what seemed like hours before Aikanaro reappeared, on foot,
looking vaguely green.  "I had to destroy Iavas," he told them, obviously upset. 
Gildor knew he'd helped to rear the animal from a colt.  "One of those cursed
huge spiders caught him . . . ," he obviously couldn't continue, but it was not
necessary.  Of all the dangerous denizens of Mirkwood, the spiders were probably
the best known, and most feared.  They were a main reason visitors dared not
stray from the path.  

"Where is Haldir?"  Gildor spoke up when no one else asked the question.

"Haldir?"  Aikanaro looked confused.  "Is he not with you?"

"He went after you," Valandil replied, looking past his son's shoulder into the
dark of the wood.  It was useless--even Elvish eyes could see little in that
gloom.   

"We cannot venture in after him," Tuor said, seeing Gildor's expression.  "We
would possibly never find the path again, or become separated and fall into
danger."

"But, is Haldir not in danger then?"  Gildor rarely questioned his leader's
words, but he had felt a pressure building in his chest since Haldir
disappeared, and it now felt as if it was smothering him.

"He is of the Galadrim, and long accustomed to traveling these woods.  I am
certain he will catch up with us."

"Catch us up?  Then you mean to go on?"  Gildor could scarce believe it, but
Tuor was acting as if it was the only sensible plan.  Valandil looked uneasy,
and his eyes still scanned the forest, but he offered no demure.  

Tuor did not bother to acknowledge Gildor's outburst.  "Your mare is sturdy
enough to carry two," was his only comment, and Aikanaro immediately jumped up
behind Gildor, as Tuor and Valandil resumed their progress down the path. 
Gildor held his reigns limply, however, remaining in place with a feeling of
unreality settling on him.  They could not be serious--even a Galadrim would
surely be in peril alone in the Mirkwood night?  

"You do not think you will miss his help, if something should befall him and we
need to take the hidden mountain passes home?"  Gildor knew that his tone, far
less respectful  than he usually used, and the fact that he had not immediately
followed the unspoken command to continue, were playing with fire, but he
suddenly did not care.

Tuor swung his horse's nose back to face him, his face unconcerned, but Gildor
saw a strange light in his eyes.  It almost looked like . . . triumph.  "He was
recommended by Celeborn himself, as being the finest of the guards of Lorien,"
the words were respectful, but the tone was not.  "However, if you doubt his
abilities, young one, feel free to wait here for him.  Your absence will hardly
be a loss to the mission."

Gildor, feeling almost as if he was watching someone else, slowly slid from his
horse.  Aikanaro sat staring at him.  "Don't be a fool, Gildor," he hissed, and
held out his arm to help his companion remount.  

"I will wait."  Gildor said, crossing his arms and glaring at Tuor.

"I told you bringing him was a mistake," was all Tuor said, and that to
Valandil, before turning his horse about and galloping off.

Valandil motioned his son to follow, but he rode back to Gildor, looking down on
him with a mixture of concern and exasperation.  "It is as Tuor says, Gildor,
your friend can surely take care of himself.  You, however, are young and
inexperienced.  Staying here on your own is folly.  Now come, you may ride with
me."

"I'm staying," Gildor repeated.

"Do not think I will fail to report this, when we return home," Valandil warned
him.  "Your conduct on this mission has so far been exemplary; do not cause
yourself unnecessary harm by exhibiting such stubbornness now.  Come with me."
Gildor merely regarded his tutor levelly, his posture and expression answer
enough.  

Valandil sighed.  "You have your father's obstinacy, but not his good sense! 
Very well, if you are determined to do this thing, at least be wise enough to
stay on the path.  Wait here and Haldir will rejoin you eventually.  Rendezvous
with us as soon as you can; I will do what I can to allay Tuor's wrath. 
Fortunately for you, he has been in good spirits since we left Lorien."

Gildor watched him go, marveling at the folly of those others called wise.  
Then he regarded the blackness of the forest all around him, and with a shiver
he could not repress, stepped carefully off the path.  They had already waited a
long time; if Haldir was able, he should have returned already.  

Gildor had no idea how to even begin a search, especially in the gloom of a
Mirkwood night.  And it was early yet, meaning that the darkness would continue
for hours.  However, with all the dangers prowling  the forest, he could not
afford to wait until morning to begin,  so he set off in the direction in which
Haldir had disappeared.  The trees, dense and feeling very old, closed in around
him, cutting off almost immediately the faint glimmer of Ithil on the path. 
Plunging deeper into the wood, Gildor could only be thankful for his training at
Imladris.  He passed as silently as fog on the ground, his senses attuned to
everything around him.  There were only the usual night sounds at first--a tree
frog somewhere nearby, the distant wail of a loon, and the scurry of a few
insects startled by his passing.  Within a few minutes, however, Gildor began to
notice that a strange quiet seemed to have fallen over the wood; he paused,
straining his ears and senses, but received nothing back.  The trees were even
silent or, if they spoke, he could not hear them.

Passing onwards even more carefully, Gildor ignored his apprehension, sliding
into the battle trance he had been taught that concentrated the senses while it
suppressed distractions--like a rapidly beating heart and a coppery tang in his
mouth caused by fear over what might be happening to Haldir.  He had walked for
perhaps half an hour in the unnatural stillness before he came to a little
clearing on which Ithil's light fell dimly.  It looked as if some type of fire
had been responsible for opening the forest at this point, for charred stumps of
trees still ringed the small area, and no grass or other vegetation covered the
blackened ground.  Gildor wondered if a campfire could have run out of control,
but it seemed absurd; elves were careful to allow no cinders to remain that
could harm the local vegetation, and who else would be in these woods?  Besides,
there were strange patterns on the ground that did not make Gildor think of a
normal fire.  

The clearing itself did not hold his attention for long, for a slender figure
reflected the moonlight back at him as it knelt in perusal of one of the larger
scorch marks.  On seeing it, Gildor felt such a flood of relief pass through him
that it completely shattered his trance, and he was forced to stay still a
moment until he had restored some type of control over his leaping emotions. 
"Haldir."  He spoke softly, but the figure looked up immediately, eyes shining
silver in Ithil's light, his bow in his hand in the time it took to blink.  Then
Gildor stepped further into the clearing, allowing the moonlight to illuminate
him, and Haldir lowered his weapon.   

"Gwador.  What are you doing here?"  Haldir looked past him briefly before
returning those beautiful eyes to him.  "Did Aikanaro not rejoin you?  I saw him
head back in your direction some time ago."

"He rejoined us.  They went on."  Gildor crossed the clearing, trying to look as
nonchalant as possible.

Haldir regarded him momentarily, his expression unreadable.  "You came back for
me?  Why?"

Gildor was not sure how to answer that question, so he ignored it, crouching
down beside Haldir to look at a scorch mark.  "These are strange markings, are
they not?   It does not look to me like a normal fire . . ."

"There was nothing normal about it," Haldir replied shortly.  "You took quite a
risk, gwador, following me on your own.  I am sure they trained you well at
Imladris, but no one passes through Mirkwood at night lightly.  And where," he
added after Gildor remained noncommittal, "is that little mare of yours?"

"Aikanaro took her."   

"You came after me ON FOOT?"  Disbelief and something that looked rather like
horror warred with each other on Haldir's face.  

"It was not a long walk . . .," seeing his companion's expression, Gildor
swallowed and looked at the ground, waiting for the inevitable lecture.  He'd
had enough of them on this trip already, he thought tiredly, and was due for
several more as soon as they caught up with Tuor and Valandil.  Somehow,
however, the idea of Haldir's displeasure was more difficult to take.

It was with some, surprise, then, that he felt a gentle hand lift his chin and
looked up to see kindness and something else in Haldir's eyes.  The next second,
a soft kiss was pressed to his lips and a golden warmth seemed to spread
throughout his body, banishing the slight chill of the night.  "Thank you,"
Haldir said quietly.  

Gildor could not put all that he felt into words--in fact, he found it
impossible to speak at all--but his body seemed to know what to do.  He reached
for Haldir, pressing a passionate kiss on the other elf, trying to express all
he felt at once--relief, yearning, gratitude, tenderness, adoration.  Haldir
lost his balance and sat back, but Gildor followed him, keeping contact
and--finally--running his hands through that beautiful, Ithil kissed hair.  He
wasn't sure when Haldir began responding, but he somehow ended up on his back, a
strong, warm body pressing him down, being kissed with a desire that matched his
own.

It ended all too soon, with Haldir suddenly breaking contact to look about them
wildly.  "Elbereth!  I must be losing my mind."  He looked at Gildor, and
suddenly burst out laughing.  "Oh, little one, if we weren't in Mirkwood in the
middle of the night . . .,"  grabbing Gildor's hand, Haldir hauled him to his
feet and, with an amused glint in his eyes, adjusted the other elf's rather
disarrayed clothing.  "But we are, and must, for the moment, be more cautious. 
Come, we need to catch up with the others."  Gildor noticed Haldir's handsome
black horse now, standing quietly at the edge of the clearing.  Hopping up
behind Haldir and holding securely to his waist, Gildor suddenly did not care
that the others had been right and his help had not been needed; he was very
glad he'd come, anyway.  What was probably a very foolish looking grin spread
over his features, but Gildor didn't care about that, either.  For the first
time since Lorien, he felt truly happy.

*   *   *

"We've been deceived!"  Glorfindel slammed the heavy door of Erestor's cell
behind him and looked about for something to throw, but the bareness of the room
gave him few options.  

Erestor looked up from the book he was perusing with an inquisitive expression. 
"You've found out something."  

"I have always admired your talent for stating the extremely obvious, Erestor!"

"And I am overjoyed to have the intense happiness of a second visit from you in
one day, but would appreciate your getting to the point.  I was about to go to
bed."

"I've already told you the point--this whole thing was a set up from the first. 
It seems Thranduil needed something from Imladris, something he assumed, given
the current relations between our two realms, would not be sent if asked for. 
So he didn't bother to ask!  Instead, he sent Prince Legolas to lure it away."

"Prince Legolas?"

"Yes, your latest infatuation and Thranduil's youngest are one and the same."

Erestor gave a snort of disbelief.  "Ridiculous, the elfling was delivering
wine.  Has Thranduil become so poor that his son must work as a common
labourer?"

"Would you pay attention?  He was sent there on purpose, Thranduil admitted as
much!  
Legolas was under orders to get something--or, more accurately, someone."

"And why in Arda would Thranduil need my assistance?  I can assure you, he
hasn't asked me about anything since I arrived; in truth, I've only seen him the
one time, when he ordered me thrown in here.  And, I might add, that was a VERY
short conversation."

"It wasn't you he wanted."

"But you said Legolas . . ."

"Was sent to entice someone to follow him here to Mirkwood, yes, but that
someone was me."  At Erestor's look of disbelief, Glorfindel went on.  "Yes,
Erestor, I was to be the original object for seduction, but apparently, after
asking about a bit and some careful observation, the cagey elfling determined
that you were an easier target.  And that I would probably be sent along to
rescue you, therefore solving the problem."

"But . . . what . . . are you saying that Thranduil went to all this trouble,
just to get you into his bed?"  Erestor laughed in genuine amusement.  "I think
you rather overrate your charm, my dear Glorfindel."

"My charms are not the issue," Glorfindel said, a thread of suspicion weaving
its way through his mind.  Why did Erestor not look more outraged at the idea of
Legolas 
deceiving him?  And why did he seem in such a better mood this evening?  Was it
just because Glorfindel had arrived, or something else?

"Proven immune, has he?," Erestor murmured, clearly pleased, "Well, that must be
a new experience for you."  Glorfindel began thinking that perhaps throwing HIM
against the wall was the solution to his need for release.  Surely Elrond could
find another advisor?  And hopefully a less trying one.

"Thranduil," Glorfindel tried again, after taking a steadying breath, "believes
he has a problem which only I can address." He recalled the king's coolly
sardonic gaze and silken tones when issuing his ultimatum, something akin to a
chess master announcing checkmate after a particularly satisfying match. 

"Oh, and what could that possibly be?"

In his mind Glorfindel saw images he hadn't thought of--at least not like this,
in full color and sound--in two ages.  In a flash there it was, and despite all
effort to sustain his usual comforting amnesia, he was back, trapped in a
burgeoning hell of midnight flame and ruby luminescence--and baked alive.  "He
is convinced he has a Balrog running loose in Mirkwood.  And the price, dear
Erestor, for your release, is that I hunt it down and kill it for him."

TBC            


Title: One Last Time, part 5/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  A faithful reviewer, Melanie, asked so
nicely for this that I couldn't refuse.  For anyone familiar with my previous
work, this has a very different tone.  Melanie wanted a tender, romantic little
fic that discussed Gildor's and Haldir's relationship, so that's what this is.    
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  



Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court

"You don't like me, do you, seneschal?"  Thranduil was examining his favourite
falcon, a blue/grey creature with bright, black eyes, but Glorfindel could not
help but feel that it was he who was under inspection.  The bright morning
sunshine illuminated the large, open field behind the palace where they stood,
near Thranduil's extensive mews filled with gerfalcons, peregrines, and
sparrow-hawks of all shapes and sizes.  Hawking was a popular sport in Mirkwood,
and the king had a collection of truly majestic birds, all trained to hunt as
well as any warrior.  The king's current pride was Balantaur, who truly seemed
to believe that he deserved his name--he was as pompous as a king himself. 
Indeed, Glorfindel thought he saw something similar between the two, as
Thranduil stroked his proud pet's sleek feathers.  "Not that I blame you, of
course, that was a nasty little trick I perpetrated, wasn't it?  But then, I
flatter myself that, in my position, you would have done the same."
"I must differ with you there, your majesty."

Thranduil looked up, and his glance was as keen as the sharp eyes of the bird he
held.  "Oh?  But then, you are accustomed to living in safety, aren't you,
seneschal?  Residing at peace under the roof of one of Arda's most powerful
elves.  Oh yes, I don't like him, but I will concede the truth, even about my .
. . "  Thranduil broke off, although whether to release Balantaur or to avoid
insulting Elrond in front of his servant, Glorfindel was not sure.  It mattered
little of course, as his meaning was plain enough.

"Enemy?  Lord Elrond does not consider you to be . . . "

"Oh, I am sure he does not."  Thranduil replied easily, shielding his eyes with
his heavily gloved hand as he watched his favourite soar aloft.  The latter was
needed to insure that his hawk's talons did not do as much damage to its master
as to its prey.  "But, then, I am equally certain he would have found some very
high sounding but firm way of saying no, had I requested your assistance in this
matter."  Thranduil glanced at Glorfindel, and that charming smile broke across
his face once more.  Glorfindel did not trust him any further than he could
throw him, but even knowing everything that he did about Thranduil, he had to
consciously force himself not to smile back.  "Aren't you going to release
Brinhalm?  I believe she wishes to join her mate in the hunt."

Glorfindel looked down in almost surprise at the large white bird shifting
restlessly on his arm; he had almost forgotten it was there, despite its not
inconsiderable weight.  As he released the falcon to soar upwards, he told
himself to keep his mind on business, rather than on the impressive figure of
his companion.  Thranduil was quite a distraction, however, although just why he
was Glorfindel couldn't have said.  The king's silver fair hair was drawn back
by a simple tie at his neck, with none of the elaborate braids his station gave
him the right to wear.  His hawking attire was rich--jade green suede and crisp
white linen, except for a few brown leather accessories like his glove--but no
more so than any well off elf might have worn.  A large emerald sparkled on one
hand, but it, like the ruby the night before, was carved like a signet ring, and
Thranduil wore no other jewelry--not even his circlet of office.  Of course,
Glorfindel thought with sardonic amusement, if wasn't as if he needed a badge to
proclaim himself king.  No one could be around him for more than a few seconds
and not recognise that here was the master of Mirkwood.   Perhaps that was his
true charm--the air of command he wore so easily.  

"He cares for his own convenience, as do we all, of course, and it would
certainly inconvenience him to lose a servant such as yourself."  It took
Glorfindel a few seconds to realise that Thranduil was still talking about
Elrond.  "Although I am sure he cares for you as well," he added, amused to see
the angry glint that had come into Glorfindel's eyes.  "I understand that; as a
king, my people's well-being is my first responsibility also.  So perhaps you
can comprehend why I am concerned that whatever creature is wreaking havoc in my
lands threatens those whose lives are my responsibility.  I needed an expert to
help with the problem; I knew where to find one; and I obtained his services in
the most time and cost efficient manner possible.  Most would say that was good
stewardship, although I will, of course, understand if you should differ." 
Glorfindel had the distinct impression that Thranduil was laughing at him, but
nothing but goodwill shone in those bright green eyes.

"I would not dream of arguing the point, my Lord.  It is, at this juncture,
irrelevant."

Thranduil clapped him on the back, warmly enough to almost send him staggering,
but Glorfindel kept his balance.  "I quite agree, but back to our original
discussion.  I will wager that you would have done the same as I under similar
circumstances, but of course, you would never have to, would you?  Vilya
protects Imladris, as Nenya does Lorien.  But we here in Mirkwood--closer to
Mordor than any other Elven realm, and beset with many other dangers as
well--have no such good fortune.  Here we must rely on the keenness of our
bowmen and whatever wisdom I have managed to acquire through the years, to fight
or bargain our way out of difficulties.   Other elves, who do not face the daily
problems we do, find it possible to look down their noses at us.  They say that
we here in Mirkwood are too low minded, too venal, too base, to be true elves. 
They say "wood elves" in the same tone of voice some use to say dwarf or human,
as if talking about something not kin."

