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 caress