Glorfindel started, surprised to hear Thranduil own his and his people's
reputation so bluntly.  "They say of me--yes, seneschal, keep your fair words of
diplomacy, I prefer plain speech--they say I am more dwarf than elf, and love
gold and mithril and the jewels of the ground more than green things that grow. 
Yet does not the same ground that feeds the trees form the crystals the dwarfs
so prize?  Does flower's crimson shine brighter than that of ruby, or water run
with a fairer light than sapphire?  When will Imladris or Lorien need to pay
such things to form alliances among men, or to buy off an enemy--both of which I
have been forced to do in the past and may yet do again.  If your Lord wore
Vilya not, the treasures I accumulate so carefully might mean more to him than
they do.  We wood elves, too, fought and died in the Last Alliance."  Although
Thranduil did not say it openly, Glorfindel knew he was thinking of Oropher, his
father, who had been one of those who fell in the great battle.  His death
formed a prime cause for the tension between the two realms as Thranduil still
blamed Elrond, in part, for the tragedy.  "We send aid when something threatens
our people, but the same courtesy is not always extended to us."  

Thranduil looked skywards again as his hawk closed in on a fat partridge, which
its mate had flushed out of the undergrowth.  "Oh, well done!  Are they not
magnificent birds, seneschal?"

Glorfindel murmured suitable compliments to the birds' prowess, and in truth, he
was grateful to them for the reprieve.  The force of Thranduil's words, when
coupled with the king's vibrant personality and earnest expression, was enough
to cloud even Glorfindel's usual clear head.  But he was given little time to
escape the spell the ruler of Mirkwood wove so well, for he turned back to him
almost at once.

"My people are dying, seneschal, because of whatever it is I have out there. 
Twelve, so far we have lost--those with homes on the outskirts of my
realm--twelve who by rights should never have tasted death, and who looked to me
for protection!  And the danger draws closer every day, but my people have had
no luck even in tracking it.  In my place, speak truly, would you have acted so
differently?"

"Probably not."  Suddenly, it seemed difficult to Glorfindel to justify
animosity over the ruse used to trick him here, when such danger threatened. 

"Then you concede the point; I have won my bet."

"But, no bet was made, your Majesty."

"Ah, my dear Lord Glorfindel, did I not say, I will wager with you?  You need to
pay more attention--your debating skills have grown soft, serving a master who
only wishes to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him.  You should try working
with someone who would value your advice, and heed it, too, in matters where
your experience outweighs his own.  But then, it is early days yet; we will
speak of this again sometime.  For the moment, let us resume discussion of your
forfeit.  Do you know," and Thranduil smiled charmingly at him once again, a
devilish glint in his viridian gaze, "I rather think I have something in mind." 
Seeing Glorfindel's slightly widened eyes, the king's booming laughter echoed
through the forest, startling even more birds from their perches and giving his
falcons ample work to do.  

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court 

"That's it, just a bit more, my lad, and we'll have it!"

"Have what?"  Glorfindel entered Erestor's cell alone--the guards had apparently
been told to pass him through without escort--and he could only be glad of that
fact considering the sight that met his gaze.  Erestor's ample backside was
sticking out of a hole in the ceiling, where one of the massive stones making up
the cellblock had somehow been slid partially aside.  He reminded Glorfindel of
a plump rabbit that, as an elfling, he had once pursued while learning to hunt,
only to have it duck into the bole of a tree seeking shelter.  It had been too
large for the small opening, however, and had just hung there, little rabbit
feet scrabbling uselessly in the dirt, fat haunches twitching.  He had laughed
so hard at the sight that he couldn't shoot it.  He felt a similar sensation
now, which was just as well considering what Erestor was evidently trying to do.

"Glorfindel, is that you?"  Erestor's voice was muffled, but his feet began
kicking excitedly.  "Oh, good, you're just in time.  Give us a hand, will you?"

Glorfindel was sorely tempted, he really was, as the Valar only knew when such
an opportunity would come his way again.  His hand actually twitched for an
instant, before he quashed his ignoble impulses and, grabbing hold of a small,
satin slipper, gave a yank.  Erestor tumbled out of the ceiling and back onto
the bunk below, before bouncing onto the floor.

"I meant for you to push me UP, you ridiculous elf," he sputtered, when he had
righted himself.  "Now we'll have to do this all again.  Give me a hand up," he
demanded, sweeping his dark braids from his eyes and clambering back onto the
bunk.

"A hand up to where?"  Glorfindel asked, highly suspicious, although it was
pretty obvious what was taking place.  Legolas' bright head appeared a second
later, peering down from above, and several mysteries were suddenly solved for
Glorfindel.  "Now I know why your mood suddenly improved yesterday--at the same
time as the return of the prince from his travels.  He must have visited you
last night, when I assume you two hatched this plot?"

"Lord Glorfindel, a pleasure to see you again," Legolas commented, with all the
aplomb of one seated in state in the Great Hall, rather than hanging upside down
from a hole in the ceiling.  "Truly, I swear to you my Lord, I had no idea that
father planned to keep Erestor in here.  I was certain he would be treated well,
as befits his station."

"Yes, well, no hard feelings, young one," Erestor assured him, and Legolas
beamed at him with his father's smile.  Glorfindel sighed, seeing the sweetness
of that expression.  They were supposed to be improving relations with Mirkwood,
but if Erestor proved true to form, the opposite seemed far more likely. 
"Glorfindel, your assistance if you please!" Erestor was still standing with his
hand held out, looking as imperious as possible with his robes tied up about his
waist.  

"But I do not please.  Erestor, we have to talk."

"Father got to him," Legolas told Erestor, tilting a head slightly to one side
to get a better look at Glorfindel.  "I told you this might happen."

"Glorfindel!"  Erestor looked furious.  "Honestly, you are as bad as a child. 
To let a pretty pair of eyes charm you out of all sense of duty--and at your
age!"

Considering the reason they were in this mess to begin with, Glorfindel was
rendered momentarily speechless at Erestor's temerity.  He recovered fairly
quickly, however.  "No one has 'gotten' to me," he said caustically, as Legolas
dropped gracefully into the room and perched on the bunk.  "I did have a
conversation with his majesty this morning, and I happen to agree with his
reasoning.  I do not approve of the methods he used to get me here, but I do
think . . . "

"I just cannot believe this!"  Erestor looked perfectly outraged.  "The elf
deceives me into coming here, lures me into a trap, has those brutish guards of
his truss me up like some deviant and drag me here, accuses me of something he
knows perfectly well I didn't do, and throws me into this . . . this sty,
leaving me to rot!  And now, after one day--ONE DAY--in his company, you have
suddenly become his loyal supporter!  Yes, well, my dear Lord Glorfindel, you
feel free to stay here and . . . socialize . . . with your new friend.  I am
going back to Imladris, and the first thing I shall do on arrival is to tell
Elrond JUST what I think of the so-called help he sent me."

Glorfindel leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, looking at Erestor's
bristling figure with amusement.  "And shall you also explain how you managed to
get away so handily?  Or, would you prefer for me to write to him, giving
details of your, er, explorations into the art of wine production?"

Erestor narrowed his snapping dark eyes.  "Elrond and I do not have an exclusive
relationship.  If you really believe you're going to blackmail me . . . "

"My dear Erestor, I wouldn't dream of it.  However, if your relationship is as
open as you say, it does beg the question of why, exactly, you listed the reason
you did for your trip?  Why not simply say, 'I've been captivated by the lovely
son of your greatest enemy, Elrond, and although I am supposedly your advisor, I
can assure you that my dalliance in Mirkwood will have absolutely NO effect on
any counsel I might give in future.'"

Legolas had been watching the rapid wordplay between the two of them with
interest, his head swiveling back and forth as they spoke, but now he
concentrated his attention on Glorfindel.  "I think you should know that Lord
Erestor has already planned to inform Lord Elrond of our relationship as soon as
he returns.  I am going to live at Imladris so that we may be together."  This
was said with a loving look for Erestor and one of haughty disdain for
Glorfindel, he supposed for his appalling lack of faith in Legolas' beloved. 
Glorfindel refrained from rolling his eyes--the elfling was obviously in 
earnest--and instead concentrated on Erestor's sudden unease.  

"Oh, well, in that case, do forgive me, and please, won't both of you accept my
heartiest congratulations?  It is good to see Erestor finally able to settle
down with just one person, rather than skipping lightly about after every pretty
face who passes through.  Yes," he smiled at the angry flush that darkened
Erestor's cheeks.  "I know Elrond will also be pleased at the news, and will
join me in insuring that you two are very happy. Just think of it, bondmates for
all eternity, never even looking at another elf as long as you live, finding all
you need in each other's embrace . . . it is, truly, a beautiful picture."

"Legolas," Erestor's voice sounded a bit strangled, but he did manage a smile. 
"Would you go check on the arrangements?  We need to make sure that this delay
will cause us no trouble."  Legolas regarded the love of his life with slight
suspicion--tragic, Glorfindel thought, how little trust there was in Arda these
days--but left, bouncing up to the hole in the ceiling and disappearing through
it with a dancer's grace.

"I shall, of course, make all arrangements for the bonding," Glorfindel assured
his rapidly purpling colleague.  "It would be quite unfair, I think, to leave
you to have to plan your own wedding . . . "

"You are the most evil elf in Arda."

"No, but you were rather lowering yourself, don't you think, teasing the poor
elfling so?  The child can't be much above his majority, Erestor; trifling with
the affections of one so young, especially when you have every intention of
throwing him over as soon as you pass Imladris' borders . . . well, it's hardly
worthy of you."

"He did the same, and worse, to me. At least I have no intention of having him
thrown in prison!," Erestor commented, sitting sulkily on the cot.

"He only did his father's bidding--and he must feel something for you, or you
would not have been able to corrupt him so easily.  In any case, you don't need
to resort to such clumsy subterfuges.  I've already arranged to have you moved
to a guest suite upstairs.  Thranduil agrees that, in light of the aid I am
willing to provide him, it is the least he can do."

"How very generous of him."  Erestor looked sourly at his companion.  "You have
gone quite mad, you know.  Chasing down a Balrog on purpose?  I don't care how
charming Thranduil is, you'd be better off to leave with me, now."

"There's no Balrog, and you aren't going anywhere."  Glorfindel smiled. 
"Really, Erestor, do you believe something like that could be loose in Mirkwood
and not have burnt the whole place down by now?  Forests aren't the usual haunts
of fire demons for good reason."

"But something is out there.  Legolas told me there have been numerous
unexplained fires, and the homes of some families on the edge of the kingdom
have been completely destroyed."

"Yes, but it isn't a Balrog that is causing the trouble--I would be willing to
wager anything you like on that."

Erestor laughed shortly, but looked less grim.  "Wager?  You've been around
Thranduil too long already.  Seriously, Glorfindel, be careful.  That one
acquired his reputation for a reason.  Legolas says his word is good, but that
you had better be very careful that you know what that word is.  Make sure you
understand exactly what you're getting into, if you make any agreements with
him.  He doesn't mind twisting words to get his way."

Glorfindel smiled.  "That, my dear Erestor, is exactly what I'm counting on."


TBC


Title: One Last Time, part 6/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None, except that it's slash.
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  
                

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir had collapsed beneath Gildor, looking a bit overwhelmed, once perfect
blond hair more than a little mussed, face a delicate shade of pink, eyes half
closed and smiling from ear to ear.  "You never cease to amaze, gwador," he
murmured, drawing Gildor down to his chest.  "But I think it may be awhile
before I can . . .arrange things as I had planned."

"Then let me."  A wicked spark glowed in Gildor's brown eyes; a delightful
mixture of provocation, warmth and pure mischief.

Haldir's eyes opened fully at that, and his expression registered considerable
surprise.  "Are you sure . . . that is, I have no objection, but I wasn't
certain if you . . . "

"Oh, I think I can manage," Gildor said softly.  

Haldir did not hesitate, pulling Gildor into another long kiss and smiling
against his lips when they came up for air.  "I'm at your disposal."

Gildor decided to take him literally. If this was his only chance to possess
what he'd waited centuries for, then let it be something to remember for the
long years ahead.  He took the little tub of salve Haldir handed him from the
nightstand, and looked it over carefully.  Of course, in theory he knew what to
do, but that was different from having practical experience.  If Haldir noticed
his hesitation, he said nothing, continuing to run light caresses down Gildor's
back and smiling contentedly.

Gildor decided he liked the scent of the light green lotion--it had a spicy
undertone, but mostly smelled of open air and herbs grown under a summer sun. 
He scooped a small amount onto his fingers and thought back as best he could
with the distraction of Haldir whispering naughty suggestions.  It was not,
Gildor reflected, part in amusement and part in sadness, at all an exact
parallel to his only other experience.  However, he thought, enthralled by the
sight of the stunning golden body lying submissively under him, he did think he
could manage.

*    *    *

Second Age, 3121: Somewhere in Mirkwood

It had all happened so fast; but then, these things always did.  They had ridden
for several minutes in the direction of the path, passing through the dense,
labyrinthine growth of trees and underbrush as quickly as possible.  Perhaps
they had been too relaxed, considering where they were, but Gildor doubted it
would have made any difference.  The spiders liked the night and moved with
uncanny speed within it, and they had spent centuries learning every facet of
the woods.  The two elves found themselves surrounded before they realised it, a
net of soft, sticky strands dropping suddenly from the overhanging trees,
pulling them from the horse.  Both had reacted immediately, drawing their bows,
but their weapons became enmeshed in the billowing strands almost at once and
were rendered useless.  Seeing his bow pulled into the branches of a tree high
over head, Gildor kept his knives in their sheathes on his belt as he waited for
the strands to all descend; he was unwilling to lose them, too, and doubted they
would have much effect on the encompassing web.  

A spider the size of a pony dropped from its lair in the trees almost on top of
him; only the fact that he had begun to thrash about unpredictably allowed him
to roll to his feet, sidestepping its reaching pincers.  By doing so, however,
he only became more securely enmeshed in the web, just as several slightly
smaller creatures dropped into sight around him.  Haldir's beautiful black
stallion was stung by one of the larger spiders and dragged off with the help of
several more.  The arachnids then turned their attention to the last two
victims, and rushed them all at once.  

Gildor lashed out with a knife in his one free hand, the other being trapped in
the webbing, striking blindly at anything that moved.  He knew in the back of
his mind that it was hopeless, but he intended to take at least a few of the
creatures with him.  He glanced at his companion to see Haldir looking
determined and utterly without fear, his face calm and still, his knives in his
hands.  The spiders seemed intelligent--at least they kept out of range of the
daggers while more of the horrible creatures massed around them.  Soon, Gildor
knew, there would be so many that they could not all be fought off at once.
Haldir spoke coolly in his ear.  "You hold them off and I will try to cut us
loose."  Gildor nodded, jabbing at a spider, which skittered back out of range
at the last minute so that his knife sliced only air.  He did not want to cause
Haldir to lose his concentration by talking to him, but he really wished he'd
hurry.  More spiders, in sizes ranging from dog or cat size to ones almost as
big as a horse, were gathering all about them.  How much longer they would fear
his two little knives was debatable, but he did not think they had much time
left.  "I think I have loosened it enough that we may be able to break through,
if we work together," Haldir hissed in his ear, after what felt like an
eternity.  "On my mark, push forward." He counted down, and they pulled
simultaneously, attempting to tear through the silken strands. The web was as
strong as rope, but it had an elastic quality that defeated their efforts; the
threads stretched, but they did not break.  

They stopped struggling after a few moments, as another charge by the now
frighteningly large group of spiders required deflection.  Panting and
exhausted, they rested back to back while the creatures regrouped, their black,
cluster eyes staring at them with what looked to Gildor a great deal like
hunger.   Then, just as Gildor was certain they were doomed, something happened
that he would remember in awe the rest of his life.  

A low, menacing rumble shook the ground under his feet and echoed through the
trees.  He looked up to see a predator of the most dangerous sort looming
overhead, its glowing torchlit eyes straight out of a creche-tale, with leathery
wings and scales that glittered like diamonds in the pale moonlight.  So, some
part of his mind that wasn't busy screaming remarked conversationally, that's a
dragon, is it?  He had no time to voice any inanities, however, as the next
instant the forest erupted in a rush of sound and strange, crimson flame.  There
was a sudden, ear shattering boom and a flash of painfully brilliant light, just
before a fireball came right at them.  It was beautiful, Gildor thought, red and
orange, with little green tongues of flame lapping at the edges . . . 

A hand jerked at his tunic, sending him sprawling onto the ground as the fire
passed overhead, hitting a venerable old oak a few dozen feet behind him,
causing it to explode in a cloud of burning bark and dried leaves.  Gildor
vaguely realised that the spiders were fleeing the area when several of them
scurried past, within a foot of him, but they did not seem to even notice his
existence in the urgency of their flight.   He had no time to be thankful,
however, as the dragon was on a rampage, devouring the larger spiders in a few
gulps before beginning to pursue the smaller ones that darted in and out and up
the trees in a vain attempt to escape.  Haldir half pulled half dragged Gildor
away from the area in the confusion, but before they had gone a dozen yards, he
collapsed against a tree, clutching at it for support before sinking to the
ground.  
   
Gildor quickly realised that at least one of the spiders must have stung Haldir,
who was exhibiting all the symptoms of poisoning.  Sweat poured off him, yet he
was clammy to the touch, his usual pale skin drained of all colour to the point
that even his lips looked white. "Go, get away--I'll be fine," he managed to
say, as his eyes went glassy and he fought to maintain consciousness. 

"Of course you will," Gildor replied, rolling his eyes.  Looping an arm about
Haldir's waist, he dragged him further in what he hoped was the direction of the
path.  His sense of direction was usually excellent, but after everything that
had happened, he was no longer certain of the way.  However, anything had to be
better than the place they had just been, from which sounds of carnage could
still be heard.  

Gildor found his companion to be almost a dead weight and, after a few minutes
of struggling through dense undergrowth, he stopped to rest where a clump of
smaller trees ringed a huge old oak.  Haldir dropped to the ground like a sack
of sand as soon as Gildor was no longer supporting him.  Rolling him over,
Gildor was confronted with the disquieting sight of half-open, unseeing eyes in
a dead white face.  Deciding that he needed to ascertain his companion's
injuries before dragging him further, Gildor hauled him into the hollowed out
trunk of the huge tree, spreading his cloak on the ground in an attempt to
soften the underlying roughness.  He supported Haldir's head and managed to get
him to take a few sips of miruvoir while he checked him for injuries.  There was
a nasty looking gash in his side that could have been made by one of the
spider's pincers, but no other serious wounds.  Gildor carefully removed his
tunic, then used his knives to cut his shirt into bandages, which he wrapped
around the wound.  Under the circumstances, there wasn't much else he could do
except hope that Haldir's natural healing abilities could overcome the venom.

Having made his companion as comfortable as possible, Gildor sat beside him and
tried to think.  As terrifying as the dragon had been, it had mercifully scared
away the spiders, but for how long?  They must have nests somewhere nearby, for
so many to have turned up so quickly.  With considerable unease, he remembered
the stories he had heard of them, such that they were like their smaller
counterparts in habitually storing up food for lean times.  Meaning that the two
horses they had already taken that night would not satisfy them; as soon as they
returned, he and Haldir were in serious danger, especially without their bows
and with no horse to convey them quickly back to the path.  That was, he
thought, stifling an absurd urge to giggle, if the dragon didn't set them alight
or eat them for dessert first.  

Normally, they would have run for it, but as long as Haldir remained
unconscious, they were at a distinct disadvantage, for he weighed as much as
Gildor himself, thus making any rapid progress while carrying him impossible. 
Besides, Gildor realised nervously, getting back to the path was hardly a smart
move as long as the dragon remained in the area, as it would only make it easier
for it to see them.  He sighed.  If running and fighting were both out of the
question, then hiding, at least until morning, was the only option.  

All his well-developed instincts for danger were screaming at him, but he
couldn't sit there mulling over options forever. Exiting cautiously from the
hollow, Gildor quickly rounded up as much undergrowth as he could and arranged a
camouflage in front of the opening as he had been taught.  He then passed behind
it, rejoining Haldir and scattering more branches behind him.  He had no idea
what other senses besides sight the creatures had, and could only hope that his
work would be good enough to fool them.  As he settled back beside his
companion, Haldir began to move, arching his back and crying out indistinct,
broken syllables.  Gildor's blood ran cold at the thought of what would happen
if he was heard; he darted a protective hand over Haldir's bandaged side, trying
to hold him down so that he did not injure himself further, while at the same
time attempting to calm him.  He must be silent, or any chance they had of
survival was gone.  

It was harder to control his companion's violent movements than Gildor had
expected.  At one point, Haldir's arms closed tightly around the Gildor's ribs,
hard enough to force the breath from his lungs; then he recoiled, thrashing
violently enough to lift him partly off the ground.  Between spasms he moaned
and muttered incoherently, while Gildor lay still and gasped for air, trying to
summon strength for the next spasm.  Finally, Gildor managed to find a position
that seemed to calm him, sandwiching Haldir tightly between his own body and the
inner trunk of the tree.   

Haldir looked completely different asleep, Gildor thought. Younger. Frailer.
Hesitantly, he rubbed his cheek against the disheveled hair and found it as soft
and fine as a baby's.  His fingertips explored the pale upturned face, moving
over the curve of his brow to the half closed eyelids with their thick gold
tipped lashes and down the soft cheek.  As his fingers passed over the pale
throat, Gildor realised with concern that the heartbeat seemed very faint, and
he clutched Haldir in sudden fear.  

"Please, Haldir, be well.  I need your strength," Gildor said, hugging him
desperately. "I need your experience and serenity, your confidence and calm. 
Please don't leave me."  He brought his cheek down and tenderly laid it on
Haldir's forehead, while continuing the murmured entreaty.  He felt Haldir sigh,
and he turned to bury his face in Gildor's neck.  He was quiet for a time after
that, then suddenly began to moan loudly as if in the grip of a nightmare. 
Gildor, inches away from those unseeing cobalt eyes, his hands already occupied
holding Haldir in place, did the only thing he could think of to shut him up--he
kissed him.  It was either the best or worst thing he could have done--Gildor
would debate that point with himself many times afterwards, and fail to come up
with an acceptable answer.  

Haldir immediately deepened the kiss, tangling his hands in Gildor's hair and
molding himself against him.  Gildor tried to move away, afraid of causing
further harm to his wound, but Haldir would not allow it, pulling him into a
fierce, nearly brutal kiss. Before he fully knew what was happening, his shirt
was open and Haldir's experienced hands were exploring his chest, sending new
and unsettling vibrations through his body.  He tried to tell himself that now
was hardly the time for this, and to keep his attention on any possible threats
from the forest, but when Haldir's mouth followed his hands Gildor's brain
seemed to largely shut down.   
  
He never knew how Haldir managed it, for he could swear those talented hands
never left his chest, but somehow he found his leggings around his ankles and
Haldir sliding a hand between his thighs.  Looking down into those still clouded
eyes, Gildor tried once again to move away.  He did not want Haldir to take him
unknowing, uncaring who it was he pleasured.  But his actions pulled another
groan, this one of protest, from his companion, and Gildor quickly kissed him
again, trembling from nervousness and growing desire as he did so.  Haldir
grasped Gildor behind the head and kissed him back with soft lips moving
sensuously against his skin, a silky tongue twining around his, sucking and
exploring with increasing ardor.  The combination of the intimate little bower,
his heightened emotional state from their near miss, and the sensuality of
Haldir's movements soon had Gildor in such a state that he no longer cared about
the possibilities of danger.  
 
Haldir reversed their positions, his body lithe and sinuous in its movements,
until he pressed Gildir down into the blankets.  The next few minutes were a
confused muddle for Gildor, despite the many times he would later try to sort
them out.  He discovered both agony and bliss as Haldir claimed him, without the
benefit of much preparation and with strength and passion. When it was over,
Haldir almost immediately slipped back into insensibility with a soft sigh. 
Gildor ignored, as much as possible, his own extreme discomfort to curl up by
his side and wait for dawn, a sense of loss and loneliness so deep it was
overwhelming washing over him. He stared into the chilly night, eyes burning,
breathing laboured, feeling like there was a heavy weight on his chest.

Morning finally came, dawning with a thin, watery yellow light that was all that
was able to penetrate Mirkwood's denseness.  Haldir looked much improved, Gildor
noticed; some colour had returned to his face with the dawn and his eyes were
clear again, showing that he had been able to overcome most of the effects of
the spider's venom.  Gildor had not thought he would remember anything of the
previous night's activities, but something must have registered or perhaps
Gildor did not hide his agitation as well as he had hoped.

"It happens. It is nothing to be distressed about," Haldir commented as they
prepared to leave their makeshift camp.

Gildor turned his tearstained face away and regarded the dawn, fighting for
control.  It? He thought wildly. What did that mean? Being ensnared by creatures
out of a nightmare? Nearly getting cooked and eaten? A quick grope in a dark
forest? For a moment he was overcome with emotions--shame, anger and that same,
deadening sense of loss warred for supremacy.  Anger won, and he was grateful
for the strength it leant him, dissipating his near panic and flooding him with
an icy calm.  "Then I hope we can put it behind us."

"Certainly," Haldir replied coolly, before striding off in the direction of the
path.  Gildor trailed in his wake, vowing never to bring up anything of that
night's activities.  It was a promise he kept for 500 years.

*   *   *

 Third Age, 180: Imladris

Gildor had learned that, in the midst of joy, there could be great pain.  It was
a lesson he had had plenty of time to mull over in the centuries of haunting
loneliness, of aching, ceaseless craving that followed.  He had not forgotten
the lesson, but found that it was no longer enough to deter him.  He put his
hands on Haldir's hips and spread them open, running an unsteady finger over the
small opening that was revealed.  All his senses seemed heightened, magnifying
every small sensation a thousand times.   He groaned, grabbing onto the hips
before him and pulling the other man back, burying himself completely in one
smooth motion. 

The longing for intimacy now wracked him more than it had ever done, ironically
just as he finally claimed his lover.  Haldir was perfect--they fit together as
if meant to be--but Gildor's desire was not quenched despite his rapid climax a
few moments later.  The physical was never all he had wanted, was not, even, the
main thing.  He wanted to scream that he loved and be told that he was loved in
return.  But Haldir didn't say it, had never said it.  He had to give him
that--there had never been any lies between them, except those he told himself. 
"Are you sure . . . you have never done that before?" Haldir gasped when he was
once more able to speak. 

"No, never." 

"Then you have an incredible natural talent." He turned over, sweeping Gildor
into a lingering kiss. "Just incredible." He smiled at Gildor's flushed face.
"Give me a few moments and it will be your turn." 

Gildor melted into his companion's embrace, but his thoughts, for the first time
that day, were far away.  That morning in the forest, so long ago, he had
decided that their affair must not continue because he didn't think he could
survive being put aside afterwards. To have held and loved and be granted his
greatest desire for a moment, then have it all torn away would be worse than
anything he had previously felt.  Yet he knew that was now inevitable, as soon
as Haldir tired of him, which would probably not take long.  Somehow,
considering how long he had been expecting it, it almost came as a relief to
feel his heart breaking.

TBC

Title: One Last Time, part 7/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None, except that it's slash.
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know. 
For those who have asked, OLAS is Of Leaf and Shadow,
(http://www.annonvahai.org/) a very nice Haldir shrine that hosts 
fic, images, and other good things.  It and Forgotten Hero
(http://www.trinitycross.net/lotrhaldir/) are both great places for Haldir
info.; go check them out.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.) 


Third Age, 180: Imladris


Haldir knew something was wrong, but had no idea what it could be.  Gildor had
been perfect, everything was perfect, but the body he held in his arms was
trembling in what was obviously an attempt not to cry.  He was trying to think
of a way to ask what was wrong without diminishing what had just happened
between them, when the door to his room flew open and there stood his two
miscreant brothers.  He had no idea what Rumil and Orophin, who when he last saw
them had been setting out on their usual duty patrol along the Northern Fences,
could possibly be doing in Imladris, but it was just like them to show up at the
worst possible time.  Haldir was not, of course, embarrassed to be caught in bed
with his lover--he had lost count of the number of times his brothers had done
something similar to him in the past--but Gildor was already upset, and he
worried how he would take it.  

Drawing Gildor into a closer embrace, Haldir glared at his brothers.  "Yes?," he
inquired frostily, "Was there something you needed?"

"We should have known," Rumil told Orophin, a smile breaking out on his face.
"Despite the fact that it's almost noon, never burst in on big brother.  He'll
always be with someone."  Turning to Haldir, he smiled cheekily.  "Sorry to
interrupt, but we need a place to rest.  The Lady Galadriel was in a tearing
great hurry to get here and we've traveled all night.  We're exhausted."  

Haldir felt Gildor flinch next to him, and struggled to keep his temper.  "Is
Imladris suddenly so short of rooms that it cannot house you elsewhere?," he
inquired caustically.  Orophin, at least, had the grace to look slightly
abashed, and tugged at Rumil's sleeve.

"We can find other accommodation, brother," he said, sending Gildor an
apologetic smile.

"Not as long as no one can find that lazy chatelaine," Rumil replied, stifling a
huge yawn behind his hand, which still wore its riding glove.  "I swear this
house is in an uproar.  Everyone hung over, even the servants, and no one can
find this Erestor who is supposed to have the room list.  So no one knows what
rooms are available.  And the Lady Galadriel has disappeared somewhere, so we
can't even ask her."  He flopped onto an oversized chair near the window and
yawned again.  "Not that she was in the sort of mood to make me want to anyway." 
He caught sight of Haldir's increasingly irritated expression and sighed.   
"Truly, brother, we will be no trouble.  I for one, would not notice if you
bedded every pretty face at Imladris; I just want to sleep!"

Haldir was about to give Rumil a serious dressing down when Orophin suddenly
started, looking at Gildor in surprise.  Then he laughed, and shook his head in
mock dismay.  "You have my sincere apologies," he told him.  "Although you have
no cause to believe it, Rumil and I do not make a habit of constantly
interfering in our brother's private affairs.  And to interrupt you both a
second time . . . well, I can only apologise and remove myself and my
appallingly bad mannered brother.  Come, Rumil, let us leave them in peace. 
We'll find a nice, quiet glade where you can nap."

"A second time?," Rumil asked, sitting up and peering at Gildor in curiosity. 
Gildor clutched the sheets a little closer around him, but did not, Haldir
noticed, look as confused as he himself was feeling.  "Oh.  I know you.  Let me
see," Rumil looked thoughtful, then suddenly laughed.  "Oh, of course!  Well, we
do have bad timing brother," he agreed.

Orophin smiled.  "I believe that is what I used as a defense last time.  Let us
go, Rumil."

"Last time?"  Haldir was beginning to wonder if he had missed something
important somewhere.  As Orophin tugged a grinning Rumil out the door, Haldir
turned to regard Gildor appraisingly.  Something was familiar, he thought, but
it skirted the edges of his consciousness, making it impossible to pin down. 
Gildor looked uncomfortable, but did not seem inclined to enlighten him, just
clutched the sheet against his chest as if in need of comfort.  That gesture
stirred a distant memory, and suddenly, Haldir knew.  He saw again the
frightened elfling who had run from his talan all those years ago in Lorien, and
wondered at himself that he had not known before.  Of course, it had been a very
disturbing week, he had been extremely drunk last night, and the elf beside him
had changed somewhat from the timid young creature he remembered, but still . .
. 

"Gildor," he said hesitantly, wondering if his companion's melancholy was due to
his poor memory.  It was, he supposed, possible that Gildor felt insulted, but
then, it HAD been a very long time, and Haldir couldn't very well be expected to
remember every elf with whom he'd ever flirted.  Besides, Gildor could have
mentioned it himself, if he considered it to be that important.  Still, Haldir
supposed he would have felt annoyed, at the least, had someone with whom he'd
traded a few kisses and shared some rather harrowing adventures, forgotten his
very existence when next they met!  "Gildor, why didn't you remind me, that we
had met before?"

Gildor turned away, presenting Haldir with the view of a very nice shoulder, but
depriving him of a chance to read his expression.  "It isn't important."

Haldir regarded him with mild annoyance.  He wanted to remark that, if it was so
unimportant, why then was Gildor so obviously upset?  He refrained, however,
instead thinking back to their previous meeting, and trying to come up with some
reason why Gildor would be acting . . . well, almost hurt.  Nothing important
came to mind, however.  There had been that time by the spring, of course, and
he supposed he really shouldn't have teased him as he had, but he had been so
sure Gildor would come out of hiding and join him.  When he had discovered that
the elfling had gone to bathe at the furthest point from Caras Galadhon, he had
naturally assumed that it had been with the idea of Haldir following him to a
place they could be alone and relatively free of any chance of interruption.  He
had taken Gildor's discarded clothing along, with the idea of returning it to
him and of enjoying a most pleasant morning, but the elf had fled his very
presence.  Haldir had been forced to assume that his initial impression had been
incorrect, and that Gildor was not attracted to him after all.  Perhaps, he had
thought at the time, there was someone special waiting back in Imladris, who he
did not wish to betray.  So, he had left the clothing and returned to the city,
promising himself to keep his hands off Gildor in the future.

He had kept that promise, he remembered now, insuring that their interaction on
the trip to Mirkwood had stayed at a casual, friendly level.  He had noticed
Gildor watching him, but had done nothing about it.  If the elfling decided he
wanted anything from Haldir, he was perfectly capable of asking for it, or of
indicating interest in no uncertain terms.  Haldir would not take the initiative
again until Gildor made it very plain what he wanted.  

Was that what he was upset about, Haldir now wondered, the fact that no
relationship had been forthcoming?  Perhaps he had thought that the one kiss
they had shared in Mirkwood, after Gildor had made the incredibly brave, if
unbelievably foolhardy, action of coming in after him, had been indication
enough of his feelings.  Still, Haldir thought in puzzlement, surely he could
not fault him for failing to act on his impulses at the time?  They had been in
terrible danger, as was quickly demonstrated by the mess that had followed. 
They had barely gotten out of that alive, and then only due to the almost
unbelievable coincidence of the dragon's fireball burning through the last of
the spider's webbing.  Haldir remembered with a repressed shudder just how close
it had been; the gash in his side that cursed spider had given him had taken
weeks to fully heal, the poison retarding his usual quick regenerative
abilities.  He had almost died that night, which he still only remembered as a
haze of fever and pain; the next day, when he had thrown off at least the worst
effects of it, Gildor had been remote and uncommunicative.

At the time, Haldir had assumed that Gildor was just shaken up by their
experiences.  Certainly the events of that night were enough to disturb anyone,
and it had been with no surprise that he had seen Gildor's pale face and haunted
expression once morning came.  However, the elf showed no signs of injury, and
had agreed with him that it was best to put it behind them and move on--which
they had, into even more trouble, Haldir remembered with wry amusement.  That
whole trip had been one long disaster, now that he came to think about it.  

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: Somewhere in Mirkwood

They had finally found their way back to the path, but without a horse, it was
going to take quite awhile to catch up to the others.  Haldir was not, in truth,
completely unhappy about that, as traveling with Tuor had been a bit of a
strain.  He had wished the elf would just make his move and be done with it, but
instead, those calculating eyes had merely watched him, waiting for a vulnerable
moment.  Haldir much preferred to make his way with only Gildor as company,
although he occasionally felt like laughing at the spectacle they made.  Both
had lost their bows and, in Gildor's case, a large part of his shirt had been
sacrificed to provide Haldir's bandages.  Gildor still wore the tattered remains
of it, which his tunic largely concealed, but he had also managed to lose a boot
in the scuffle, and so limped along as best he could with only the one.  Haldir
still felt weak and disoriented from the poison, not all of which had left his
system, and he occasionally stumbled as they traveled on.  What annoyed him most
was that his new, beautiful leather vest was now scrap, as the spider's pincer
had ripped right through it, as well as the tunic and shirt below.  

Still, his mood was actually fairly light that morning, for they had survived,
and that was the main thing.  Bows and vests could be replaced and, he consoled
himself, at least no lasting damage had been done to either of them.  There was
also no reason to worry over the fate of the mission, as they had plenty of time
to rendezvous with the others, who could not, in any case, make a move until
Lord Glorfindel gave the signal.  Knowing Glorfindel's reputation, Haldir would
not have been at all surprised if diplomacy alone resulted in Lord Erestor's
release, obviating the need for any flight through the mountains.  At least, he
would vastly prefer that outcome, having already had enough adventure for one
trip.  With that idea in mind, he pressed on as quickly as their condition would
allow, as he did not wish to be anywhere near the spider's nest when darkness
fell once more.  Of course, distance would not help with the dragon, which could
easily fly anywhere it chose, but he fervently hoped it would find enough sport
among the spiders to keep it busy.  In any event, while the sun shone, it, too,
probably slept.

The quickness of their journey allowed little time for discussion, and Haldir
was too preoccupied with the sharp pain in his side to want to try to talk much. 
Gildor, too, seemed to prefer silence, but made no protest at the speed of their
journey north.  They did not pause even for lunch, as their provisions had been
lost along with the horses, and it would take much time to hunt and prepare
food, especially without their bows.  Haldir himself felt little hunger, as the
lingering poison in his system was making him nauseous.            

It was not until evening that they finally caught the team, which had made camp
alongside the road.  Lord Glorfindel had found them, and was speaking with Tuor
and Valandil when they limped into camp.  Gildor  immediately collapsed by the
fire, and after ascertaining that Aikanaro was attending to him, Haldir joined
the tactical discussion going on.  Glorfindel, strangely enough, seemed almost
relieved to hear that a dragon was rampaging about Mirkwood.       

"You are certain--you saw it clearly?"

Haldir quirked an eyebrow at him but refrained from his usual sarcasm.  Anyone
who could kill a Balrog was not a person to tease, no matter how long a day it
had been.  "We were as close to it as to that tree," he replied, indicating one
growing just across the road.

Glorfindel looked pleased.  "I thought as much," he murmured, and the other
elves exchanged uneasy glances.  Glorfindel might find the idea of fighting a
dragon appealing, but the rest of the party had definite reservations.  Very few
elves who had encountered one had lived to tell about it, and most made avoiding
the creatures a top priority.  As Glorfindel explained, however, there was no
such option at the moment.  It would be beyond all honour to leave the elves of
Mirkwood to face such a threat alone.  Tuor was the only one who did not seem to
share that opinion.

"Forgive me, my Lord," he said respectfully, "but Lord Elrond sent us here to
rescue Lord Erestor, not to hunt dragons.  Surely, if the king has now moved him
out of the dungeons, there is no reason why he cannot be smuggled out of the
palace.  Then you may leave the rest to us."

Glorfindel regarded Tuor with a pleasant expression.  "You think that would be
best, do you?," he murmured, and Haldir felt the hair on the back of his neck
begin to rise.  He controlled an instinctive reaction to back slowly away from
the two of them, and, glancing at Valandil, saw the older elf twitch slightly. 
Tuor, apparently, noticed nothing.

"Yes," Tuor said eagerly, pressing his advantage.  "There must be a way of
getting Lord Erestor past the front entrance; perhaps you could indicate to the
king that he could be of use on the hunt, and have him ride out with you.  We
will conceal ourselves along the route you mean to take, and he can slowly begin
to fall behind the main force.  Then we can overpower the last few guards, free
him, and ride for the mountains.  If you could distract the king for an hour or
two before making your own escape, it would help to give us a head start, but we
can do without it if you do not wish to take the risk."

At that, Haldir and Valandil both took a large step backwards, and Haldir held
his breath.  Glorfindel seemed pleased about something, however, and actually
placed a casual arm about Tuor's shoulders.  "You know," he said, smiling
amiably, "I had a piece missing in my plans which you have helped to provide.  I
do most heartily thank you, my dear Tuor.  Come, walk with me and tell me more
of your intriguing plan."

The two walked further up the road, near to where Glorfindel's white stallion
waited to convey him back to the palace.  Haldir heard Valandil sigh next to
him, shaking his head slightly.  But the elf walked away without comment, and
Haldir likewise volunteered nothing.  He had the definite impression, however,
as he heard Glorfindel's delighted laughter ring out across the evening air,
that he no longer had to worry about keeping an eye on Tuor.

*   *   *

Third Age, 180: Imladris


Yes, Haldir decided now, that night had been the first time he noticed that
something was wrong with Gildor.  Glorfindel had returned to the palace, humming
a happy tune, and Tuor joined them about the fire, shooting Haldir a triumphant
glance as he did so.  Haldir had not bothered to try to figure out what that was
about, but instead approached Gildor and squatted down beside him.

"Can you check my wound, gwador?  I cannot see the full extent of it, as the
wretched creature sliced open half my side."  Aikanaro passed Gildor some
bandages and a healing salve, which felt wonderfully cool on Haldir's skin and
took the worst edge off the pain.  It had not been until he was bandaged and
sitting beside Gildor that he realised the young one was still saying virtually
nothing.  Gildor had remained quiet as they ate, and ignored Haldir's few
attempts at humour.  He had put it down to exhaustion and applied himself to the
excellent meal Aikanaro had put together, feeling hungry for the first time
since their ordeal.  Gildor curled up near the fire with his back to Haldir soon
thereafter, and fell into a fitful sleep.  

Haldir distinctly remembered now that the elfling had awoken the whole party
halfway through the night, screaming something incoherent.  Haldir had tried to
pull him into his arms to comfort him, but Gildor shied away, eyes big and
fearful in the glow from the fire's embers. Haldir had tried to sooth him,
assuring him that Valandil, who was on watch, would not allow any danger to come
upon them unawares, but it had not seemed to help.  Aikanaro had given Gildor
some Miruvoir and, eventually, everyone went back to sleep. But Haldir had lain
awake for some time, watching the tangled brown curls of the elf huddled into a
ball on the far side of the fire, and wondered what he had missed.  It was, he
thought as Gildor remained turned away from him now, a very familiar feeling.      


*   *    *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's Court

Erestor was incredibly bored.  This was almost worse than those seemingly
endless weeks in lock up.  At least then he had been able to fantasize about
what was going to happen to Thranduil when Glorfindel arrived.  He had never
suspected that his dear fellow counselor could possibly be so stupid as to
actually fall for him.  True, Thranduil charmed or otherwise subverted everyone
he thought could be at all useful, but Erestor had thought Glorfindel would have
more sense.  So now here he was, surrounded by luxury in a beautiful suite of 
rooms, and left with absolutely nothing to do until Glorfindel dealt with
whatever-it-was in the forest, assuming he managed to do so without getting
himself incinerated--again.  For which, undoubtedly, Elrond would blame him.

Valar!  Elrond.  Erestor threw himself back on the huge bed and let an arm fall
over his eyes.  Elrond was going to kill him.  Either that, or Glorfindel would
have blackmail material for the next age.  It was just too insane, that someone
of his experience should now be saddled with a ridiculous elfling who kept
looking at him through big, adoring eyes . . . he shuddered.  Elrond could NEVER
find out about this.  Somehow, he had to get rid of Legolas before the elf
followed him like some lovesick puppy all the way back to Imladris.  

He looked up to see the mischievous blue eyes of his latest conquest regarding
him from the doorway.  Legolas had, he saw gratefully, brought enough food to
feed an army, and balanced the large tray with ease as he gracefully made his
way over to the bed.  His own dark eyes rueful, Erestor reflected that most
elves would consider that they had been blessed by the gods with such a gift,
for their was no doubting that Legolas was beautiful, almost cat-like in his
lean muscular grace.  Glorfindel's words echoed eerily in Erestor's brain,
however, and he shuddered at the image they created.  No, the elfling had to go.

Erestor sighed and began eating, listening to Legolas' plans for their future
with increasing dismay.  How in Arda was he going to do this?  He vowed, as
Legolas lovingly fed him a few choice tidbits from the tray, never again to get
involved with anyone under the age of 500 at least, and even then to make sure
they understood the type of relationship he favoured.  I really must tell him,
he thought in distraction, as Legolas pushed the tray out of the way and
snuggled up against him.  Yes, and he would, too, he promised, but maybe . . .
tomorrow . . .

TBC  

Title: One Last Time, part 8/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None, except that it's slash.
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know. 
For those who have asked, OLAS is Of Leaf and Shadow,
(http://www.annonvahai.org/) a very nice Haldir shrine that hosts 
fic, images, and other good things.  It and Forgotten Hero
(http://www.trinitycross.net/lotrhaldir/) are both great places for Haldir
info.; go check them out.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.) 

Third Age, 180: Imladris

The beech wood liked the mobile one.  He was one of the first ones, and had long
been resident under the trees.  It had been but a sapling when he first came to
Imladris, and it had recognised that he was little more than such himself.  They
had grown up together; as it stretched its arms toward the sky, he had played
under its branches, or climbed them with other saplings of his kind, but had
been careful not to break any of its twigs or rip away its leaves.  Of course,
most of the first ones were careful, but their saplings, well, they could be
thoughtless sometimes.  

As he grew older, this one was often away somewhere.  The beech wood didn't
really understand the concept of away, but it had heard the first ones talking
and knew it meant beyond-what-could-be-seen.  He would come back, however, from
time to time, and sit again under its spreading leaves.  Sometimes they would
talk, others times not, but the beech wood always liked having this one near. 
He had good roots, as the trees said.  

But today, there was some problem with the mobile one, who sat against its bark
but did not speak.  The beech sent several queries along its trunk, and echoed
them in its swaying branches, asking what was wrong.  But the mobile one sat
unhearing.  The beech wood decided to ask the ash, which always boasted that it
understand the mobile ones better than the other trees.

"Is it perhaps that he is diseased," the beech wood asked, remembering with a
shudder the only time it had not felt like speaking, when that awful rot had
attacked its roots several cycles back.  The mobile one felt different than
usual, deader inside, as if parts of him had also begun to rot.  When the beech
wood had had this problem, however, some of the mobile ones had come and poured
a strange liquid around its base, and slowly, it had recovered.  It wondered now
if they had any more of the substance; perhaps this one could use some.

The ash seemed to ponder the point, slowly as was its fashion.  It considered
the beech wood too quick to decide things, and often said so.  "Perhaps," it
finally said.  "Although, he may be in need of watering, for look, he leaks
rain."

The beech wood considered this.  It was true.  It had never seen one of the
first ones do that before, so it could not be normal.  "But why should he need
water?  Just this morning, the rains came."  The beech wood had lost a few of
its older branches in the storm, but neither it nor any of the other trees had
been seriously harmed.  The rains had felt good, and already the water coursed
through its wood, helping new leaves to sprout.      

A willow joined the conversation now.  "I once heard it said, that when the
mobile ones are sad, they make rain for themselves, as this one does now."

"Who said?," the beech wood asked, somewhat surprised that it had never heard
this, too.

"A burrowing creature told me," the willow replied.

The beech wood considered this.  It did not usually pay attention to the rumours
the burrowing things told, for they were not always reliable.  "But what sadness
can he have," the beech wood asked when the trees had all pondered this new
concept fully.  "For the rains came this morning, and now the sun shines."  It
was agreed that this was true.  It was, in fact, a glorious day, with a great
deal of bright sunlight causing all their leaves to open fully and lift even
more skyward.  The ground felt good as well, being still damp with moisture, and
the river flowed faster than normal, gushing happily over its rocks.  Small
creatures scampered about, looking for berries, and a nest of the flying ones in
the beech wood's branches were happily reporting that there were many crawling
things that the rain had washed up.  So many that the flying things' small ones
were refusing any more to eat.  

Yes, it was, indeed, a good day.  The beech wood thought about this for a time,
until the sounds being made by the mobile one began to intrude on its thoughts. 
It was not speaking to the trees, nor did the sounds it was making seem like
those it used to speak with other mobile ones.  The sounds disturbed the beech
wood, although why they did so, it could not have said.

"I think that he is ill," it said once more, returning to its first line of
thought.  It remembered that, when it had been rotting, it took no joy in even
beautiful days such as this.  Some of the old trees that were no longer there,
had reported feeling the same before the end.  But this mobile one was not old,
and besides, they did not die as trees did.  The beech wood sent an inquiry down
its trunk once more, but again, the mobile one did not respond.  The beech wood
thought about this.  Then it asked the ash to explain things to the trees closer
to the Great Burrow in which the mobile ones took shelter; they could tell one
of the other first ones that one of them was ill.  The first ones must have more
of the liquid that had made the beech wood's roots come alive again.  Maybe they
could water the mobile one with it and he would feel better.  

The whisper ran through the treetops quietly, and the beech wood felt the
vibration in its roots when one of the mobile ones heard it.  This one, though,
the beech wood did not know.  Yet it realised, as the first one came closer,
that he was tree-friend, for his murmurs were understandable to the beech wood. 
The tree-friend did not come close to the mobile one, however, but stayed
farther away, under the shade cast by the willow.  The beech wood waited for the
tree-friend to bring the liquid, but he did not, so it sent a query to him
through the willow.  

The willow took time to think about the request, but finally spoke to the
tree-friend.  "The beech wood says the mobile one rots at the roots.  It says he
needs the liquid that makes the rot go away.  Will you bring it?"

The beech wood asked the flying things to be quiet, so it could hear the tree
friend's response.  

**He is not ill.  He is sad.  I have no potion that will make that better.** The
tree-friend spoke quietly, but the beech heard the sound of his voice and
wondered if, perhaps, he was not also ill.  Usually, when the mobile ones spoke,
their voices echoed with the joy of life and the happiness to be found in all
living things.  The song in their voices was like a gentle wind in the branches,
or like the burbling of the brook now as it flowed quickly from the rain.  But
this one's voice did not convey those feelings.  The beech wood thought about
that.

It decided to be a little annoyed with the ash, which must have explained things
badly to the trees near the Burrow.  "You must tell the trees near the Great
Burrow that they sent the wrong mobile one.  This one is a stranger here and
does not understand about the liquid that kills the rot.  He may also be ill as
well; I cannot tell.  You must tell the trees by the Burrow to send another."

The ash thought about this.  It decided to be annoyed with the beech wood, for
questioning its abilities to communicate with the mobile ones, and reminded the
beech wood that it had stood when the beech wood was still but a sapling.  "I
knew you from a nut," it said, its branches quivering slightly, "and I have
always said you are too hasty.  You assume too much.  Let the mobile ones alone
and they will fix their own problems."

The beech wood did not consider this.  The ash probably had rot, too.  Instead,
it asked the flying ones to takes its request to the trees by the Great Burrow,
and one of them flew off to do so.  While it was gone, the tree-friend finally
moved towards the mobile one, and sat down beside him under the beech wood's
spreading branches.  They did not talk in the language of the mobile ones;
indeed, if they spoke at all, the beech wood could not hear them.  

It decided that they did not speak, for they were sitting right under its
branches and it would have heard.  It could hear even the crawling things
wriggling through the earth in the ground around it, and the song of the flowers
that grew in the grasses.  No, they did not speak, but the tree-friend moved
very close to the mobile one, and put his branches around it.  This did not seem
to help the mobile one, who only leaked more and made more of the disturbing
sounds-that-were-not-speech.  The beech wood tried itself to explain to the
tree-friend the need for the liquid, but the tree-friend was now not talking
either.

The beech wood considered this.  It decided that, whatever rot had afflicted the
mobile one, must have spread to the tree-friend, who had also begun to leak
slightly.  This alarmed the beech wood, which did not at all like the idea that
two of the mobile ones were now rotting beside it.  It tried to draw its roots
further down into the ground away from them.  The beech wood was fond of the
mobile one, but it had already had rot once and did not want to have it again. 
It sent another of the flying things to request aid from the burrow.

Soon, the first flying thing returned and apologised to the beech wood for
taking so much time.  It told the beech wood that it had not been able to find
the leader of the mobile ones, but had flown into the nest place of one of the
leader's saplings.  There it had found two of the mobile ones, but they had not
been interested in listening, as they were busy mating.  The flying thing had
courteously waited for them to finish, but they took a very, very long time, and
so it had finally decided to circle them singing until one of the mobile ones
asked what it wanted.  The flying thing had then explained that one of the
mobile ones was rotting beside the beech wood, and the beech wood asked if some
of the liquid used to cure rot could be brought so that the mobile one might be
watered with it.  The flying thing reported that the two mobile ones had not
seemed to understand this. They had just looked at it for a while, and then gone
back to mating.

The beech wood considered this.  It did not know how to make the request any
clearer, as it seemed perfectly so already, but asked the flying thing to go
back and try again.  Meanwhile, it regarded with increasing alarm the two mobile
ones underneath its branches, which were now speaking to each other in the
language used by the mobile ones, but it did not sound the way it should.  It
sounded as if they were lamenting the fact that they had the rot, but the beech
wood could not be sure as it did not understand very well the speech that the
mobile ones used with each other.

The flying thing returned with the second flying thing.  They had met up in the
nest room of the sapling of the leader of the Great Burrow.  They reported that
the sapling and its mate were now coming, but warned the beech wood that they
were not pleased.  The first flying thing explained that it had returned to the
room with its nest brother to find that the two mobile ones were still mating. 
This seemed strange behaviour, as they had surely had enough time by now to
finish and, considering that the beech wood had said to hurry, the flying things
had not thought it wise to wait.  

The first flying thing had therefore landed on the nest and explained--very
courteously, he assured the beech wood--that the two mobile ones were rotting
much worse now, and badly needed to be watered.   The sapling had then thrown
something heavy at the flying thing, which had retreated to the entryway.  The
second flying thing assured the beech wood that the first flying thing had been
very polite and in no way deserved the attack.  The first flying thing explained
now that it felt a debt to the beech wood, which had been a very good place for
its nest and had always warned the flying ones if any danger approached them. 
As it very rarely asked for anything in return, the fling thing had not wanted
to return with its mission unfulfilled yet again.  So the two flying things had
discussed the issue.

They quickly decided--for the flying things decided everything quickly--that the
sapling and the other mobile one had had more than enough mating time already,
and must attend to the beech wood's request.  They had noted that rain seemed to
keep some of the creatures of the forest from mating, although it had never had
that effect on the things that fly, but they decided to see if perhaps something
similar might get the attention of the mobile ones.  So they flew over to where
a pretty bunch of flowers from the meadow resided in a small
thing-that-holds-water.  They picked up--with some difficulty, they informed the
beech wood--the thing-that-holds-water, and carried it to the nest at which time
they dropped it on the two mobile ones.   

"It did get their attention," the first flying thing informed the beech wood.

"But they are not happy," the second flying thing announced.

The beech wood considered this.  It had no desire to make unhappy the sapling of
the leader of the mobile ones, with whom the beech wood had had many pleasant
conversations through the years.  It also, however, did not want to have the two
mobile ones continue to rot on its roots.  It thanked the flying ones, which
flew away to the top of its branches and began a conversation about the strange
mating habits of the first ones.  

The beech wood checked on the two mobile ones that sat on the ground below its
branches, only to find to its surprise that they had stopped leaking.  They were
making strange noises again, but they were somehow different than the other
noises.  It took the beech wood a moment to decide that they, too, were now
mating.  It considered this.

The creatures of the forest did not mate when they were injured or hurt.  So
perhaps it had been wrong and the two mobile ones did not rot after all.  It had
no more time to consider this, for the sapling and one of the oldest of the
first ones now appeared.  It was true, the beech wood decided; the sapling did
not look happy.  The sapling had brought the liquid, however, the beech wood was
glad to see.  Indeed, he had brought a very large container of it, which he
threw all over the two mobile ones. 

 "Well, the beech assured us you needed watering," Elrohir said, and turning,
stalked back to the house.

"Do try not to upset the trees further," Glorfindel added over his shoulder as
he hurried to catch up to his lover.    
 
"I think we should continue this conversation indoors," Haldir commented, wiping
water out of his eyes.  

Gildor agreed, laughing, but stopped for a moment as they started to leave the
glade.  He ran back and put his hands on the beech.  **Thank you**

**You no longer rot?**

**No, I no longer rot.**

The beech wood's leaves rustled slightly in pleasure.  It would enjoy reminding
the ash of this, the next time it boasted that it best understood the mobile
ones.

TBC  


Title: One Last Time, part 9/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  



Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood


Thranduil set the tone without saying a word.  When Glorfindel reached his
rooms, the king was wearing a rich velvet robe in a deep green that perfectly
matched his eyes.  It was loosely belted and, from the expanse of golden skin
the open neck exposed, it seemed likely that he wore nothing else.  

"You wished to see me, your majesty?"

Thranduil examined the rosy liquor in his glass and smiled appreciatively at it. 
"A special vintage just arrived.  I thought you might care to sample it with
me."

Glorfindel obligingly took the glass held out to him.  He appreciated the fact
that the king was giving him the option to drink it and go--he felt no spell
weaving insidiously about him like last time, and the door was still slightly
open.  There was also no talk of calling in debts as he had half expected;
rather, Thranduil was quiet and pensive.  

"So, you have decided to release Lord Erestor when all this is done?"

The king laughed, "Oh, I assure you, seneschal, should you slay a balrog for me,
there is very little I would deny you.  Of course," he reflected, "that would be
true in any case."

Well.  Glorfindel drank some wine and wondered why he was hesitating.  He'd been
attracted to Thranduil since his arrival and, as his plans for the morning were
already made, there was no real reason not to indulge himself.  Possibly, he
decided, he just resented being another check mark on Thranduil's tally sheet. 
The king had been toying with him from the first, so certain he would give
in--as Glorfindel was sure everyone else always did.  It galled him to think of
giving Thranduil yet another conquest, even if by doing so he would achieve what
he also desired.  He wondered if there was anything Thranduil had ever wanted
that his beauty, charm or fortune couldn't acquire for him.  It was late, and
perhaps time for some of the king's bluntness; he had, after all, said that he
preferred plain speech. "Do you always get what you want, o king?"

"No." Thranduil leaned against the fireplace, his eyes somber as they met
Glorfindel's.  "No, despite what you may think, I most assuredly do not. 
Sometimes I think that, on the contrary, the things I crave above all others are
those denied me.  I could not keep my father from dying, nor my wife.  I
obviously cannot keep my borders free of evil, or I would not have had to trick
you here.  And it has been a very long time since I have had anyone who belonged
to me, and only to me."

"Which I cannot."  This new, contemplative Thranduil was oddly disturbing, and
more compelling than his usual casual charisma.  Surely, though, he couldn't
really think he could persuade Glorfindel to betray Elrond?  To change
allegiance after so many centuries?  

"I could give you . . . well, whatever you wish, Lord Glorfindel, should you be
willing to stay with me.  Position you already have, true, but power?  Wealth?" 
The king smiled at his slightly surprised expression.  "I told you we would
discuss this subject again."  Glorfindel was reasonably sure he was not under a
spell, but was nonetheless having trouble concentrating.  Most of his attention
was on that delicious throat and tantalising glimpse of chest revealed by
Thranduil's robe.  "No," the king was continuing, "I do not think such things
would tempt you.  So what would do it?"  He stepped close and looked urgently
into Glorfindel's slightly bemused blue eyes.  "Tell me!"

This close, Thranduil radiated a heat that seemed even warmer than the fire. 
Even more disquieting was the fact that he was absolutely sincere--either that,
or he was the best actor Glorfindel had ever seen.  "Nothing could convince me
to betray my vow, to serve Elrond's family for all time," he replied, wondering
that he should even have to say such a thing, but the disappointment in
Thranduil's eyes showed that the king had truly meant his offer.  For an
instant, Glorfindel saw him as he really was, behind all the bluster and
conviviality--and recognised a loneliness that matched his own.  It was just a
bit too much temptation to resist.  "But then, I am not in Imladris now . . . "

"And?"  Thranduil's expression was, for once, unguarded, and the brief hope that
flickered in his eyes was enough to decide the issue for Glorfindel.

"I cannot give you my loyalty--that is already bespoken--but tonight is mine to
do with as I wish."

Thranduil smiled that beautiful smile.  "Indeed.  So, tell me then, seneschal,
how do I tempt you to my bed?"

Glorfindel allowed himself, for once, to return the smile, as he removed the
glass from Thranduil's hand and set it on the mantle.  "But, your majesty,
you've been doing that since I arrived."  It felt wonderful, Glorfindel thought
hazily, when he finally allowed himself to do what he'd been aching for since
that first glimpse of the contradictory, beautiful, exasperating creature who
was King of Mirkwood, and captured his lips in a soft kiss.  It did not stay
soft long, for Thranduil reacted like a man dying of thirst when presented with
a drink.  His hands came up, one grabbing Glorfindel's shoulder, the other
curling around the back of his neck, threading its way through his hair and
pulling him close. The kiss went on, passionate and sweet, fiery and perfect. 
He tasted like spices, Glorfindel thought vaguely, cloves and cinnamon.

At last they broke apart, Thranduil looking as flushed as he probably did
himself.  The king's eyes were glittering, gold and green, and without words he
pressed Glorfindel back against the chaise behind them.  Glorfindel was about to
suggest a change of venue, when the king shrugged the robe from his shoulders
and he forgot everything but running his hands down the broad chest in front of
him.  Thranduil pushed him down against the deep plush of the chaise, and
Glorfindel arched up against his weight, relishing the heaviness, and the sheer,
wonderful solidity of his body.   

And oh, he was so tight and so hot, and it had been so very, very long . . .  

Well, Elrond, he thought dazedly, some time later when Thranduil collapsed into
his arms, how's that for improving relations?

*   *   *

Third Age, 180: Imladris

Haldir stood under the willow and regarded Gildor's hunched form beside the
beech tree some distance away.  The elf had his legs drawn up to his chest and
his cheek was against one knee.  He was the picture of dejection and desolation,
and Haldir had absolutely no idea why.  After Rumil and Orophin left, Gildor had
mumbled something and excused himself, Haldir assumed to visit the lavatory. 
When he didn't return, Haldir went looking for him, only to determine after a
lengthy search that he was no longer in the house.  He had been standing on the
front porch, trying to think to where, and more importantly why, Gildor had run
off, when the trees informed him of a sick elf in a glade a few minutes' walk
from the house.  He had investigated, and there was Gildor.  His first question
answered, it still remained to be determined what was wrong with his . . .
whatever Gildor had become to him.  Haldir wasn't sure about the answer to that
himself, and decided to opt for "friend" at the moment.

Haldir hesitated, not sure what would be the right approach to use.  His usual
calm competence had deserted him, and indeed, he was not at all sure he knew how
to deal with this situation.  He had, of course, had problems with lovers
before, but most of the time he had at least known why: someone became jealous
or possessive, someone else didn't like a comment he'd made . . . the usual.  In
this case, however, he had absolutely no idea why Gildor looked like his best
friend had just died.  Thinking back, Haldir realised that Gildor had had an air
of sadness about him even during their love making, despite the fact that it had
obviously pleased him.  

The willow interrupted his thoughts to explain something about Gildor being ill,
but Haldir assured her it wasn't so.   Whatever was bothering Gildor was
obviously more emotional than physical, and standing under this annoyingly
talkative tree all day wasn't going to discover what it was.  Haldir almost went
to him then, but paused when silent tears began to course down Gildor's cheeks. 
He was uncharacteristically shy of disturbing what was obviously meant to be a
private moment, but could not stand to see Gildor so upset.  

The amount of concern he felt over the other's well-being brought him up short. 
He had, it seemed, known Gildor for a short time many years before, and they had
shared a strange, but overall pleasant, last few days together, but why he felt
so . . . involved . . . with the elf's welfare was inexplicable.  It was also
worrisome.  Haldir hesitated as Gildor continued his passionate grief, his face
contorted in an effort to staunch his tears.  They were practically strangers,
and it therefore made no sense that Haldir should feel as if his heart was being
squeezed by a rough hand every time Gildor sobbed.  First Elrond, now Gildor. 
What was happening to him in these last few days?  He had spent centuries
happily flitting from talan to talan, lover to lover, and never had his heart
become ensnared.  Sex was fun, it was a distraction for boring days, it was
lighthearted . . . it was not supposed to result in feelings like this.  In the
past few weeks, Haldir had encountered more trouble because of his personal life
than in all the centuries before, and it scared him.  Was he just tiring of the
chase?  Was he ready--and he shuddered at the very thought--to "settle down"
with one person forever?  He had been ready to do as much for Elrond, had the
elf wanted him, and now he was feeling quite involved in Gildor's melancholy,
almost as if it were his own.  This was not normal.  

Yet, he couldn't deny what he was feeling, and he couldn't stand there and just
watch as Gildor sobbed his heart out.  Haldir decided that he could come to
terms with his own emotions later.  The issue at hand was more important. 
Gathering up his courage, therefore, he approached the elf under the beech tree
and settled alongside.  It was almost as if Gildor didn't register his presence. 
Haldir could see that the muscles of Gildor's back were clenched tight, and
tears trembled on the ends of his ridiculously long lashes.  He was struck,
suddenly, at the pure, uncomplicated beauty of him, so different than his usual
conquests.  There was no guile in him, Haldir knew; whatever questions he asked,
Gildor would answer truthfully or not at all.  Suddenly, the difficulty of
approaching him seemed to evaporate, and Haldir enfolded him in his arms. 
Gildor made a small gesture of protest, but it was halfhearted at best, and
Haldir was not one to be dissuaded so easily.  He had come to talk, and talk
they would, however long it might take.

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood

Erestor was deciding that there were worse things than being bored--much worse. 
In fact, he could definitely do with a little boredom right about now, he
thought in considerable panic, as the huge dragon slowly approached the main
palace entrance.  It was big--much more so than he had expected--iridescent
green and ugly, with a long snout from which protruded a frightening array of
fangs.  More upsetting than its appearance, however, was the spark of
intelligence in those terrible yellow eyes, and Erestor couldn't help but recall
all the stories he'd heard, which he had thought mere fiction at the time, about
the cunning of dragons.  Iluvatar, but he hoped this one was dumber than it
looked!

Almost everyone at court had been sent for safety to carefully disguised
shelters in the forest, so cleverly made as to deceive even a dragon's sly
intellect.  Glorfindel and Thranduil had selected the few elves remaining in the
area to be those least likely to panic.  So what, Erestor wondered numbly, am I
doing here?  He was a lover, not a fighter, he thought desperately, as sweat
slicked his hands and ran into his eyes.  He kept tight hold of the main release
for the gate anyway, but thought again how unnecessary it was.  If Thranduil's
magic was as great as the overbearing snob was always boasting, then surely it
alone could guard the gate?  Assuming the cagey creature ever made up its mind
to actually pass through it, that was.  

Erestor tried to find Glorfindel's blond head, which had disappeared into the
shadows of the courtyard a few minutes before, but it was quite impossible.  The
only thing visible from the tiny alcove into which he had been, pretty much
forcibly, stuffed a very long half hour before, was a narrow strip of greensward
bordered by a few trees.  Oh, and a few thousand pounds of very suspicious
looking dragon that was slowly creeping closer to his hiding spot.  

Curse it, he should not have been put into this position in the first place.  He
had supposed Glorfindel to have some type of plan in mind for dealing with the
creature, but assumed that it would have to do with daring, heroic combat
somewhere in the dim recesses of the forest, after which Glorfindel would come
back, triumphantly bearing the thing's head on a pike.  Or something like that. 
When he had ventured to mention as much the previous night, however, Glorfindel
had merely looked at him in that so annoying way of his, one blond brow lifted
over an amused blue eye, and offered to hold his weapons if Erestor wished to
cover himself in glory, but remarked that he preferred to live through this
particular combat.  

And so, here they all were.  Or, at least, here Erestor was, waiting for Smaug,
or whatever Glorfindel had said its name was, to make up its mind to accept
Thranduil's dare to pit its magic against his.  The king had farspoken the
creature, offering it the opportunity to take all his treasure for itself--if it
could get past the castle's defenses.  Most of the elves would leave, and the
castle doors would be left wide open; all Smaug had to do was help himself.  Of
course, the thing must know it was a trap--even an elfling not yet out of the
creche would have discerned that--but the premise was that his greed and pride
in his abilities would overcome good sense.  Once inside the castle, he would be
trapped with a combination of magic and more concrete means, and dealt with. 
Erestor had a very bad feeling about this.  If dragons were that stupid, he
thought grumpily, they would have been hunted to extinction centuries ago.  He
only hoped Glorfindel had a backup plan.

"Why is he hesitating?"  The voice at Erestor's side so startled him that he
almost let go of the release mechanism.  He managed to keep hold of it, but only
barely, and turned to see who had been insane enough to sneak up on him. 
Legolas' bright head and worried blue eyes met his gaze.  

"Because he isn't stupid."  Oh honestly, this was all he needed right now. 
"Legolas, perhaps you'd be, er, more comfortable elsewhere."  He had almost said
safer, but fortunately realised how that was likely to be taken by an elf of his
age.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you.  Something's been bothering me, and . . . "

"Legolas, this really isn't the time."  Erestor didn't think he could cope with
any more protestations of undying affection, especially not with Smaug sizing up
the castle entrance with that particular look in his eye.

"But, Erestor . . . "

"Later, Legolas, please!"  Erestor could almost feel the dragon's fetid breath
and see the little pinpoints of light, hot as flame, in its eyes.  Elbereth! 
WHY had he ever left Imladris?"

"All right, Erestor," Legolas executed one of those peculiarly balletic
movements of his and was gone.  Erestor had no time to feel relieved, however,
for it was at that moment that Smaug finally made up his mind and attacked.

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood

Glorfindel watched as the dragon moved slowly towards the entrance gate, knowing
that as many eyes were on him as on the beast itself.  He had felt their
puzzlement, and of course knew the cause.  He could hardly fail to do so, for
their whispers floated to him on the breeze.  "How can he be relieved to face a
dragon?  Doesn't he know what they can do?"  It had taken a good deal of
self-control not to reply, yes, but I also know what they cannot.

**A different terrain, craggy and mountainous instead of bright and green; a
chill wind whipping through the passes, sounding like a banshee as it screams
past, screaming a warning, a warning of what is coming . . . **

"I suppose he thinks it's better than the alternative."

"I can't see how." 

**A horrible yet oddly beautiful mask, all molten gold and ruby fire, showing
nothing of the decayed, perverted thing within.  No, the form it takes is
flagrant splendor, its glowing, amber eyes hypnotic, its voice a hiss, low and
menacing, but with a liquid undercurrent that washes over him, almost a caress,
telling him to step aside, to let it pass, to let it kill.**

"You've heard the stories of what happens to those who fight dragons?  How they
face cunning and stealth, hide as tough as the strongest mithril armour, and
centuries of dirty tricks as well?  And how only the greatest warriors have come
back to tell of the combat?"  

"Yes, of course, that's what I'm saying--it is dangerous!"

"So, tell me, what happens to someone who fights a balrog?"

"What?"

**The force of its fury breaks like a storm, violent, savage, as unconquerable
as nature and as pitiless.  Blood, pounding in ears; heart beating far too
quickly; throat filled with ashes; pain, searing, awful, unending; yet, all
around, snow falls thickly, covering the landscape in an icy veil, and behind,
the sound of the family, his family, grows ever fainter as they escape, and then
is lost completely in the swirling, lacy snow.  And he knows, even as he falls,
that he has won.** 

"They die."

*   *   *   

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Gildor gave no outward sign of it, but he knew when Haldir appeared underneath
the willow, just at the edge of his vision.  He had always had some type of
extra sense that told him when the elf was near--there was a frisson in the air
and the day seemed to brighten.  Even now, as depressed as he was, even though
Haldir was partially the cause of that depression, it held true.  He felt his
heart begin to race with adrenaline as Haldir just stood there, watching him.  
He took a deep breath and then another, but they did not make him feel any
better; by the time Haldir finally sat down beside him, Gildor had abandoned
hope of bracing himself.  It wouldn't work anyway; Haldir seemed to have a
talent for getting past any defenses he tried to raise.  Especially now, when
everything they'd done was still fresh in his mind--every touch, every sigh--and
he knew he'd relive it all a thousand times.  What he would probably never be
able to understand was how something so perfect could have meant so little?

"You have become bored with me already, gwador?," Haldir asked, in that teasing
way of his, but with a serious undertone.  Gildor could almost have laughed at
the choice of words, so well did they reflect his own thoughts.  

"You will go back to Lorien soon," he said, a bit of a non-sequiteur, but Haldir
seemed to understand.

"Eventually.  Lord Celeborn may wish an escort when he returns, unless he and
the Lady choose to travel together.  I somehow do not think that will happen,
however, so perhaps I shall accompany him.  But what of you, gwador?  Off on
another mission, or will you stay here for a time?  Imladris is beautiful, and I
had thought you might have found amusement enough to persuade you to remain."

Gildor kept his anguished gaze on the horizon rather than meeting Haldir's eyes,
a difficult trick as the older elf had him quite successfully trapped in a tight
embrace.  He didn't want to see indifference, amused affection, or whatever
Haldir was feeling; he already knew how little he meant to him.  Having it
confirmed that he was nothing more than a way of passing time was more than he
could stand at the moment.  "I don't know," he replied shortly, wondering how
Haldir had found him, and how to best get away.  He would blame himself for it
later, he knew; any time with Haldir should be treasured, but it was at present
nothing but torment. 

"Well, I had thought perhaps . . . ," Haldir seemed strangely hesitant, "that
is, if you have just returned from a mission, as you say, surely you will be
allowed some time for yourself before resuming your duties?"  At Gildor's shrug,
he continued.  "So, if you like, you could always accompany me back to Lorien. 
It has been a long time since you saw the Golden Wood, and my brothers will be
on rotation when they return, instead of constantly underfoot."

"Return with you?"  Gildor was so surprised that he twisted about and finally
made eye contact.  What he saw there amazed him.  Haldir, usually so confident,
to the point of cockiness, looked almost shy.  "Why?" 

Haldir shrugged.  "I don't know.  For fun?  For comradeship?  Because we enjoy
being together?  I don't know what you want me to say."

"Perhaps that I am more to you than . . . than Idril," Gildor didn't know why,
out of all Haldir's conquests, the girl from the market stall should suddenly
come to mind, but she would do as well for an example as any other.  He somehow
doubted she had meant anything more to Haldir than he did.  

"Idril?"  Haldir looked genuinely puzzled for an instant, then he looked at
Gildor as if he was out of his mind.  "IDRIL?  But she was . . . well, just a
friend." 

"As I am a friend?"

"No!  I mean, of course you are my friend, at least, I hope you are," Haldir was
regarding him a little doubtfully, "but you mean more to me than a . . . a
casual fling."

"Oh?," Gildor regarded him levelly.  "When did you decide that?  I thought I was
good enough to bed when lost in a dark forest somewhere, or when bored, or when
upset over Elrond's rejection, but not for anything else."  Gildor couldn't
believe he was saying these things, but his mouth seemed to be acting
independently of his brain.  "I know you have no respect for me, but I thought
you respected yourself more than that." He tried to struggle out of Haldir's
grip. "Just let me go and we can forget that any of this ever happened." 

"No."  Haldir looked thunderstruck, but he wasn't letting go.  Gildor could have
forced the issue, but there was an expression dawning on his companion's face
that he had never thought to see there.  But when Haldir finally spoke, after
what looked like quite an inner battle, it was not words of love, but rather the
last thing Gildor had expected to hear.  "What forest?"

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood

Smaug paused just at the threshold of the gate, a whispered word floating to him
from somewhere nearby.  He had known it was too easy, that these wicked elves
were plotting something.  No king would give up centuries of accumulated
treasure to buy peace, at least, not without a fight first.  And now he knew. 
He'd been lured here, expecting to face opposition, to teach these prideful
elves just what a dragon in its prime could do, but he had never anticipated
this.  It was a word that had the power to turn even his stony heart to ice, and
he whipped about, all senses attuned to the one threat before which even he
would flee . . . 

He swirled, all wicked fangs and flashing eyes, yet with his wings half
unfurled, ready to fly if a balrog was indeed in evidence.  Then the portcullis
above his head came crashing down, pinning him against the cold stone of the
castle's forecourt, and an angry elf landed on his back and began to beat
uselessly against his protective scales.

"Curse it, Glorfindel . . . you know . . . how I hate . . . violence!"


TBC



Title: One Last Time, part 10/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor; Glorfindel/Thranduil.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  



Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court 


"What is he doing?"  Thranduil looked as dumbfounded as Glorfindel felt.

"He's attacking a dragon," Glorfindel commented, while sprinting towards his
evidently insane friend.

"Why?," echoed after him.

Because it is the last thing in Arda he should be doing, Glorfindel thought in
complete exasperation as he sped across the courtyard from his place of
concealment near the stairs.  Erestor had always specialized in doing the
unacceptable; why should today be any different?   It was with little surprise
that Glorfindel saw that he was too late.  Before he had crossed even half of
the distance between them, Smaug had thrown Erestor from his back.  However,
instead of ripping the elf in pieces as Glorfindel had feared, he simply placed
a large paw on him, trapping him as a cat would a mouse.  Erestor peered out
from under at least a hundred pounds of dragon paw, and looked mournfully at
Glorfindel.  Smaug trailed one large claw gently around his prisoner's head,
making a horrible scratching sound on the stones beneath.  Glorfindel understood
immediately and halted in his tracks.  This complicated matters somewhat.

"Well," Smaug drawled, looking pleased with himself despite his undignified
position sprawled beneath the gate.  "Unless you truly dislike this one, you
will throw down your weapons and come closer; we need to have a little chat,
elf."  Glorfindel did as he was bid, but was careful to stay just out of Smaug's
reach.  "Perhaps we can come to an understanding, without the need for
bloodshed," the dragon continued, while keeping up that annoying scritch-scratch
around Erestor.  "I can be reasonable; after all, I did not come for violence,
but for the treasure I was promised."

"And have yet to earn," Glorfindel reminded him.  "The bet was for you to get
around the king's magic, which you have not done."

"True," Smaug seemed to consider this.  "But, then, there are many ways around
magic.  One can overcome it by the exertion of one's own power or," and he
attempted what Glorfindel assumed was meant to be a smile--it was not a very
successful one, as it merely bared more fangs, "one can outsmart it.  Tell me,
elf, what odds do you give your friend's survival, should I decide to put a
little more pressure on him?"  Smaug must have increased the weight on Erestor
some at that point, for the elf emitted a squeak and turned vaguely lavender.

"Stop it, Smaug," Glorfindel warned him.  "If you kill him, you'll never get out
of here alive, you must know that."  

"Then we seem to be at something of an impasse, would you not agree?  Because if
you don't release me, and give me what I was promised, he dies--and rather
painfully at that."
He did, however, let up slightly on Erestor, which indicated to Glorfindel the
possibility of bargaining.

"King Thranduil does not want you in his realm.  You have attacked his people
and laid waste to entire areas of forest.  If you release your captive and agree
never again to enter these woods, we will let you retire from here in peace. 
Otherwise, there are a hundred elvish archers with arrows nocked, pointed at
your head."

Smaug laughed, a rolling boom that echoed across the forest like thunder. 
"Bravo!  That was truly outstanding!  I would applaud, but the dear little elf
here might not enjoy the experience."  He narrowed golden eyes at Glorfindel and
tapped his claw on the ground within an inch of Erestor's nose.  "Your archers
are useless against my scales, as you well know."

"We'll see.  In any case, we can hold you here indefinitely.  The gate alone is
as nothing to you, but the magic with which the king has infused it will trap
you for as long as he chooses.  You will become rather hungry in time, Smaug."

"In a great span of time, perhaps, elf.  But my kind does not need to eat
everyday, nor even every year!  How long do you think your friend will hold
out?"  Smaug poked Erestor lightly in the side.  "He seems a little stout for an
elf, but that won't last long.  So stop wasting my time.  Do we bargain or no?"

Thranduil had by now joined Glorfindel and was regarding Smaug with the same
expression a careful housekeeper might bestow on an ugly bug that had slipped in
under the door.  "What do you want, Smaug?"

"Ah, someone has decided to be sensible, I am glad to see.  I want, of course,
what I came for--the treasure."

"And how, precisely, do you intend to carry it away?  Or were you planning to
become a permanent fixture?"  Thranduil had crossed his arms and was glaring at
Smaug, but Glorfindel felt a little trill run through him.  The king was up to
something.

"Actually, I thought you could cart it off for me--so much easier that way. 
What else are all these elves of yours good for?  Let us see," and Smaug drummed
his fingers on the paving stones, causing Erestor to get a bit pummeled about. 
"I think we'll do it this way.  You will send the treasure under guard to my
cave in the mountains.  I will take the little creature here with me, and as
soon as payment is delivered, I will release him to your guards."

"There will, of course, have to be a magical contract binding you to keep your
word," Thranduil informed him haughtily.  "Not that I don't trust you, Smaug . .
. "

The dragon grimaced theatrically.  "You wound me, truly.  Still, I see no real
problem with such an agreement, as long as I formulate the wording."

Thranduil looked pained, but there was that frisson again.  Glorfindel managed
to refrain from regarding the king with abject surprise, but just barely; he
could not believe Thranduil would give up that much wealth to save the life of
an elf he did not even like.  "As you say.  However, I insist that the contract
include the release of Lord Erestor immediately, and that he not be taken from
here.  How do we know you won't grow hungry in the mountains?"

"Even if I did, I could not break a magical contract, any more than you--the
penalties are appalling.  So why does it matter?"

Thranduil shrugged.  "He is delicate, and the journey might harm him.  Look,
already the strain shows," and Smaug bent his huge head to regard Erestor
contemplatively.  The elf's colour was not good and his breathing was laboured,
bearing out Thranduil's words.  Glorfindel could almost hear Smaug thinking that
a dead captive would be of little use.  "Very well, but you know the penalty for
breaking your word.  To the contract then."  Smaug took a few minutes to think,
and then, in an incongruously businesslike voice, he recited: "I, Smaug, agree
to release the captive elf in my keeping, and to solemnly swear never again to
enter the realm of Mirkwood for any reason whatever; in return, I am to be
granted all treasure now residing in the castle of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood,
to be delivered by him to a location of my choosing no later than one week
hence."

"Agreed," Thranduil said, "but I must add two things.  First, my transportation
crew are not to be injured--including becoming an afternoon snack for you."
Smaug looked offended, but nodded.  "Secondly, the one week will, of course,
depend on the location of this cave of yours.  If it is too far, I am to be
granted sufficient extra time for transport."

"It is a three day's march only," Smaug assured him, "but, just to show my
sincerity, I grant you an extra week.  Loading all that may take a while!"

"Done."  Two magical streams emanating from the bargainers met and merged, and
the deal was complete.  

"If you wouldn't mind?," Smaug said, looking a trifle bored, now that the whole
thing was over.  He rolled his eyes in the direction of the gate.

"Oh, yes, of course.  Release him!"  Thranduil's command had scarcely rung out
before the great portcullis was lifted, and Smaug regained his footing, flexing
his great wings experimentally to see if anything was broken.  

"In two weeks, King of Mirkwood," he reminded him, before stretching his wings
and taking off in a surprisingly graceful motion, almost flattening the
surrounding elves with the force of the wind he stirred up.

Erestor remained, lying face down, until Glorfindel gently turned him over. 
"Are you all right?"

"I slipped."

"I know.  It will be all right.  Although," Glorfindel added, looking up at
Thranduil, who appeared insufferably smug about something, "I would greatly like
to know why the king was willing to part with so much treasure, to save the life
of an Imladris' elf."

Thranduil smirked.  "Perhaps I am mellowing in my old age, or perhaps I have
learned to appreciate the . . . charms . . . of some elves of that realm."

Erestor struggled to his feet, looking somewhat the worse for wear.  "My
greatest thanks, o king," he commented, and executed a fairly passable bow,
given the circumstances.  

Thranduil waved a casual hand.  "Oh, think nothing of it.  Although you may tell
Lord Elrond that I expect to be reimbursed for my expenses; say, two strips of
mithril?"

Glorfindel's suspicions climbed even further.  "Two strips, for all your
treasure?  Truly, the tales of Thranduil's great wealth were much exaggerated."

Thranduil laughed.  "Oh no, in fact, seneschal, you may find you were not told
the half of it.  However, as my people moved all of my treasure to the safety of
our forest bowers last night, I think that should cover the few items that
remain.  I am afraid Smaug made a poor bargain, but he is now stuck with it,
like it or no."

Glorfindel just stared, then a slow smile began to take over his features.  "You
truly live up to your reputation, Thranduil of Mirkwood.  I will almost be sorry
for us to leave here.  I have the feeling we could learn much of guile from you,
among other things!"

Thranduil suddenly became very still.  "Leave?  Oh, but seneschal, please recall
that our deal was only in force if you killed a balrog.  I do not believe that
occurred, Lord Glorfindel, nor did I see you even slay a dragon."  

You have to give him credit, Glorfindel thought; he did meet his gaze.  And,
although the king flushed slightly, his eyes were resolute.  "You would refuse
to release Erestor, even though no evil haunts your realm?"

"You misunderstand me," Thranduil replied, his expression so serious that any
hope of this all being a joke was lost.  "Lord Erestor may leave whenever he
chooses--as long, that is, as you remain in his place."

Glorfindel stepped closer to the king and lowered his voice, to the point, he
hoped, that even Elvish ears could not hear him.  "Don't do this."

"You leave me no choice.  I will not be left alone again, Glorfindel."

"I will hate you for this."

"For a time, perhaps," Thranduil acknowledged, "but for always?  I do not think
so."  He stepped back a pace from Glorfindel and raised his voice.  "I am glad
you agree with me, Lord Glorfindel.  You will be an ornament to my court."

Glorfindel sighed.  No matter how long he lived, it was always a disappointment
to see people live down to expectations.  "Very well, but I would beg a moment
to say goodbye to my colleagues."

"Of course.  Take all the time you wish."  Thranduil was not looking as
self-satisfied as he might have done under the circumstances.  Perhaps there is
a conscience in there after all, Glorfindel mused.  Too bad he couldn't spare
the time to stay and find out.  He could think of worse ways to pass a few
centuries . . . 

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: On the edge of Mirkwood

Erestor had been brooding to the degree that he barely noticed when, after they
had passed beyond the borders of the wood king's realm, Tuor threw off his hood
and, instead of the haughty agent, there sat Glorfindel.  Had he been thinking
clearly, Erestor might have wondered before how Tuor had managed to control
Glorfindel's white stallion, which was well known for throwing any other rider. 
He couldn't very well be expected to be logical after the day he'd had, however.

"He dumped me!"

"What?"  Glorfindel looked a little bemused at Erestor's greeting.

"Legolas!  The little imp dumped me, for some milk toast elfling in his father's
guards, can you believe it?"  Erestor still couldn't.  Never, in all his long
years . . . well, that was certainly the last time he had anything to do with an
elfling just entering fenneth!  They were far too unreliable.

"Well," Glorfindel couldn't resist pointing out, "That was what you wanted,
wasn't it?  To get rid of him?"

"Yes, but . . . not like this!  I have NEVER been just thrown over like that! 
He has no taste."  Erestor tried to maintain his air of outraged dignity, but
his heart really wasn't in it.  Even while bemoaning the loss of his Mirkwood
infatuation, his eyes were skimming over Aikanaro and Valandil's forms, so very
alike and so enchanting, as they rode ahead.

"Some of ours?," he murmured, thinking he'd seen them somewhere before.

"Yes, two of Elrond's agents.  Why?"

"Oh, I was just thinking that, in between fighting orcs and wargs and whatever
else lies between here and home, I'm going to need something to do."

"But--they are father and son!"  Erestor noticed with amusement that his friend
looked rather shocked.  Really, he could be such an old maid sometimes.

"Why, Glorfindel, you surprise me.  I was just thinking about teaching them a
new card game I learned recently, from some of Thranduil's gaolers.  It's called
As Nas."*

"Everyone knows that--we often play it at court."

Erestor smiled.  "My version is a little different.  I call it, strip As Nas. 
Remind me to teach it to you sometime," and, spurring on his horse, he joined
the agents, a broad smile on his face.  

*   *   *

Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court

Legolas followed his father into his chambers, still feeling a little guilty
over cutting Erestor loose like that, but then, Almar was so very 
beautiful . . . "

"What's this?"  Thranduil was regarding a large bundle, which was squirming so
as to almost fall off his chaise.  It was wrapped in canvas, but had a large
blue bow on top.  A little card had been attached to the bow, which Thranduil
took, an odd gleam coming into his eyes.  Legolas gingerly unwrapped the
package, but jumped when his father's great laugh suddenly reverberated around
the room.  Stripping away the last of the canvas, he was surprised to see a
naked, bound and gagged elf sitting there, blue eyes flashing fire.  For a
minute he had thought it was Lord Glorfindel, as the elf was about the same
height and shape, and had almost identical colouring, but after a moment he
realised his mistake.  His father shooed him from the chamber a moment later,
but Legolas managed to surreptitiously scoop up the note, which had fluttered to
the floor when Thranduil threw the elf over his shoulder and disappeared with
him into the bedroom.

Itching with curiosity, Legolas opened the small letter, and then had to quickly
put a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle.   Well, at least that explains why
"Tuor" had been all muffled up when the party from Imladris left that afternoon. 

"My dear Thranduil, Being under orders to return as soon as possible to
Imladris, I must take my leave of you, despite your gracious invitation to
remain.  However, remembering that you expressed a desire for someone who would
belong only to you, I have taken the liberty of leaving a little present behind. 
Tuor is a bit feisty, but I am confident you can manage.  My love, Glorfindel."

*   *   *  

* This was actually a popular card game in the Middle Ages.  It usually had five
players, but Erestor probably made do ;)  It seems to have originated in Persia
and is accepted as the forerunner of some of our modern poker games.


Title: One Last Time, part 11/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)  I'd hoped to have this ready for Valentine's
Day, but RL interfered.  Enjoy.


Third Age: 3018, The Road to Woodhall


O Elbereth!  Gilthoniel!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this land far beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas.

Gildor felt the presence of the small group of hobbits before he saw them, but
intended to merely travel on with his party, leaving them to their business,
until he noticed the last in line.  Bilbo had asked him to keep an eye on his
nephew whenever Gildor's business took him near the Shire, and he had become
rather fond of the small creature over time, seeing in him a rare innocence. 
"Hail Frodo!," he cried.  "You are abroad late.  Or are you perhaps lost?"  Then
he called to the others and his company gathered around the travelers.

"This is indeed wonderful!," they said.  "Three hobbits in a wood at night!  We
have not seen such a thing since Bilbo went away.  What is the meaning of it?" 

"The meaning of it, fair people," Frodo replied, "is simply that we seem to be
going the same way as you are.  I like walking under the stars.  But I would
welcome your company."

Gildor thought that, if Frodo planned to make a career of deception, he would
soon starve; a more transparent evasion he had never heard.  He let his
companions answer, therefore, while he watched the tiny creature carefully.

"But we have no need of other company, and hobbits are so dull," they replied,
laughing.  "And how do you know that we go the same way as you, for you do not
know wither we are going?"

"And how do you know my name?," asked Frodo, and Gildor almost smiled.  That was
more like it.  Any relative of Bilbo's should be able to take charge of a
conversation--the Valar knew the old hobbit had almost talked Gildor's ears off
at Imladris, more than once.  

Gildor felt more than saw his companions' questioning glances at him, asking, in
effect, how much they should reveal.  He made no reply, so, in the manner of
elves, they prevaricated.  "We know many things.  We have seen you often before
with Bilbo, though you may not have seen us."

"Who are you, and who is your lord?", Frodo demanded, and Gildor answered while
wondering how to draw the little creature out.  He had no idea why Frodo, who he
had last seen living a peaceful, if rather dull, existence in the Shire, should
be walking abroad in the middle of the night, with a group of friends who jumped
at every sound.  "I am Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod.  We are Exiles,
and most of our kindred have long ago departed and we too are now only tarrying
here a while, ere we return over the Great Sea.  But some of our kinsfolk dwell
still in peace in Rivendell.  Come now Frodo, tell us what you are doing?  For
we see that there is some shadow of fear upon you."

"O Wise People!," one of Frodo's companions interrupted as if he could contain
himself no longer.  "Tell us about the Black Riders!"

Gildor felt as if an icy hand had clasped around his heart.  Surely they could
not mean the Nazgul?  He and his companions had standing orders from Elrond to
report any rumours of the Nine they heard, but surely, these hobbits must be
referring to some other group.  They had no reason to even have heard of
Sauron's creatures.  "Black Riders?  Why do you ask about Black Riders?"

The same hobbit answered, "Because two Black Riders have overtaken us today, or
one has done so twice.  Only a little while ago he slipped away as you drew
near."

Gildor gestured to his companions, who drew away from the sharp Hobbit ears, and
spoke softly.  "All of you know what Lord Elrond has always said about the
Nazgul--that we are to report to him anything we might chance to hear about
them.  I would question these Hobbits further about that which they have seen."

"And you really think it was one of the Nazgul which followed them?," Vëon asked
skeptically.  One of the older elves in the company, Vëon seemed to believe it
to always be his responsibility to question every decision Gildor made, despite
the fact that Elrond had named him leader.  It would be annoying, except that
Gildor had long passed the age where other's comments galled him.  Except for
one, he thought fondly, who was always able to get under his skin.  Gildor
reminded himself of his father's advice to always think every important concern
through three times before making a decision, and he smiled at Vëon, a habit
which never failed to madden the other elf.  Vëon couldn't know it, but Gildor
actually liked having him around; it certainly insured that he always remembered
his father's words, rather than have a member of his company make him look the
fool.  

"I do not know; from their description it could be almost anything, or anyone. 
But we will never know unless we investigate.  Besides, I was also charged with
observing this hobbit, and asked by Bilbo to keep him safe.  Both goals are
served by taking them with us for a time."  The others agreed, and Gildor turned
back to find the hobbits looking at them nervously.  All except for one, a
rather stout fellow with dark blond hair and huge hazel eyes, who was regarding
Gildor as if he were some type of demi-god.  Gildor found this somewhat
unnerving--he was not accustomed to being an object of fascination--but chose to
ignore it.  "We will not speak of this here," he told the hobbits.  "We think
you had best come now with us.  It is not our custom, but for this time we will
take you on our road, and you shall lodge with us tonight, if you will."

The hobbits seemed pleased, and Frodo even managed a passable elvish greeting
that amused Gildor immensely. "Be careful friends! Speak no secrets!  Here is a
scholar in the ancient tongue," he smiled at Frodo in pleasure.  "Bilbo was a
good master.  Hail, Elf-Friend!"  Then he shepherded them towards Woodhall,
where the elves had already planned to stop for the night under the ancient
trees.

The evening passed quickly, with the meal that followed the long walk
highlighted by much laughter and song.  Gildor managed to arrange a private
conversation with Frodo after the repast when the hobbit's companions had fallen
into much deserved rest, and satisfied himself that the riders pursuing them
were almost certainly Nazgul.  Gildor did not usually give advice, especially
not to other than elf-kind, but in this case he made an exception.  "Flee
them!," he told Frodo earnestly.  "Speak no words to them!  They are deadly." 
He also advised Frodo in the strongest terms to proceed at once to Rivendell
where he would be under Lord Elrond's protection.  Gildor wished that he could
accompany him on the way, but he and his companions were already charged with an
important mission by Imladris' master, and could not wait.

After their conversation, Gildor led Frodo to a bower alongside those of his
friends where he could sleep safely, and returned to the fire, his thoughts
troubled.  He seated himself, watching as a pale, luminous moth circled the
flames, dancing just beyond their reaching fingers, darting in and out of the
flickering shadows on the grass.  It was strangely metaphoric of the type of
life he had long lived himself, and he could only hope Frodo would have as much
success avoiding danger.  

After several moments, a movement caught Gildor's eye and he looked up, to
discover that the sandy haired hobbit was awake, his eyes reflecting the
firelight as they watched Gildor with a combination of awe and wonder.  "I
thought you slept, friend," Gildor commented in surprise, for this one had
curled up at Frodo's feet early in the evening and not stirred again.

"That I did, sir, for awhile anyways, but then I woke up again, I guess."  The
hobbit looked tired, so Gildor offered to lead him to a bower, but he declined. 
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll just stay here a while.  I can see Mr.
Frodo, and that's good enough for me."

"You care for your friend," Gildor smiled.  Such devotion was rare these days.  

"That I do, sir."  The hobbit stared into the flames and sighed.  The longing
that briefly passed over his features might have gone unnoticed by another, even
another elf, but Gildor had spent too many years in a similar state not to
recognise it.  The hobbit looked up, caught his eye, and blushed.  Gildor
managed to keep his expression neutral, and the creature was soon reassured. 
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but . . . I was just wondering . . . did you mean
what you said, about Mr. Frodo being in danger from those riders?"

Gildor started to give a glib answer, but the depth of feeling in the hobbit's
earnest hazel eyes stopped him.  He had no doubts that this one would go
wherever Frodo did, and he would therefore share the danger.  Better that he
knew the truth.  "What is your name, master hobbit?  For I dislike having a
conversation with one to whom I have not been introduced."  This last was said
with a smile that calmed the apprehension that had flared in the hobbit's eyes
at the thought that he might have offended his host.

"Sam, sir, that is, Samwise Gamgee is my name, but everybody just calls me Sam."

"You are a good friend to Frodo, Sam, I can see it when you look at him.  You'll
be going with him, then, wherever his road may lead?"

"That I will, sir.  I promised Gandalf not to leave him, and I won't!  You can
count on that."

Gildor nodded.  Unless he badly misread the signs, Sam meant exactly what he
said.  Gildor could only pray that Elbereth would watch over them both, but he
could not shake the feeling that many difficulties lay in their path.  "Then
guard him well, and flee all signs of the riders, Sam.  They are evil, and will
harm him, and you, if they can.  Stay off the main roads whenever you can, and
be especially careful in darkness, for that is when their power is greatest." 
Gildor forced himself to say no more, for he had not spoken to Gandalf and, if
the wizard was indeed meeting them as Frodo had said, he would no doubt resent
interference in his business.  Besides, where the Nine were concerned, what else
was there to say?  Knowing what they were would only terrify the hobbits and not
improve their chances of eluding them.

Sam nodded, looking thoughtful until his expression was overtaken by a massive
yawn.  Gildor laughed to see it, and pulled him away from the fire, leading him
to a bower alongside Frodo and the others.  Sam curled up at Frodo's side like a
faithful puppy, looking at his friend adoringly before falling into sleep. 
Gildor regarded them with amused fondness before returning to his place by the
fire.  He was not tired, and preferred to watch himself this night, if there
were indeed Nazgul about.

The fire cracked and sparked as he added a bit more wood and settled once more
before it, his mind largely on the puzzle of the hobbits and what could have
brought them into opposition to the Nine.  As time passed, however, he kept
returning to the image of Sam and Frodo, curled up together as if two parts of
one person.  Gildor suddenly hoped very much that, whatever their errand might
be, they would find their way safely through the dangers that almost certainly
awaited them.  They did so remind him of two other 
lovers . . . he prayed that their path to happiness would be easier and swifter.


Third Age, 180: Imladris      

  
Gildor jerked back, naked fear on his face as Haldir's question sunk in.  If he
had not been so consumed with dread, he could have evaded or made up a plausible
sounding answer, but his reaction made it obvious that the comment had not been
an idle one.  Haldir's sharp blue eyes missed little, and they were as
determined as Gildor had ever seen them as he asked again, "What forest,
gwador?"

Gildor tried to rise, flight the only thing on his mind, but strong arms held
him captive.  With no escape possible, he buried his face against Haldir's
shoulder and prayed that he would let the question pass.  He felt soft lips on
his hair and gentle touches on his back, but he was not allowed to move away,
and Gildor knew he would have to make some type of response.  He tried to
concentrate, to invent a believable explanation, but his actions had already
betrayed him.  So, over the next few minutes, he slowly poured out the story of
what had happened all those years before.  He explained it as dispassionately as
possible, keeping his voice level and choosing his words as carefully as he
could.  Still, he told the truth, knowing that Haldir would wrench it from him
eventually.  He could not bring himself to look Haldir in the eyes, but felt him
jerk spasmodically several times during the narrative.  At last, it was done,
and Gildor felt some better with the telling, a fact that surprised him.  A few
moments before, he would have given almost anything to avoid it, but now that it
was over, he felt both relief and a strange sense of closure.  Perhaps, he
thought with mounting joy, they could put all this behind them . . . then he saw
Haldir's expression, and all the fears of those lonely centuries came crashing
back.  

Haldir looked appalled, and Gildor suddenly realised that, however difficult it
had been for him to relive it all, it had taken equal courage for Haldir to
listen.  Just how much the effort had cost him was obvious.  Like most mature
elves, Haldir never showed any emotions except those he wished--his pride
demanded perfect control.  However, his normal calm was now completely
shattered.  The face Gildor loved more than any in Arda shone with tears, which
Haldir must have shed silently as Gildor spoke, for he had heard nothing.  His
face was dead white, pain showed in his eyes and one hand clutched his stomach
as if someone had just kicked him.  The arm encircling Gildor's waist had gone
limp, freeing him if he wished to go, but he did not move away.  It was strange,
that the memory of his own grief was far less painful to him than the sight of
Haldir's evident distress.  Gildor caught him in a strong embrace, wishing more
than anything for the words to bring him peace.


Third Age, 180: Imladris      

Haldir felt Gildor's arms go around him, but did not respond.  He was completely
stunned, unable to think, much less to react.  He vaguely wondered how Gildor
could stand even to touch him, but even that thought could not break through the
horror that numbed his mind.  Elbereth!  He was . . . he was unclean . . . like
one of the orcs who fell on each other at every opportunity!  The First Born
simply did not act thus.  He would be an outcast among his people--no one would
speak to him or own kinship with him.  Nor should they; what he had done was
simply unthinkable.  It was vile, something even most men would scorn to do . .
. Haldir would desperately have liked to deny the whole thing to himself, but
there was no doubt of the sincerity in Gildor's words.  And he had not wanted to
tell him, had, Haldir suddenly understood, never intended to tell him.  

Haldir suddenly noticed that his head hurt, a vivid furious pain behind his
temples.  He lifted a shaking hand to his eyes and realised that he was crying,
really sobbing, like some tiny elfling. Angrily, he ran his tunic sleeve across
his face and fought to bring himself under some type of control, but it was
useless.  He was overcome with shame, deep and bitter and smothering, to the
point that it was a struggle just to breathe.  He could not accept that he had
done . . . that . . . to one of the most gentle spirits he had ever known.  

Soft sounds came to his ears then, but in his current state it took Haldir a few
minutes to understand that it was Gildor.  He was not, as he had every right to
be, cursing Haldir's name or muttering threats.  Instead, and Haldir found this
almost impossible to believe, he was murmuring soothing words of comfort and
love, and his eyes were glistening. "Gildor," Haldir regarded him
disbelievingly, "you cry for me?"  It was impossible, yet there was no mistaking
the expression in those deep brown eyes. Gildor was upset, but there was no
rancor when he looked at Haldir, only distress over his companion's anguish. 
"Why?"

"You should not . . . it was so long ago," Gildor seemed to be trying to find
words that would make the pain go away, and having some difficulty.  Haldir
could not imagine why he was even trying.

"How can you bear to . . . talk to me, to touch me?," Haldir asked in genuine
bewilderment.  "After what I did?"

"But you did not know!," Gildor hugged him fiercely.  "You were raving, almost
unconscious from the poison.  It wasn't you, not really--I always knew that."

Haldir shook his head.  The words were kind and, oh, how he would have liked to
believe them, but there was no excuse for what had happened.  None that he could
offer Gildor, and none to give himself.  The worst of all, Haldir thought
grimly, was that his offensiveness had robbed him of any chance of having a real
relationship for the first time in his life.  He looked at Gildor now, making a
great effort to disguise the naked longing that he knew probably shone from his
eyes.  He knew, now that it was too late, that he would never find another with
a soul like Gildor's, with such a capacity to love, and to pardon.  

Haldir saw the forgiveness in his companion's gaze, and could only wonder at it. 
Would he have been able to do as much, were the pain his own?  He honestly did
not know.  He gazed in amazement at the beauty that shone through Gildor's
expression.  Elbereth!  How had he never seen it before?  He must have been
blind!  How ironic, that now, when he finally knew to the marrow of his bones
what he wanted, he also knew that he didn't deserve it.  He shut his eyes to
block out that fair face, and the searing pain that accompanied it.  

It was with complete surprise, then, that Haldir felt a soft touch on his lips. 
He kept his eyes closed, convinced that he must be losing his mind; perhaps
grief of this magnitude triggered some type of defense mechanism; allowing you
to believe, for an instant, that you had a chance at what you wanted most in all
the world.  But in this case, it was the one thing he could never hope to have,
and he knew it. When a velvety tongue pressed against him, Haldir opened for it
automatically, savouring the sensations for however long they lasted.   It was
not until he felt warm hands slowly undressing him that he opened his eyes and
discovered that the illusion was real.

Dawning wonder in his eyes, he saw Gildor toss his shirt aside to join his tunic
in the grass.  "What . . .Gildor, what are you doing?"  Haldir sincerely had no
idea.  

That beautiful blush Haldir had always loved stained Gildor's cheeks.  "I
thought . . . well, perhaps we could do it properly this time."  He pressed
something into Haldir's palm, and the blond elf looked down to see that it was
his salve from the bedroom.  "I think this would help," he commented, and the
cheeky elf actually grinned at him.  Haldir could think of absolutely nothing to
say.

"Unless you don't want to," Gildor looked suddenly afraid, and his blush
increased.  "I'm sorry," he said as Haldir continued to sit there, staring at
him in dumbfounded wonder,   "I suppose it was a stupid idea."  His hands
dropped from his own shirt, which he had been in the process of undoing, to
clench together in his lap.  The look of misery on his face was more than Haldir
could bear.

"No, no Gildor!"  Haldir grabbed his hands and brought them to his lips,
unclenching each one and pressing a kiss to the palms.  He still could not put
into words what he felt.  All the glib phrases of his long career suddenly
seemed trite, overused, and not nearly good enough for Gildor.  Later, when his
head was clear, he promised himself to compose a song--a whole scroll of
songs--describing his love, and his disbelief that Gildor could still want him
after everything that had happened between them.  But, for the moment, words
completely failed him.  Action, however, he thought he could manage.  If Gildor
really wanted a new memory to wipe away the old, then he would have one--and one
to remember.  "Come here," and Haldir drew him close, kissing him gently, but
with all the love he could not put into words.

Gildor melted into his embrace, feeling so perfect against him that it was all
Haldir could manage not to start weeping again.  How could he not have known, as
soon as he saw him, touched him?  Marveling at his own blindness, Haldir saw a
succession of images flit across his mind--Gildor at the archery contest, all
childish angles and hot, determined eyes; Gildor in his talan, feeling so right
in his arms; Gildor in the forest, never wavering as he faced a hoard of beasts
frightening enough to make an experienced warrior blanch; Gildor on that long
road back to Imladris, so quiet, so careful not to draw attention to himself,
and yet, how often had Haldir's glance lingered on him?  Since they met for a
second time here, at Imladris, how easily he had captured Haldir once more!  A
few hours in his company and Haldir had been enchanted all over again.  Perhaps,
he thought now, he had not been quite so blind after all.

Haldir finished undressing the precious creature before him, promising himself
to swathe Gildor in the finest of everything as soon as possible.  His father's
fortune might actually prove useful for something, for a change, instead of just
making he and his brothers look foolish among the Galadrim.  What a time he
would have, dressing this one as he deserved!  Although, he thought wickedly as
his companion was bared once more to his gaze, he really much preferred him this
way. 

Taking his time, Haldir let his lips explore every part of the beautiful one
who, for some inexplicable reason, had decided to give him a second chance. 
Determined not to disappoint, he drew on every piece of information, every skill
obtained in a lifetime of giving and receiving pleasure, to delight his
companion.  It seemed to be working, for within a few minutes, Gildor was
moaning softly and pleading for more.  A warm, rich glow suffused his entire
body, and, when Haldir nipped tenderly at one elegantly pointed ear, the sound
he made sent a bolt of pleasure arching through them both.

Haldir tried to turn Gildor over, but his companion stopped him.  "No, I want to
see you."  Haldir nodded his understanding, suddenly unable to speak, and
positioned Gildor as comfortably as possible.  Taking much more time than usual,
he very carefully inserted one finger, gently turning and stretching until he
was absolutely sure Gildor was ready to accept a second.  His own passion, held
in check by the amount of concentration he had been focusing on his companion,
was now threatening to overwhelm, but Haldir forced himself to wait.  Spreading
his lover's legs a little further, he finished opening him thoroughly, adding a
third finger along with more lubricant.  He wanted to be certain Gildor would be
as much at ease as feasible given his lack of experience.  He tried to ignore
how the flesh felt around his fingers--tight and moist and slowly yielding--or
the way Gildor moved under him, his passion building with Haldir's prolonged
attentions.

"Please, Haldir!," Gildor finally gasped out, "please . . . "

Haldir had never been more grateful to hear anything in his life.  He felt like
he must explode at any moment, and only long practise had allowed him to
complete the preparations properly.  He tried to focus on something other than
Gildor, all rosy pink and writhing beneath him, to stay calm enough not to rush
things.  He tried to concentrate on what the tree beside them was saying--was
all the vegetation at Imladris so talkative?--but it did not help much and he
finally gave up.   He nonetheless slowly slid just inside his lover, taking the
utmost care not to hurt him. Gildor made a moan, which Haldir assumed was of
pain, and he somehow managed enough control to withdraw, only to have his
companion glare at him.  "Haldir! Now!"  

Haldir almost laughed with relief, love and the unaccustomed tone of command in
Gildor's voice.  Entering him again, he nonetheless took his time, although it
was one of his greatest challenges; it had been a long time since he'd had a
lover this tight, and he had almost forgotten how intense the sensation could
be.  He had never felt this way about any of his former companions, however, and
he wanted to give Gildor as much pleasure as he could.  The wait was worth it,
for soon they were moving together in a rhythm so natural that it felt like they
had done this a thousand times.   

Although Haldir drew the experience out as long as he could, he finished before
he would have liked--clutching Gildor in his ardor as if he would never let him
go.  And I won't, he silently promised them both.  A few seconds later, and
Gildor finished as well, their passions mingling as their hearts had already
done.  Haldir was about to compliment his lover, assuming any words could
possibly suffice, when an icy blast of water suddenly drenched them both. 
Haldir flipped over, too stunned and sated for immediate anger, only to find
Elrohir glaring at him, an empty bucket in his hands.

"Well, the beech assured us you needed watering," Elrohir commented, before
turning and stalked off back to the house.

Glorfindel gave the two of them an amused glance, quirking an eyebrow in that
annoying way of his.  "Do try not to upset the trees further," he requested
politely, before hurrying off to catch his lover.    
 
"I think we should continue this conversation indoors," Haldir commented, wiping
water out of his eyes and wondering if anything about Imladris would ever make
sense.  

Gildor agreed, laughing, but stopped for a moment as they started to leave the
glade.  He ran back and put his hands on the beech for a few seconds before
rejoining Haldir.  

"What was that all about?", Haldir asked, scooping up their clothes so they
didn't have to streak through the corridors of Imladris.      

Gildor wrapped an arm about his lover's waist and the force of his smile made
Haldir dizzy.  "Just thanking a friend.  Come on, race you to the baths!"

Haldir watched him run off up the hill for a second, then gave a mental shrug. 
Oh well, he was certain they wouldn't be the first to ever race through the
stately halls of Imladris sans clothing.  In fact, after everything he'd learned
about Elrond's house in the last few weeks, he wouldn't be surprised if it was
an every day event.  "Wait for me," he called to Gildor, laughing.  "You aren't
getting away that easily!"

TBC 


Title: One Last Time, part 12/12
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Haldir/Gildor
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.  Even Gildor Inglorion isn't
mine--Tolkien had him first.
Warnings: None except that it's slash.  
Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc
(Unspoken/Revelations/Changes.)


Fourth Age, year 61 (Shire date September 21, 1482): The Shire


The grave had been dug in mid-summer, and rose bushes planted around the newly
turned earth.  It had been beautiful throughout the months since, as it was soon
covered over by a blanket of new green grass and crimson rose petals.  Now,
however, the first golden brown leaves of fall blew over the ground, forcing the
bent old hobbit that tended it to have to keep a daily vigil to clear them away. 
He sat beside the grave now, as evening's shadows crept slowly over the little
glade, and brushed aside a bright gold leaf.  It reminded him of his wife's hair
when she had been young, and was now reflected in that of one of his daughters.  

He had already had his own grave prepared, right beside that of his beloved and
much mourned wife.  Frankly, he was getting a bit irritated at the wait to join
her.  His joints pained him whenever he moved and he could no longer walk
completely upright; neither could he kneel for the length of time needed to tend
his garden, which had forced him to give it up the year before.  His neighbour's
little daughter had kindly brought him flowers every day that summer (for which
he had rewarded her generously with treats) but it wasn't the same as when your
own hands tended them.  He sighed.  He was 109 years old and felt every one of
them, especially when autumn breezes blew chilly blasts beneath his door,
causing him to already have to wear several extra layers and to huddle round the
fire each night for warmth.  He was not looking forward to an icy winter in the
Shire, with no constructive work left to do.  No, better that he join Rosie
before then.  

He couldn't imagine what was taking so long.  He had already put all his affairs
in order and was perfectly willing to go.  Indeed, he had thought that the cold
he'd had a month back might have done it, but no; Elanor had come to nurse him
and he hadn't had the heart to send her away.  So he had recovered.  His
continued passable health was making him grumpy.  Samwise Gamgee, seven times
mayor of the Shire, was not accustomed to having his will thwarted.  He had been
such a successful mayor because he never let obstacles stand in his way.  Others
praised his fortitude, a fact that caused Sam no little amusement considering
that the matters they viewed as insurmountable problems, seemed to him mere
inconveniences.  After all he had been through with Frodo, it took more than any
Shire troubles to daunt him. 

Ah, Frodo.  Sam settled back on the little bench he'd had installed beside
Rosie's grave, and thought back to a face that--yes, he could admit it now--had
been dearer to him even than hers.  He had wanted to accompany Frodo across the
Sea, when the sickness brought on by Shelob's bite did not fade, but had been
forbidden.  "You are needed here, Sam," Frodo had protested, his face contorted
with pain, as it had been much of that year.  "If Elbereth wills it, we shall
see each other again someday," and Sam had hugged him fiercely and, reluctantly,
let him go.  Frodo had had to leave--there simply was no medicine in Arda that
could cure him; even the elves had failed.  And Sam knew that  Rosie was
counting on him, and there was so much to do in the Shire, and he did feel that
he had been useful . . .  

At first, he had thought of Frodo every day, and agonized over his decision. 
But time passed and children and work intervened, and his time to think of his
best friend became less: once or twice a week, then a few times a month, and, in
recent years, only on Frodo's birthday, or when some casual mention brought him
to mind.  But this year had been different.  Since Rosie's death, he had found
himself thinking about Frodo more and more, and wondering again what might have
been, had he chosen differently.   

He sighed and removed a brilliant red leaf from the grave with the tip of his
cane.  It was foolish to sit here, mooning over events that were now little more
than ancient history to most of his kind.  The events of the Last War were told
as bedtime stories to children, and Frodo's and his adventures were no more real
to them than any other fairy story.  But oh, he remembered, and had taken to
reading again of late the Red Book of Bilbo's adventures, in which Frodo had
also inscribed the story of their own.  It had all come flooding back, to the
point that now, at the end of his life, he wondered if that year, that whole
wonderful and terrible year, had not been the only time he had ever really
lived.  Strange, that thinking of Frodo made him want to live so badly, when he
really needed to be thinking along other lines . . .

Sam was so caught up in his memories that he failed to notice his visitor until
the tall stranger seated himself on the bench.  "Good evening, Sam." 

Sam squinted up at the grey cloaked figure--his eyesight was another thing that
had been failing recently--and wondered why he was being addressed so
familiarly.  No one but Rosie and a few old friends had called him just Sam in
more years than he could remember.  "This is private land," he informed the
stranger gruffly.  The elf--for so Sam realised he must be when gracefully
curved ears were revealed when he lowered his hood--looked at him in amusement
but did not shift from the seat.  

"Oh, we will not tarry here long, although it is a pretty place."  The stranger
regarded the little grave, and the meadow and ring of trees surrounding it, with
appreciation.  "I was told you were a handy gardener."

"Once, perhaps, but no more," Sam said testily, waving a gnarled hand under the
stranger's nose.  He had long ago got over his childish infatuation with elves,
and did not appreciate one trespassing in his little glade, especially when he
wanted to be alone.  

"Well, perhaps you will tend another garden elsewhere," the elf commented, while
settling himself with the patience peculiar to his race, as if intending to
allow himself to grow to the bench.  

"I have not seen an elf in these parts in many a year.  What brings you here
now, and do you have a name?  I dislike conversing with someone who hasn't even
introduced himself."  For some reason, this irritable diatribe seemed to amuse
the stranger, for he laughed in the silvery tones peculiar to elves, and the
sound was so sweet that Sam almost forgot to be annoyed.

"I recall saying much the same to you once," he answered, "so it is fitting that
you should return the comment to me.  I do apologize, Master Samwise, but I
thought you might remember me.  I am Gildor Inglorion, of the House of Finrod,
and we have met before."

Sam looked the elf over, from head to toe, and tried to think back.  He was
possibly telling the truth, for Sam could imagine no reason why he would lie,
but his memory refused to cooperate and bring up the requested image.  He
recalled the meeting, but not the face.  He sighed, so much seemed to be
slipping away these days.  "And why do you travel in the Shire, Master Gildor? 
For we almost never see elves anymore."

Gildor smiled, and Sam felt warmth breaking over him like the sun on a summer's
day.  "Why, for you, of course, Sam.  I would have come before, but some
preparations had to be made.  They are now complete, and I have been sent to
fetch you."

"Fetch me to where?," Sam demanded, and then continued on before the elf could
speak.  "I am not going anywhere.  It has been many years since I last traveled,
and besides, winter will be coming soon."  He drew his heavy woolen shawl closer
around him and thought once more about the long, cold months stretching ahead. 
It would be his first winter without Rosie . . . 

"I was told you might be difficult," Gildor commented, but his eyes were merry
and his smile, if anything, broadened.  He did not seem to be taking Sam's mood
to heart, and it made the old hobbit all that much more exasperated.

"I am sitting calmly on a bench, watching the dusk fall on my own land, not
bothering a soul.  I am not the one being difficult," he huffed.

Gildor continued to regard him calmly.  "You are not watching night fall,
Samwise, and we both know it.  You are sitting at your wife's graveside, and
mourning all that could have been.  While you should be pursuing what is yet
possible."

Samwise Gamgee, seven times mayor of the Shire and last of the Ringbearers still
in Middle Earth, respected by all and feared by those few who had dared to cross
him, had not been spoken to in such a manner in longer than he could remember. 
"Have a care, Master Gildor, for I am no elfling to be rebuked so!  If I choose
to sit by my Rosie's grave, what is it to you?  You elves are famous for never
meddling in the affairs of others, so go away!  Leave me to the dusk and to
whatever memories I choose to visit."

Gildor just continued to regard him.  Really, Sam thought, he did not recall him
being nearly so aanoying.  "I would, Sam, but then, Haldir would never forgive
me, and I do not intend to make the whole voyage having to deal with one of his
sulks.  He pouts very prettily, but it does get a bit wearing on the nerves,
after a year or two."

"I care not what troubles you have with your friends, and . . . ," Sam stopped,
thinking.  Why did that name--Haldir--sound so familiar?  Oh yes, he had it
now--that arrogant elf from Lorien.  He was rather proud of himself for
remembering, actually.  "Why should Haldir of Lorien have sent you to disturb my
rest?"

"Because he promised Lord Celeborn, who had promised the Lady Galadriel, who had
promised the Ringbearer, to see to your safekeeping, once the business of your
life was done.  When we heard about your wife's death, and knew that your
children were all married and happily living lives of their own, and that you
had not been mayor for more than a decade, we knew the time had come.  So, as I
said, preparations were made, and here I am.  Haldir awaits us at the Grey
Havens."  Gildor looked up at the stars, the first of which had just begun to
emerge against the rapidly darkening sky.  "My people have waited long to return
over the Sea, and now the time is here.  We exiles are departing Middle Earth
one last time, and we are taking with us those whom we do not wish to leave
behind.  And that, Samwise--Elf-Friend, Ringbearer and hero of the Third Age--
includes you."

Sam could only stare at Gildor, openmouthed.  Could he possibly mean . . . but
no.  It must be an old hobbit's fancy, nothing more.  "You make little sense,
Master Gildor," he said, but his voice was weak with longing.  He could suddenly
see Frodo's face more clearly than he had for years, and it was not old and
wizened like his, but young and strong, just as he had been before the war.  A
great rush of energy filled Sam, such as he had not known in many years.  To be
prepared for death and suddenly be granted 
life . . . to see Frodo again . . . it was all almost more than he could bear.

"Oh, I think we understand one another," Gildor said, rising.  "Come, Sam, you
have packing to do.  I am sure you will want to say goodbye tomorrow to all your
many friends, but then we must be off.  Our ship is waiting, and must not
tarry."

*   *   *

On September 22, 1482, by the reckoning of the Shire, Master Samwise Gamgee rode
out from Bag End.  He traveled to the Tower Hills and gave Bilbo's Red Book to
Elanor, his daughter.   He then passed the Towers, where he met a lone,
dark-haired elf, and together they traveled to the Havens and from thence over
the sea with a great company of elves.  Thus did the last of the Ringbearers
depart Middle Earth.


The End


A/N: A special thank you to Ithilessar, Greenie, Matreya, Alex Cat, Celebrethil
and any others who reviewed.  Your encouragement was greatly appreciated, and
helped me have the resolve to finish this.